To the Mexican Nightingale

There was a forest and a nest And in that nest a linnet Who, merry and trembling, Crossed the whole world After a cherished dream, And sowed his best notes In the tracks of his steps, And who gathered with them The stars while passing through the skies And flowers while going through the world. Of the nest and the bower No one knows the history; For the earth, in admiration, Left the story forgotten In writing that of the bird; The history of the bird which, once Rising in its flight, Was, for my fatherland, The star most highly prized Of all its heaven; The history of that bird from which man Will rob the gallant name,— And there is none ‘t will not astonish,— To change it into that Of the Mexican Nightingale. And that bird, at seeing lost Its nest, made of flowers, Found on its beloved soil, Instead of those of its nest, The flowers from our hearts. Thy history, which the fervent people, In their most just obeisance, Come to respectfully adore With the glittering laurel Which to-day crowns thy bust, On that blessed monument, Great among the first, Is the page on which the Future ages will see Thy infinite glory written; And which, united to the memory Of thy superior deeds, Will rise like a history Speaking of thy glory To all the Mexicans, For seeing thus Its lustre shining Well may it be said among them That thy name belongs to those That nevermore can die.