To the Philharmonic Society

At the installation. When he who instructs will be Appreciated more than he who slays." M. Ocampo Ye mighty shades of Scipio and Cyrus, Of Caesar and of Alexander, Rise not from your graves at the sound of my voice. Although it may be true your glory I admire, Yet me your glory but appalls, resounding Between the groans of anguish and of tears; And not to you I sing whose laurels In blood were grown, And breathe the air of death; Not unto you I sing, ye dreaded ones, Who frame the laws with the sword With no more right than that of might. Your names, exalted though they be, Yet quicken not the blood within my veins. I sing to Athens teaching Rome, And not to Rome conquering Athens. And like the fearless eagle which cleaves the air In search of ample space To give free movement to his wings, The same my soul, when it desires to find The light of poetry. Seeks not its plentitude in the night, But in the aurora at break of day; And when it finds the unfailing flame Of sacred truth, Then is my heart electrified and feels, And from my rude and long forgotten lyre Spring canticles that would desire to sound From the new to the old continent. Darkness-reigned: within its gloomy mantle Men vegetated, Nourishing themselves on sorrows and tears With no other knowledge than to suffer In submission under the bitter laws of misery, And with no other masters but executioners With the pompous title of kings; Skeletons of the body And skeletons of the soul. The beings, in the image of God, were not then The Adam of the first day, But serfs, by Tyranny tied to her Triumphal car with an angry hand; Living mummies which, on leaving the world To return to the hollowness of the charnel house. Bequeathed to their sons, in remembrance, The poison hemlock of the great Socrates, And the blood of Christ of Calvary. Thus centuries after centuries passed, Leaving in their infinite tracks in the distance Naught but the shadows and horrid monsters Wandering in obscurity Through the endless night of ignorance. But suddenly the light of thought Illuminated, vividly and radiantly, The firmament of holy Reason; And God appeared, beautiful and great, Hurling into the abyss, With the mighty breath of his lips, The gory poniards of tyranny And vile masks of fanaticism. 'T was then when Europe saw, Tremulous and frightened, The fameless abode Foretold by the voice of Columbus; And Franklin, rising in the capacity Of his daring genius upon the track To rob from the crimson cloud The destroying fire of the lightning. Then it was when Knowledge rose Dispersing the shadows Which fled in confusion at her presence; And then it was when Mexico saw In the accursed abode Of crime and fear, In place of the chain and levite, The grand figure of Escobedo. Tremble not when remembering the history Of the place of iniquity Where the savage vulture of Ignorance Concealed its chicks and its nest; Tremble not at the gloomy memory Of the unearthly dungeon Repeating the last lamentations Of the dying martyr. Already the den of crime is cleansed Of its foul stigma, And even infamy itself disappears Where the tracks of wisdom are imprinted; In place of the executioners And burning lead and poison, The comforting and healing medicine And the sons of Herofilo and Galeno. Sublime rendition, mighty mission Of him who suffers while soothing pain; Of him who weeps and moans While drying the tears of others; Mission of charity and prosperity Begun by Christ on Calvary; Mission that redeems, and sings in its sanctuary The hymns of love and hope. Then follow it, ye who impassibly Challenge death and sorrow; And if you wish the greatful world To preserve your names in remembrance And raise altars to you, Follow your blessed path For glory lies at its end; And continue without turning your eyes Upon the thorny and rugged soil. And if you long for the conquest Of the fadeless laurel of fame, Then raise your eyes to heaven Where there is One who sees and calls you. And think not of the steep cliffs, Nor of the pointed thorn That pierces the foot which touches it. Relax not for a moment In your noble and heavenly career: Onward! Onward! For yet far distant Is the crown of roses which awaits you. 1868.