Classic Poem

Caciques! defenders of our country, hear!
It is not envy wounds my tortured sight,
When I observe these struggles, who shall wear
Ambition's badge,—which had been mine of right;
For see my brow in aged wrinkles dight,
And the tomb tells me I must soon be there;
'Tis love inspires me!—patriotism! zeal!—
Listen! my soul its counsels shall unveil!

To what vain honors, chiefs, aspire ye now?
And where the bulwarks of this towering pride?
Ye have been vanquished,—trod on, by the foe;
Defeat is echoed round on every side.
What! are your conquerors thus to be defied,
That stand around with laurels on their brow!
Check this mad fury! wait the coming fray!
Then shall it crush the foe in glory's day.

What a wild rage is this that bears you on,
Blindly to sure perdition,—to despair!
These murderous, fratricidal swords throw down,
Or point them at the tyrant! He is here!
The Christian felons, noble chiefs! are near.
Spill their base blood! but spare, O spare your own!
Die if you will,—like men, like patriots die;
But dread a death of shame, of infamy!

Madden your weapons with the enthusiast soul!
O let them probe the invader's inmost breast;
He who would chain you to his proud control,—
To slavery, insult!—O 'twere wise, 'twere best
To stay his fettering hand, nor tamely rest
While strength and valor on your efforts call!
Your blood, chiefs, is your country's!—guard it then
For her!—It is not yours, heroic men!

It grieves me not to see a warlike rage,—
I hail the rapturous fury of the brave!
But never let its violence engage
In struggles leading on to freedom's grave;
Such madness loses what it seeks to save;
Discord's deep wounds, not valor can assuage.
I cannot bear it, chiefs!—if it must be,
Come wreak your waking violence on me.

Let me fall first; for I am sick of life,
And wearied with misfortune;—let me die!
Devote my bosom to the horrid knife,
Since these sad thoughts end not my misery!
Happy the dying babe!—O why was I
Thus made the victim of this vain world's strife?
Yet will I raise my voice, though weak and rude,—
The tears of age may touch the brave and good.

In strength and valor ye all equal are;
To each a noble heritage was given!
And power and wealth and bravery in war
Were equaily conferred by bounteous heaven.
In greatness,—strength of soul,—ye all are even,
And each might rule the world, they blaze so far.
Now prove your worth by valiant hero-deeds;
This is no time for words! your country bleeds!

I trust your arms,—your hearts; nor aught suspect;
The future smiles; there is no thought of fear!
Yet it were wise some chieftain to elect
Who all may govern and whom all revere.
Let it be he who yon vast log can bear
Longest upon his shoulder, firm, erect.
Since wealth and fortune made ye equal all,
Upon the strongest chief the lot shall fall!