To the Mexican Nightingale

^{translated from the Spanish by Ernest S. Green and Miss H. Von Lowenfels}

  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.