To the Philharmonic Society

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

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.