It was morn on the Mother of Mountains,^[1]

While, curling like incense, away

Rose the mists from the Eden-like valley,

In which lay our loved Monterey:—

In the distance was green San Domingo,

Where, wearied, in silent repose,

Slept the ranks of the resolute Saxon,

The files of our conquering foes.

On the edge of the hills, in our eyry,

Like statues, we silently stood—

Our cavalry guarding the mountain,

Our infantry watching the wood.

We gazed on our beautiful city,

We thought of the stain on our name.

And we swore that the sun of our country

Should never descend on our shame!

Like a knight, in his saddle Najira^[2]

Sat, watching the foeman with smiles,

As they mounted the rugged sierra,

And marched through its craggy defiles;

And he laughed, as he turned to the vultures

That circled and soared overhead,

Coming down from their nests in the mountains

To fatten and gorge on the dead.

On, like wolves, came the reckless invader:

We heard the huzzas of their men,

Now low, in the depth of the forest,

Now loud, when they formed in the glen;

And we saw the bright gleam of their muskets

Flash and fade through the emerald trees.

And the crimson and white of their banner

As it rippled and flowed on the breeze.

Arising erect in his stirrups,

Najira looked round on his band,

And his eye flashed as brightly and keenly

As the brand that he held in his hand:

“For your altars—your country, her honor!

Your daughters, your sires and your wives,

Be warriors—be heroes,” he shouted,

“And conquer, or yield up your lives!”

On they came, and we looked on our leader,

Who paused ere he gave us the word;

His dark eye was pregnant with passion,

His hand clutched the hilt of his sword;

But a moment, and down, like the whirlwind,

Steed and man, in the pride of our might.

We plunged on the ruthless invader,

And swam in the hell of the fight!

Our noble, chivalric Najira,

Over rock, through defile and ravine,

Wherever the danger was darkest,

Wherever a foeman was seen,

Led the charge, as, in old, Alvarado

And Cortez, again and again,

Led the Spaniard to conquest and glory

Over many a Mexican plain.

And his men, full of ardor, with vivas,

Pursued where the enemy fled—

The hoofs of their horses disfiguring

The faces and forms of the dead;

And ever the shout of Najira

Was heard in the din of the fray,

As he swooped, like his own native eagle,

With fire-flashing eyes, on his prey.

Full of terror the traitorous Texan,^[3]

That stain on the Mexican name,

Gave way in dismay, as Najira

Plunged on in his passion for fame.

As, pursuing, he wheeled round the mountain

And swept like a storm through the gorge,

From an ambuscade, deep in the forest,

Their guns flushed like sparks from a forge.

Their cannon swept o’er us and through us;

Their rifles rained death on the field:

We had sworn by the Mother of Jesus

To conquer, but never to yield:

Down, down, where he fought fell each hero,

Horse and man, one by one, where he stood;

And the sands of the rugged sierra

Were crimson with Mexican blood.

Like a lion at bay rode Najira:

Not one of the troop that he led

But was stretched on the side of the mountain—

Thick strown with the dying and dead.

His coat and his saddle were bloody;

He reeled in his seat as he strove

To strike once again for his country,

Once again for the land of his love.

All alone, all alone did he battle.

Disdaining to yield, or to fly;

He had failed, as he promised, to conquer,

And nothing was left but to—die!

“Surrender! surrender!” his foemen,

Full of wonder, entreatingly cried,

As, defying, he galloped his charger

Along the sierra’s steep side.

Down, down, at each stroke an invader

Sank wounded, and gasping, and dead,

As he galloped from foeman to foeman,

His sword, waved in scorn, overhead.

But the bullet at last rent his bosom,

And down, from the cliff to the plain,

Rolled the form of the dying Najira,

The bravest and best of the slain.

Weep, weep, for the gallant Najira!

For never will Mexico own

So heroic, so gallant a soldier,

So fearless, so faultless a son!

On his tomb lay your chaplets of laurel,

And, Maidens of Mexico, pray

For the soul of the knightly Najira—

Pray, Maidens of Mexico, pray!