  On a lofty mountain summit In a tawny, desert land, Lo, a mighty human profile, But not hewn by human hand; In the living rock forever Looming dark, majestic, grand. O’er its outline, heaven fronting, When the dawn’s first radiance streams With its rosy touch, and tender, Then this face of granite seems As a sleeper’s unawakened From the thrall of peaceful dreams. But when down the western heavens Sinks the setting sun, blood-red, Then the mountain mists that mantle Cover close that quiet head, As men draw a pall of purple Round about their kingly dead. And the stars, like lighted tapers, Flicker forth in golden rows From the heaven’s holy altar, Whilst the night-wind as it blows Seems to chant a solemn requiem For the passing soul’s repose. So the ancient legends tell; Montezuma, granite shrouded By some great enchanter’s spell, Lying lordly by the borders Of the land he loved so well. But in silence unrevealing Still that calm face fronts the sky; Heeding neither tears nor laughter, Nor if sun or storm go by; Keeping still its primal counsel, In repose, serene and high.
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