AT the Pantheon of Mexico, Through San Fernando's gate, In a dim and dusty corridor I chanced one morn to wait, When, from the wall above me, I heard a pleading note As if a song had turned to sighs Within a tiny throat, And lo, a northern robin, Far from his heritage, With drooping wings and half-shut eyes Locked in a narrow cage! Morelos and Guerrero — Rare bronze and stone, were there, And Juarez, mourned of Mexico, Ah, never rest so fair! And from the Alameda Wild music wafted down — But what cared he for heroes dead, Or all the Aztec town? His mate was in the Northland Where she would build her nest By the apple blooms of the orchard, On the bough she loved the best, And O to be free and flying home Past mount and wood and bay — Home to the cool, green orchard, Beneath the sky of May! And suddenly he spread his wings As if to take the air, But wearily sank back again To the quiet of despair. ... Then, from the sombre gateway, I heard my comrades call, And gained the street, but my heart was left With the robin on the wall. |