Queen Moo's Talisman: The Fall of the Maya Empire

								

Of one we love Perfection is the name,
For love is breath of God, all potent flame!
Thus ’twas a lover sang, with rapture filled,
When bird on leafy bough had softly trilled:



         Ah! bird so gay,

             Take not thy flight!

         With dulcet lay

             My heart delight!

         Stay by me here,

         For thou art dear—

         Tho’ one I love is yet more dear!



         Ah! floweret fair,

             With breath of Morn

         Upon the air

             Thy perfume’s borne;

         Thy life’s too fleet,

         For thou art sweet—

         Tho’ one I love is yet more sweet!



         Ah! limpid dew,

             Fair pearl of Night—

         That doth anew

             To petal bright

         Give charm to lure—

         Thou art so pure!

         Tho’ one I love is just as pure.


In drowsy bud Night breathed. “May love here bide!”
But love and pain are one, so floweret sighed
When glistening dew to perfumed petal clung,
Imploring—“Wake me not! by zephyr swung,
Ah! let me linger in this happy state!
Ope not the way to pang that may await.”


But lovely Morn appeared with roseate ray,
And soon the god of day chased tears away;
Earth throbbed anew, leaves quivered with delight;
Flowers laughed, “We love! we live! thanks be to Night!”
In silent, sombre hour of deep repose
All form drinks in life’s force that ever flows;
And from the tranquil vale of balmy rest
Each being leaps—love’s joy they all attest.
On globes revolving night must follow day;
The universe doth this same law obey.


Pleasure with pain is mingled, gently kissed
By Sorrow, or regret for something missed;
As plaintive minor blends with major strain,
Fair Light’s attendant shades adorn her train.
And Móo upon her marriage day had mourned,
For she by Oracle had been forewarned
That Coh from her might in the future time
Be torn by dastard treachery and crime.
Beyond that time the wiseman too could see
That Móo, bereft and harshly wronged, would flee.
More strange than all, the Oracle foretold—
“In bitter woe this thought may thee uphold:
Both will return; the sister thou wilt be
And wife once more of him awaiting thee.”


The Prophet Cay taught Can’s eldest child;
With mystic lore their time was much beguiled;
For pupil would some day the High Priest be,
When his preceptor should from earth go free.
Surrounded by his volumes old, the Sage
In search of truth read over every page.
On rare occasions he before the crowd
Came forth to speak, and all to his will bowed.
Prophetic words were his, sincere and wise;
The Can obeyed when Cay deigned advise.
Revered by high and low, the honored Sage
Could by his will much pain and grief assuage—
Nor ever aid withheld, for he loved all—
But soon the Lord of life would him recall.