In nineteen hundred seven, on the third day of July
With shining mien and naming sword earthward St. Michael came
To save--ever auspicious be the blessed day-
From blighting heathen guile a Christian hero's fame
The while, breathless with awe, solemn the people gazed
And rhetoric's inspired flame on Aztlan's altar blazed.
Adore the Saints, behold a miracle Divine!
Hallowed, our Saviour, be Thy Name
And Heaven's glory thine!
Of idol-worship now has vanished every trace
In deepest crevice and highest place
On mesa, butte and mountain-face;
From the Grand Canyon's somber shade
The sun-scorched desert, the dripping glade
And sunken crater of Stoneman's Lake.
The "Casa Grande," a home of ancient race--
A ruin now--is haunted by Montezuma's wraith.
In Montezuma's castle, crumbling from roof to base
The winds and rain of heaven ghosts of the past now chase.
Where erstwhile the Great Spirit's children dwelt
Forever hushed is the papoose's wail, and stilled the squaw's
low-crooning lilt.
No longer shimmers starlight from eyes of savage maids
Worshippers of the fire and sun, poor dwellers of the caves-
The sisters of the deer and lo, shy startled fawns of Aztec race
Or coy ancestral dams of moon-eyed Toltec doe.
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