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.
Head of royal Montezuma,
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.