XLI.
But thundering round him the fierce storm had come
Through the rent sky. And gleaming o’er his head
The lightning flashed—then all again was gloom.
Startled, as tho’ a funeral torch had shed
Its glare into a tomb where lay the dead
He might have saved by putting forth his hand—
He cried, ’t is done!—and soon the flame is spread
From layer to layer; as when a lightning-brand
The Almighty burls, and forests blaze at his command.
XLII.
On many a height throughout the darkened realm,
Sad watchers far and near their vigils keep,
Nor turn their earnest gaze from whence the flame,
By ancient rite first lit, should upward leap
Above the Aztec Mount, and bid each steep
Its blaze respondent wake. No hand had done
Such deed before, had dared their terrors sweep
At once away—nor could they tell if on
The mount or Teocal the distant signal shone.
XLIII.
The flame burst forth. Far from the Teocal,
With quickened step, the hero-priest had gone.
None knew his name who ventured for them all
To break, ere yet the destined hours had flown,
Their spell of terror. Brighter, higher shone
The daring signal, curled its lambent flame,
And shot its eager light; while swift upon
Its happy errand, each diverging beam
Sped cheerily to bear glad news whero’er it came!
