Sun-Scorched, for tears athirst was Chicħen’s square;
The funeral bed ’mid wailing crowds rose there.
Here many noble structures had a place,
With carvings red and gold upon their face.
The lofty stronghold in their midst, appeared
Like pyramid of human beings reared;
From base to summit on each side were seen
Brave men who for their chief felt sorrow keen.
On temple’s mound crowds flocked to view the square,
And hum of million voices filled the air.
Each road that led within the city wall
Was packed with mourning populace; and all
Betrayed the grief they felt. The flowers fair
In well-kept beds, the burden seemed to share
Of nation’s woe; all drooped their dainty heads,
Entreating those sweet tears that heaven sheds.
With Priestess Nicté, Móo was near the pyre,
To light the cedar logs with sacred fire.
Piled high were these, with odorous plants between;
And many lovely garlands too were seen.
The priests in flowing robes were stationed round:
By solemn rite the rank of each was bound.
First those in yellow clad, the sun-god’s sheen;
Then soothing wisdom-ray, fair nature’s green;
The next in line of blue robes made display,
Grief sanctified—the mourners sad array,
Beyond stood many others all in white;
And last, full armed as ready for the fight,
The orators of war, in gowns of red.—
Their ardent words to victory oft had led.
Long lance they bore, as on the battle field
Where glowed their eloquence—nor would one yield,
Except to Yum Cimil, but onward pressed
And dauntless to the last urged on the rest.
These now restrained the crowd that thronged the ground:
In that vast square no tearless eye was found.
Móo’s sister Nicté, priestess of the Light,
Sustained the hapless Queen thro’ funeral rite.
Coh’s heart, concealed within a close shut urn,
Was near the corpse, to char while that should burn.
That flames might higher leap and quick consume,
Fine scented oils, the hot air to perfume,
By priestly hand were lavishly out-poured
Upon the shroud of him whom all deplored.
Around the pyre, with measured step and slow,
His comrades, arms reversed, must three times go
Unto the left, anear the funeral bed,
That evil spirits might not reach the dead.
Thrice round they went, their object to attain,
All chanting as they marched, a solemn strain.
At signal given by trumpets’ ringing sound,
Hushed was the wailing of the crowd around.
Móo grasped the torch that would, from body dead,
Release the soul yet linked to funeral bed.
Alone she set ablaze the corners four—
A sacred right none could dispute, nay more!—
Her duty ’twas as true and loving wife,
To light the wood, speeding the soul to life
Or dreamless sleep, the Will Supreme to bide.
The multitude, when Móo the torch applied,
Upon their knees, their brows to earth, were bowed
Until the priests, “Arise! All’s well!” cried loud.
The priests and mourners now, each one in place,
Around the pyre, with sad and measured pace,
Unto the right, three times the way must tread;
To honor thus the memory of their dead.
And when the hero’s form was wrapped in fire,
Two mated doves, pure white, loosed near the pyre,
Up soared—of liberated soul the sign,
From prison freed, no fetter to confine;
Yet more, fair symbols of creative force,
Of life and death and all that is, the Source.
The grace divine was fervently implored
While hissed the leaping flame and loudly roared.
Transparent burned the wood with ruddy glare;
Melodious voices rose o’er trumpet blare:
Thro’ earth-life our footsteps lead,
Guide us into peace eternal,
Till from all desire we’re freed,
And perceive Thy Light Supernal.
Down sank the pile; priests chanting nearer drew
And on expiring flames sweet incense threw.
Speed thee now to realm of bliss,
Cast aside the thought of strife,
Tho’ each eye thy face will miss
And we mourn thee all our life!
Intoned the priests and slow their bodies swayed,
The dying embers fanned, and singing stayed
While these by murm’ring winds were borne away—
List where they might, they would life’s law obey.