The Bells of San Blas

What say the Bells of San BlasTo the ships that southward passFrom the harbor of Mazatlan?To them it is nothing moreThan the sound of surf on the shore,--Nothing more to master or man.

But to me, a dreamer of dreams,To whom what is and what seemsAre often one and the same,--The Bells of San Blas to meHave a strange, wild melody,And are something more than a name.

For bells are the voice of the church;They have tones that touch and searchThe hearts of young and old;One sound to all, yet eachLends a meaning to their speech,And the meaning is manifold.

They are a voice of the Past,Of an age that is fading fast,Of a power austere and grand,When the flag of Spain unfurledIts folds o'er this western world,And the Priest was lord of the land.

The chapel that once looked downOn the little seaport townHas crumbled into the dust;And on oaken beams belowThe bells swing to and fro,And are green with mould and rust.

"Is, then, the old faith dead,"They say, "and in its steadIs some new faith proclaimed,That we are forced to remainNaked to sun and rain,Unsheltered and ashamed?

"Once, in our tower aloof,We rang over wall and roofOur warnings and our complaints;And round about us thereThe white doves filled the air,Like the white souls of the saints.

"The saints! Ah, have they grownForgetful of their own?Are they asleep, or dead,That open to the skyTheir ruined Missions lie,No longer tenanted?

"Oh, bring us back once moreThe vanished days of yore,When the world with faith was filled;Bring back the fervid zeal,The hearts of fire and steel,The hands that believe and build.

"Then from our tower againWe will send over land and mainOur voices of command,Like exiled kings who returnTo their thrones, and the people learnThat the Priest is lord of the land!"

O Bells of San Blas in vainYe call back the Past again;The Past is deaf to your prayer!Out of the shadows of nightThe world rolls into light;It is daybreak everywhere.