The Skeleton Wrapped in Gold
In digging, in 1854, a railroad in Chili, seventy feet below the surface, in a sandy plain, which had been an ancient graveyard, an Indian skeleton, wrapped in a sheet of solid gold, rolled into the excavation. Its appearance denoted an ancient Inca, of the Atacama period.
The Indian laid in his shroud of gold,
Where his friends had kindly bound him;
For, in their raid so strong and bold,
The Spaniards had never found him.
Kind guardian spirits had watched him there,
From ages long—long faded,
Embalmed with gems and spices rare,
And in folds of sweet grass braided.
And priestly rites were duly done,
And hymns upraised to bless him,
And that gold mantle of the sun,
Put on, as a monarch to dress him.
“Sleep on,” they said, in whispers low,
“Nor fear the white man’s coming,
For we have put no glyph to show,
The spot of thy entombing.
“Inca, thy warfare here is done,
Each bitter scene or tender,
Go to thy sire, the shining Sun,
In kingly garb and splendor.
“Earth hath no honors thou hast not,
Brave, wise, in every station,
Or battle, temple, council, cot,
Beloved of all thy nation.
“Take thou this wand of magic might,
With signet-jewels glowing,
As heralds to the God of Light,
Where, father, thou art going.
“A thousand years the charm shall last,
The charm of thy ensealment,
Till there shall come a spirit vast,
To trouble thy concealment.”
And safe he slept in Tlalcol’s119 train,
With all his genii by him,
Through Atacama’s pleasing reign,
Ere Manco came a-nigh him.
That golden reign spread arts anew,
O’er all his Andes mountains,
And temples that his sires ne’er knew,
Arose beside their fountains.
Pizarro’s bloody day flew past,
Nor shook his place of sleeping,
Though, as with earthquakes, deep and vast,
The land with ruins heaping.
Nor had the cherished ruler more,
Broke the deep trance from under,
But that a stronger, sterner power,
Arose the charm to sunder.
No gentle genii more could wield,
The wand of his dominion;
No power of Indian guardian yield,
Or wave her golden pinion.
It was the spirit of progress fell,
And trade, and gain united,
Who swore an oath, and kept it well,
That Tlalcol’s blessing blighted.
Deep dug they down in Chili’s hills,
Deep—deeper laid their levels,
To drive those cars, whose screaming fills
The ear, with sounds like devils.
And as they dug, they sang and dug,
As digging for a treasure,
That should, like dire Arabic drug,
Rise, with unmeasured measure.
Old Indian arts, and Indian spells,
And all their subtle seeming,
Passed quick away—as truth expels,
The palsied power in dreaming.
Down rolled the cherished Indian corse,
The sands no more could hold him,
Nor rite—nor genii—art or force,
Nor golden shroud enfold him.