2.
When the battle day is over,
Comes the frantic night of triumph
So in Mexico a hundred
Thousand lamps of joy are flaring;
Hundred thousand lamps of joy, with
Woodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,
Throw a light as clear as daylight
Over palaces and temples,
And guildhouses,—likewise over
Vitzliputzli’s splendid temple,
Idol-fortress built of red brick,
Strangely like the old Egyptian,
Babylonian, and Assyrian
Monster buildings so colossal,
As we see them in the pictures
Of the English Henry Martin.[77]
Yes, it is the same broad staircase,
So exceeding broad, that on it
Many thousand Mexicans
Up and down are walking freely,
Whilst upon the steps are lying
Mighty troops of savage warriors,
Banqueting in joyous fashion,
Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.
This great staircase leadeth upwards
Like a zigzag to the platform,
By a balustrade surrounded
At the summit of the temple.
There, upon his altar-throne,
Sits the mighty Vitzliputzli,
Mexico’s bloodthirsty wargod.—
He is but an evil monster,
But so droll is his exterior,
Full of carvings, and so childish,
That despite our inward horror
It must needs excite our laughter.
His appearance altogether
Brought to mind a combination
Of the “Dance of Death” at Basle,
And the Mannekin at Brussels.
On the god’s left side his priests are
Station’d, on his right the people;
Ornaments of colour’d feathers
Are to-day the former wearing.
On the altar-stairs of marble
Squats a man a hundred years old;
On his chin and skull no hair is,
And he wears a scarlet waistcoat.
He’s the priest of sacrifices,
And his bloody knife he’s whetting;
As he whets, he grins, and ofttimes
Leers upon the god above him.
Vitzliputzli seems the glances
Of his servant to appreciate,
And he twitches every eyelash,
And his lips at times he twitches.
On the altar steps squat also
The musicians of the temple,
Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers—
Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!
Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!
And the Mexican Te Deum
Rises up in noisy chorus,
As if many cats were mewing—
As if many cats were mewing,
But of that enlarged description
Which are “tiger-cats” entitled,
And, instead of mice, eat people!
When the nightwind carries with it
These loud noises to the seashore,
The poor Spaniards there encamping
Feel sensations far from pleasant.
Sadly ’neath the weeping willows
Are the Spaniards still remaining,
Gazing tow’rd the distant city
Which within the dark sea water
Mirrors back, in sheer derision,
All the flames of former pleasure—
There they stand, as in the pit
Of a vast gigantic playhouse,
Vitzliputzli’s temple’s radiant
Platform serving as the stage
Where they act a tragic myst’ry
To commemorate their triumph.
“Human sacrifice” the play is,
Old, full old, its plot, its fable;
But the piece is not so fearful
In the Christian treatment of it.
For into the blood is red wine,
And into the actual body
Is a thin and harmless wafer
Transubstantiated truly.
’Mongst these savages at present
Was the joke in downright earnest
Taken up; they fed on flesh,
And the blood was human blood.
This time ’twas indeed the pure blood
Of old Christians, which had never
Never mingled with the baser
Blood of Jews or of Moriscos.
O be joyful, Vitzliputzli!
For to-day ’tis Spanish blood,
And thou mayst refresh thy nostrils
With its warm scent greedily.
Eighty Spaniards will be slaughter’d
On this day to do thee honour—
Proud repast to grace the table
Of thy priests, who flesh delight in.
For the priest is but a mortal,
And poor man, unhappy glutton,
Cannot, like the gods, live only
On sweet smells and savoury odours.
Hark! the death-drum now is beating,
And the evil cowhorn screeches!
They proclaim the’ approaching advent
Of the victims’ sad procession.
Eighty Spaniards, vilely naked,
With their hands securely fasten’d
To their backs, are harshly driven
Up the temple’s lofty staircase.
And to Vitzliputzli’s image
They must bow the knee right humbly,
And must dance the wildest dances,
Forcibly constrain’d by tortures,
All so terrible and fearful,
That their madden’d screams of anguish
Overpow’r the whole collective
Cannibals’ wild charivari.
Poor spectators by the ocean!
Cortez and his warlike comrades
But too plainly could distinguish
All their friends’ loud cries of torment.
On the stage, too clearly lighted,
They could see, alas! too plainly,
Every figure, every gesture,—
See the knife and see the blood.
Then from off their heads their helmets
Silently they took, and kneeling,
Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly,
And they sang the De Profundis.
’Mongst the number of the victims
Was young Raimond de Mendoza,
Offspring of the lovely abbess,
Cortez’ first and youthful love.
When he on the stripling’s bosom
Saw the well-remember’d locket
Which enclosed his mother’s portrait,
Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez—
But from off his eyes he wiped them
With his buffalo’s hard gauntlet—
Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorus
With the others: Miserere!