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!