’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!
3.
Now the stars are glimm’ring paler,
And the morning mists are rising
From the ocean-flood, like spirits
Dragging their white shrouds behind them.
Feasts and lights are all extinguish’d
In the temple of the idol,
Where, upon the blood-soak’d pavement,
Priest and laity lie snoring.
None are waking, save Red Jacket.
By the last lamp’s flickering glimmer,
Sickly grinning, grimly jesting,
Thus the priest his god addresses:
“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli!
“Darling god, my Vitzliputzli!
“Thou to-day hast had amusement,
“And has smelt a fragrant odour!
“Spanish blood to-day we offer’d,
“O how savourily steam’d it!
“And thy fine and dainty nostrils
“Suck’d the scent in, full of rapture!