Classic Poem

After battle's day of terror
Comes the ghostly night of triumph;
And in Mexico, exultant,
Flare a hundred thousand lamps.

Lamps of joy and jubilation,
Pitch-ring fires and pitch-pine torches
Throw their harsh and gaudy daylight
Upon palaces and temples,

On the guildhalls, and the temple
Of the idol Vitzliputzli,
Which was built of red brick, strangely
Reminiscent, in its style.

Of the monstrous architecture
Of old Babylon and Egypt
And Assyria, as depicted
By our British Henry Martin.

Yes, the stairs, like those he paints us,
Are so roomily constructed,
That the Mexicans in comfort
Wander up and down in thousands.

While the fierce and savage warriors
On the steps in groups are squatting,
And in wild disorder feasting,
Drunk with victory and palm-wine.

In a zigzag line the staircase
Rises slowly to the platform,
To the vast and balustraded
Roof that covers in the temple.

There, enthroned upon his altar.
Sits the mighty Vitzliputzli,
Bloody war-god of the nation,
Monster evil and misshapen.

But so droll is his exterior,
So contorted and so childish,
That, despite an inward shudder,
One is almost moved to laughter.

He reminds one of the picture
Of the Dance of Death at Bâle,
And has also some resemblance
To the Manikin at Brussels.

On his right he has the people,
On his left the mustered priesthood
Strutting proud in gorgeous feathers,
As befits the great occasion.

On the altar-steps of marble
Squats a dwarfish centenarian
In a little scarlet jacket,
Bare of chin and bald of crown.

'Tis the high-priest; he is whetting,
With a smile, the knife, and leering,
Squinting, leering, as he whets it,
At the God who sits above him.

Vitzliputzli knows the meaning
Of the glances of his servant;
Now he seems to twitch an eyelid,
Now his lips are even moving.

The musicians of the temple
On the altar-steps are kneeling;
Drummers, buglers, beating, blowing.
What a rattling, what a tootling!

What a tootling, what a rattling!
And the choir in noisy chorus,
The loud Mexican Te Deum
Chant like caterwauling cats —

What a caterwauling chorus!
But the cats are of the species
That we designate as tigers,
Who devour not mice, but men!

When the horrid noise was wafted
On the night-wind to the Spaniards,
To the shore where they were watching,
They were sick of heart and woeful.

By the fringe of weeping willows
They stood motionless and mournful,
And they gazed upon the city
In the gloomy lake reflected,

On the bright illuminations
Mirrored mocking in the water;
'Twas as if they watched it, standing
In the pit of some vast playhouse.

And the stage was represented
By the platform of the temple,
And the mystery enacted
Was in honour of the triumph.

" Human Sacrifice " the title;
Old the motive, old the fable;
But, as treated by the Christians,
Less revolting is the drama.

For, by transubstantiation,
Into wine the blood is altered,
And the body is a harmless
Little wafer made of flour.

But the game was rude and earnest
As this savage people played it;
'Twas on human flesh they feasted,
And the blood they drank was human.

It was blue and undiluted
Christian blood of long descent,
That had never mingled basely
With the blood of Moors or Hebrews.

So be merry, Vitzliputzli;
It is Spanish blood they pour thee;
Let thy greedy nostrils revel
In its warm and steaming fragrance.

They are slaying eighty Spaniards
To thy glory; noble roast-meat
For the table of thy priesthood,
Who will eat and will be nourished.

For the priest is but a mortal,
Just a wretched flesh-devourer;
Cannot live on odours merely;
Like the gods, on fragrant odours.

Hark! the funeral drums are beating
And the baleful trumpets clashing;
They announce that the procession
Of the doomed is now ascending.

Eighty Spaniards, mother-naked,
With their hands behind them fastened,
Up the stairway of the temple
Tightly bound the guards are dragging.

Before Vitzliputzli's image
They are forced to bow the knee now,
And to dance fantastic dances
Are compelled by means of tortures

So appalling and so gruesome
That the shrieking of the victims
Can be heard above the tumult
Of the cannibal carousal.

Hapless public by the water!
Cortez listening, and his warriors,
Heard and recognised the voices
Of their comrades in their anguish.

On the stage illumined clearly
They could also see distinctly
All the figures, all the gestures:
Saw the knife, and heart's-blood flowing.

They removed their helmets, kneeling:
Bared their heads and knelt devoutly,
Sang the service for the dead,
Sang together " De Profundis! "

Of the eighty men who perished
One was Raimond of Mendoza,
Son of her, the famous abbess,
First and best beloved of Cortez.

When he saw the very locket
Which contained the mother's portrait
Upon Raimond's naked bosom,
Cortez wept some bitter tears.

Then he wiped away the tear-drops
With his glove of buffalo leather,
Deeply sighed and sang, in chorus
With the others, " Miserere! "