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.