’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! 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!