Men of gold, and men of silver!When a fool about a thomanTalks, of silver he is speaking,And he means a silver thoman.In a prince’s mouth, however,Or a shah’s, a thoman’s alwaysGolden, for a shah will onlyGive and take in golden thomans.Worthy people have this notion,And Ferdusi thought so also,The composer of the famousAnd immortal workSchah Nameh.This divine heroic poemAt the Shah’s command composed he,Who for every verse a thomanPromised to bestow upon him.Seventeen times bloom’d the roses,Seventeen times did they wither,And the nightingales sang sweetlyAnd were silent seventeen times,—And meanwhile the bard was sittingAt the loom of thought, composingDay and night, and nimbly weavingHis sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,—Giant-carpet, where the poetInterwove with skill his country’sChronicles from times of fable,Farsistan’s primeval monarchs,Fav’rite heroes of his nation,Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous,Magic beings, hateful demons,Intertwined with flowers of fable.All were blooming, all were living,Bright with colours, glowing, burning,With the heavenly rays illumin’dFrom the sacred light of Iran,From the godlike light primeval,Whose last pure and fiery temple,Spite of Koran and of Mufti,In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly.When at last the work was finish’d,Then the manuscript the poetSent to his illustrious patron,E’en two hundred thousand verses.It was in the public bath room,In the bathing place at Gasna,That the Shah’s black messengersFound at last the bard Ferdusi.Each a bag of money carried,Which before the poet’s feet heKneeling placed, to be the guerdonTo reward his minstrel labours.Hastily the poet open’dBoth the bags, his eyes to gladdenWith the gold so long kept from him,—When he saw with consternationThat the bags contain’d within themSilver only, silver thomans,Some two hundred thousand of them;—Bitterly then laugh’d the poet.Laughing bitterly, the moneyHe divided in three equalPortions, and a third part gave heTo the two black messengers,Each a third, to be his guerdonFor the message, and the third partGave he to the man who waitedOn his bath, as drinking-money.Then his pilgrim staff he straightwayGrasp’d, and left at once the city,And before the gate the dust heFrom his very shoes rejected.2.“Had he been, like other men,“Heedless of his words once spoken,“And his promise merely broken,“I had not been angry then.“Sufferthis? I never will!“His deceit my heart amazes,“Both his double-meaning phrases,“And his silence, falser still.“He was noble, fair to see,“Proud his gestures were, and stately;“Other men excell’d he greatly,“Every inch a king was he.“Firelike did his glance once meet me,“As the sun in yonder heaven“He, truth’s haughty image even—“And he yet hath deign’d to cheat me.”
Men of gold, and men of silver!When a fool about a thomanTalks, of silver he is speaking,And he means a silver thoman.In a prince’s mouth, however,Or a shah’s, a thoman’s alwaysGolden, for a shah will onlyGive and take in golden thomans.Worthy people have this notion,And Ferdusi thought so also,The composer of the famousAnd immortal workSchah Nameh.This divine heroic poemAt the Shah’s command composed he,Who for every verse a thomanPromised to bestow upon him.Seventeen times bloom’d the roses,Seventeen times did they wither,And the nightingales sang sweetlyAnd were silent seventeen times,—And meanwhile the bard was sittingAt the loom of thought, composingDay and night, and nimbly weavingHis sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,—Giant-carpet, where the poetInterwove with skill his country’sChronicles from times of fable,Farsistan’s primeval monarchs,Fav’rite heroes of his nation,Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous,Magic beings, hateful demons,Intertwined with flowers of fable.All were blooming, all were living,Bright with colours, glowing, burning,With the heavenly rays illumin’dFrom the sacred light of Iran,From the godlike light primeval,Whose last pure and fiery temple,Spite of Koran and of Mufti,In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly.When at last the work was finish’d,Then the manuscript the poetSent to his illustrious patron,E’en two hundred thousand verses.It was in the public bath room,In the bathing place at Gasna,That the Shah’s black messengersFound at last the bard Ferdusi.Each a bag of money carried,Which before the poet’s feet heKneeling placed, to be the guerdonTo reward his minstrel labours.Hastily the poet open’dBoth the bags, his eyes to gladdenWith the gold so long kept from him,—When he saw with consternationThat the bags contain’d within themSilver only, silver thomans,Some two hundred thousand of them;—Bitterly then laugh’d the poet.Laughing bitterly, the moneyHe divided in three equalPortions, and a third part gave heTo the two black messengers,Each a third, to be his guerdonFor the message, and the third partGave he to the man who waitedOn his bath, as drinking-money.Then his pilgrim staff he straightwayGrasp’d, and left at once the city,And before the gate the dust heFrom his very shoes rejected.2.“Had he been, like other men,“Heedless of his words once spoken,“And his promise merely broken,“I had not been angry then.“Sufferthis? I never will!“His deceit my heart amazes,“Both his double-meaning phrases,“And his silence, falser still.“He was noble, fair to see,“Proud his gestures were, and stately;“Other men excell’d he greatly,“Every inch a king was he.“Firelike did his glance once meet me,“As the sun in yonder heaven“He, truth’s haughty image even—“And he yet hath deign’d to cheat me.”
Men of gold, and men of silver!When a fool about a thomanTalks, of silver he is speaking,And he means a silver thoman.
In a prince’s mouth, however,Or a shah’s, a thoman’s alwaysGolden, for a shah will onlyGive and take in golden thomans.
Worthy people have this notion,And Ferdusi thought so also,The composer of the famousAnd immortal workSchah Nameh.
This divine heroic poemAt the Shah’s command composed he,Who for every verse a thomanPromised to bestow upon him.
Seventeen times bloom’d the roses,Seventeen times did they wither,And the nightingales sang sweetlyAnd were silent seventeen times,—
And meanwhile the bard was sittingAt the loom of thought, composingDay and night, and nimbly weavingHis sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,—
Giant-carpet, where the poetInterwove with skill his country’sChronicles from times of fable,Farsistan’s primeval monarchs,
Fav’rite heroes of his nation,Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous,Magic beings, hateful demons,Intertwined with flowers of fable.
All were blooming, all were living,Bright with colours, glowing, burning,With the heavenly rays illumin’dFrom the sacred light of Iran,
From the godlike light primeval,Whose last pure and fiery temple,Spite of Koran and of Mufti,In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly.
When at last the work was finish’d,Then the manuscript the poetSent to his illustrious patron,E’en two hundred thousand verses.
It was in the public bath room,In the bathing place at Gasna,That the Shah’s black messengersFound at last the bard Ferdusi.
Each a bag of money carried,Which before the poet’s feet heKneeling placed, to be the guerdonTo reward his minstrel labours.
Hastily the poet open’dBoth the bags, his eyes to gladdenWith the gold so long kept from him,—When he saw with consternation
That the bags contain’d within themSilver only, silver thomans,Some two hundred thousand of them;—Bitterly then laugh’d the poet.
Laughing bitterly, the moneyHe divided in three equalPortions, and a third part gave heTo the two black messengers,
Each a third, to be his guerdonFor the message, and the third partGave he to the man who waitedOn his bath, as drinking-money.
Then his pilgrim staff he straightwayGrasp’d, and left at once the city,And before the gate the dust heFrom his very shoes rejected.
2.
“Had he been, like other men,“Heedless of his words once spoken,“And his promise merely broken,“I had not been angry then.
“Sufferthis? I never will!“His deceit my heart amazes,“Both his double-meaning phrases,“And his silence, falser still.
“He was noble, fair to see,“Proud his gestures were, and stately;“Other men excell’d he greatly,“Every inch a king was he.
“Firelike did his glance once meet me,“As the sun in yonder heaven“He, truth’s haughty image even—“And he yet hath deign’d to cheat me.”
Shah Mahomet full well has dined,And his soul to be merry is fully inclined.In the garden at twilight, on purple seatHe sits by the fountain. Its splashing sounds sweet,With looks respectful his servants stand:His fav’rite Ansari’s amongst the band.From marble vases a fiery gushOf luxuriant flowers appears to rush.Like Odalisques with graceful armsStand fanning themselves the slender palms.The cypresses stand with branches unfurl’d,As if dreaming of heaven, forgetting the world.But sudden to strains of the lute ere longIs heard a gentle mysterious song.The Shah sprang up, as if sorely perplex’d:“Who wrote of this song the charming text?”Ansari, from whom he sought to know it,Replied: “’Tis the work of Ferdusi the poet.”“Ferdusi!”—exclaim’d the prince in dismay,—“Where is he? How fares the poet, O say!”“Ansari gave answer: “In poverty great“He has lived full long in a mournful state“At Thus, the native town of the bard,“Where he in his garden works full hard.”Shah Mahomet paused, and presently said:“Ansari, a thought has come in my head.“To my stables make haste, and with hands unthrifty“Take a hundred mules, and camels fifty.“And lade them all with every treasure“That fills the heart of a mortal with pleasure,“With splendid articles, rich and rare,“With costly dresses and furniture fair“Of sandal wood and ivory white,“With gold and silver tissues dight;“With precious-handled goblets and pots,“And leopard-skins, all cover’d with spots,“With carpets and shawls and the richest brocade“That in my kingdom has ever been made.“And don’t forget to pack with the rest“Some glittering arms, and of housings the best,“As well as drinks of every kind“And eatables such as in pots we find,“And almond cakes and sweetmeats Egyptian,“And gingerbread of every description.“And also add a dozen steeds“As swift as arrows, of Arab breeds,“And likewise a dozen slaves, black as coals,“With bodies of steel, and sturdy souls.“Ansari, when all these things thou hast got,“Thou must start on thy journey, and linger not.“Thou must take them all with my kind regard“To Thus, to Ferdusi, the mighty bard.”—Ansari fulfill’d his lord’s behest,And loaded the camels and mules with the bestAnd costliest presents, the value of whichWas enough to make a whole province quite rich.In propriâ personâ he left at lastThe palace, when some three days had past,And with a general’s banner redIn front of the caravan he sped.At the end of a week to Thus came they;The town at the foot of the mountain lay.The caravan the western gateWith shouts and noises entered straight.The trumpets sounded, the loud drums beat,And songs of triumph rang through the street.“La Illa Il Allah!” with joyous shoutThe camel drivers were calling out.But through the East gate at the farther endOf Thus, at that moment chanced to wendThe funeral train so full of gloom,That the dead Ferdusi bore to his tomb.
Shah Mahomet full well has dined,And his soul to be merry is fully inclined.In the garden at twilight, on purple seatHe sits by the fountain. Its splashing sounds sweet,With looks respectful his servants stand:His fav’rite Ansari’s amongst the band.From marble vases a fiery gushOf luxuriant flowers appears to rush.Like Odalisques with graceful armsStand fanning themselves the slender palms.The cypresses stand with branches unfurl’d,As if dreaming of heaven, forgetting the world.But sudden to strains of the lute ere longIs heard a gentle mysterious song.The Shah sprang up, as if sorely perplex’d:“Who wrote of this song the charming text?”Ansari, from whom he sought to know it,Replied: “’Tis the work of Ferdusi the poet.”“Ferdusi!”—exclaim’d the prince in dismay,—“Where is he? How fares the poet, O say!”“Ansari gave answer: “In poverty great“He has lived full long in a mournful state“At Thus, the native town of the bard,“Where he in his garden works full hard.”Shah Mahomet paused, and presently said:“Ansari, a thought has come in my head.“To my stables make haste, and with hands unthrifty“Take a hundred mules, and camels fifty.“And lade them all with every treasure“That fills the heart of a mortal with pleasure,“With splendid articles, rich and rare,“With costly dresses and furniture fair“Of sandal wood and ivory white,“With gold and silver tissues dight;“With precious-handled goblets and pots,“And leopard-skins, all cover’d with spots,“With carpets and shawls and the richest brocade“That in my kingdom has ever been made.“And don’t forget to pack with the rest“Some glittering arms, and of housings the best,“As well as drinks of every kind“And eatables such as in pots we find,“And almond cakes and sweetmeats Egyptian,“And gingerbread of every description.“And also add a dozen steeds“As swift as arrows, of Arab breeds,“And likewise a dozen slaves, black as coals,“With bodies of steel, and sturdy souls.“Ansari, when all these things thou hast got,“Thou must start on thy journey, and linger not.“Thou must take them all with my kind regard“To Thus, to Ferdusi, the mighty bard.”—Ansari fulfill’d his lord’s behest,And loaded the camels and mules with the bestAnd costliest presents, the value of whichWas enough to make a whole province quite rich.In propriâ personâ he left at lastThe palace, when some three days had past,And with a general’s banner redIn front of the caravan he sped.At the end of a week to Thus came they;The town at the foot of the mountain lay.The caravan the western gateWith shouts and noises entered straight.The trumpets sounded, the loud drums beat,And songs of triumph rang through the street.“La Illa Il Allah!” with joyous shoutThe camel drivers were calling out.But through the East gate at the farther endOf Thus, at that moment chanced to wendThe funeral train so full of gloom,That the dead Ferdusi bore to his tomb.
Shah Mahomet full well has dined,And his soul to be merry is fully inclined.
In the garden at twilight, on purple seatHe sits by the fountain. Its splashing sounds sweet,
With looks respectful his servants stand:His fav’rite Ansari’s amongst the band.
From marble vases a fiery gushOf luxuriant flowers appears to rush.
Like Odalisques with graceful armsStand fanning themselves the slender palms.
The cypresses stand with branches unfurl’d,As if dreaming of heaven, forgetting the world.
But sudden to strains of the lute ere longIs heard a gentle mysterious song.
The Shah sprang up, as if sorely perplex’d:“Who wrote of this song the charming text?”
Ansari, from whom he sought to know it,Replied: “’Tis the work of Ferdusi the poet.”
“Ferdusi!”—exclaim’d the prince in dismay,—“Where is he? How fares the poet, O say!”
“Ansari gave answer: “In poverty great“He has lived full long in a mournful state
“At Thus, the native town of the bard,“Where he in his garden works full hard.”
Shah Mahomet paused, and presently said:“Ansari, a thought has come in my head.
“To my stables make haste, and with hands unthrifty“Take a hundred mules, and camels fifty.
“And lade them all with every treasure“That fills the heart of a mortal with pleasure,
“With splendid articles, rich and rare,“With costly dresses and furniture fair
“Of sandal wood and ivory white,“With gold and silver tissues dight;
“With precious-handled goblets and pots,“And leopard-skins, all cover’d with spots,
“With carpets and shawls and the richest brocade“That in my kingdom has ever been made.
“And don’t forget to pack with the rest“Some glittering arms, and of housings the best,
“As well as drinks of every kind“And eatables such as in pots we find,
“And almond cakes and sweetmeats Egyptian,“And gingerbread of every description.
“And also add a dozen steeds“As swift as arrows, of Arab breeds,
“And likewise a dozen slaves, black as coals,“With bodies of steel, and sturdy souls.
“Ansari, when all these things thou hast got,“Thou must start on thy journey, and linger not.
“Thou must take them all with my kind regard“To Thus, to Ferdusi, the mighty bard.”—
Ansari fulfill’d his lord’s behest,And loaded the camels and mules with the best
And costliest presents, the value of whichWas enough to make a whole province quite rich.
In propriâ personâ he left at lastThe palace, when some three days had past,
And with a general’s banner redIn front of the caravan he sped.
At the end of a week to Thus came they;The town at the foot of the mountain lay.
The caravan the western gateWith shouts and noises entered straight.
The trumpets sounded, the loud drums beat,And songs of triumph rang through the street.
“La Illa Il Allah!” with joyous shoutThe camel drivers were calling out.
But through the East gate at the farther endOf Thus, at that moment chanced to wend
The funeral train so full of gloom,That the dead Ferdusi bore to his tomb.
The half-moon peer’d from the darksome cloudsWith coyness, while rock’d the sea;And when in the bark our places we took,Our number then was three.There plash’d in the water the strokes of the oarWith sad monotony;White foaming billows came with a roar,And sprinkled all of us three.She stood in the bark, as pale, as slim,As void of motion too,As though she a marble statue were,Diana’s image true.The moon disappear’d. The nightwind pipedWith chilly blast on high;When over our heads there suddenly roseA wild and piercing cry.’Twas the white and ghostlike seamew’s voice,And at that terrible cry,Which fearfully rang like a warning call,All three felt like to die.Am I in a fever? A vision is thisOf nightly phantasy?Am I aped by a dream? I’m dreaming a dreamOf wild buffoonery.Buffoonery wild! Methinks in my dreamThat I a Saviour am;And faithfully bear the weight of the Cross,As gentle as a lamb.Poor beauty beside me is sore distress’d,But soon I’ll set her freeFrom sin and shame and sorrow and pain,And earthly misery.Poor beauty, O be not thou terrified,Though bitter the medicine be;Although my heart may break, I myselfWill mete out death to thee.O folly wild and terrible dream!O madness fearful to see!The night is yawning, the ocean yells—O God, have mercy on me!Have mercy on me, O merciful God!O merciful God! Schaddey![75]A Something falls in the sea—Alas!Schaddey! Schaddey! Adonay![76]The sun arose, we came to the land,Sweet smiled the spring to the view;And when at length we left the bark,Our number then was two.
The half-moon peer’d from the darksome cloudsWith coyness, while rock’d the sea;And when in the bark our places we took,Our number then was three.There plash’d in the water the strokes of the oarWith sad monotony;White foaming billows came with a roar,And sprinkled all of us three.She stood in the bark, as pale, as slim,As void of motion too,As though she a marble statue were,Diana’s image true.The moon disappear’d. The nightwind pipedWith chilly blast on high;When over our heads there suddenly roseA wild and piercing cry.’Twas the white and ghostlike seamew’s voice,And at that terrible cry,Which fearfully rang like a warning call,All three felt like to die.Am I in a fever? A vision is thisOf nightly phantasy?Am I aped by a dream? I’m dreaming a dreamOf wild buffoonery.Buffoonery wild! Methinks in my dreamThat I a Saviour am;And faithfully bear the weight of the Cross,As gentle as a lamb.Poor beauty beside me is sore distress’d,But soon I’ll set her freeFrom sin and shame and sorrow and pain,And earthly misery.Poor beauty, O be not thou terrified,Though bitter the medicine be;Although my heart may break, I myselfWill mete out death to thee.O folly wild and terrible dream!O madness fearful to see!The night is yawning, the ocean yells—O God, have mercy on me!Have mercy on me, O merciful God!O merciful God! Schaddey![75]A Something falls in the sea—Alas!Schaddey! Schaddey! Adonay![76]The sun arose, we came to the land,Sweet smiled the spring to the view;And when at length we left the bark,Our number then was two.
The half-moon peer’d from the darksome cloudsWith coyness, while rock’d the sea;And when in the bark our places we took,Our number then was three.
There plash’d in the water the strokes of the oarWith sad monotony;White foaming billows came with a roar,And sprinkled all of us three.
She stood in the bark, as pale, as slim,As void of motion too,As though she a marble statue were,Diana’s image true.
The moon disappear’d. The nightwind pipedWith chilly blast on high;When over our heads there suddenly roseA wild and piercing cry.
’Twas the white and ghostlike seamew’s voice,And at that terrible cry,Which fearfully rang like a warning call,All three felt like to die.
Am I in a fever? A vision is thisOf nightly phantasy?Am I aped by a dream? I’m dreaming a dreamOf wild buffoonery.
Buffoonery wild! Methinks in my dreamThat I a Saviour am;And faithfully bear the weight of the Cross,As gentle as a lamb.
Poor beauty beside me is sore distress’d,But soon I’ll set her freeFrom sin and shame and sorrow and pain,And earthly misery.
Poor beauty, O be not thou terrified,Though bitter the medicine be;Although my heart may break, I myselfWill mete out death to thee.
O folly wild and terrible dream!O madness fearful to see!The night is yawning, the ocean yells—O God, have mercy on me!
Have mercy on me, O merciful God!O merciful God! Schaddey![75]A Something falls in the sea—Alas!Schaddey! Schaddey! Adonay![76]
The sun arose, we came to the land,Sweet smiled the spring to the view;And when at length we left the bark,Our number then was two.
This, then, is America!This indeed the new world is!Not the present, which alreadyEuropeanized, is with’ring.—This indeed the new world is,As by Christopher ColumbusFrom the ocean extricated;In its billowy freshness gleams it,With its watery pearls still dripping,Which are scatter’d, colour-sprinkling,When the sunlight fair it kisses.O how healthy this new world is!’Tis no churchyard of romance,’Tis no ancient Scherbenberg,All made up of mouldy symbols,And of petrified perukes.From the healthy earth are shootingHealthy trees, and none amongst themBlaséis, or has consumptionEating up its spinal marrow.On the branches are disportingMighty birds. Of chequer’d coloursIs their plumage. With their solemnLengthy beaks, and eyes encircledWith black marks, like spectacles,They in silence gaze upon thee,Till they shriek with sudden clamourAnd like washerwomen chatter.Yet I know not what they’re saying,Notwithstanding that I’m learnedIn birds’ tongues as Solomon,Who a thousand wives rejoiced in,And with birds’ tongues was acquainted,—Not the modern ones alone,But all dialects whatever,Whether dead, or old, or worn-out.New the land is, new the flowers!New the flowers and new the fragrance!Fragrance wild, and never heard of,Piercing sweetly through my nostrils,Teasing, prickling, full of passion—And my subtle sense of smellingRacks itself with meditating:“Where have I e’er smelt this odour?“Was’t in Regent Street, perchance,“In the sunny arms so yellow“Of that Javanese thin woman“Who was always eating flowers?“Was it else at Rotterdam,“Near the Column of Erasmus,“In the wafer-shop notorious“With its most mysterious curtain?”Whilst I in this puzzled fashionThe new world was contemplating,Seeming to instil into itStill more bashfulness,—a monkey,Who, affrighted, sought the bushes,Cross’d himself at my appearance,Crying with alarm: “A Spirit!“Yes, a Spirit from the old world!”—“Monkey, be not thus confounded!“I’m no spirit, I’m no spectre;“Life within my veins is boiling,“I’m life’s most true-hearted son.“Yet by living many years“With the dead, have I adopted“Dead men’s manners very likely,“And peculiar ways of thinking.“All the fairest years of life“Spent I in Kyffhauser’s cavern,“In the Venusberg, and other“Catacombs of the Romantic.“Have no fear of me, good monkey!“Thee I like, for on thy hairless“Tann’d and shaven hinder-quarters“Thou dost bear my fav’rite colours.”—Darling colours! Black-red-golden!Yes, these monkey-buttock-colours,Sorrowfully they remind meOf the flag of Barbarossa.
This, then, is America!This indeed the new world is!Not the present, which alreadyEuropeanized, is with’ring.—This indeed the new world is,As by Christopher ColumbusFrom the ocean extricated;In its billowy freshness gleams it,With its watery pearls still dripping,Which are scatter’d, colour-sprinkling,When the sunlight fair it kisses.O how healthy this new world is!’Tis no churchyard of romance,’Tis no ancient Scherbenberg,All made up of mouldy symbols,And of petrified perukes.From the healthy earth are shootingHealthy trees, and none amongst themBlaséis, or has consumptionEating up its spinal marrow.On the branches are disportingMighty birds. Of chequer’d coloursIs their plumage. With their solemnLengthy beaks, and eyes encircledWith black marks, like spectacles,They in silence gaze upon thee,Till they shriek with sudden clamourAnd like washerwomen chatter.Yet I know not what they’re saying,Notwithstanding that I’m learnedIn birds’ tongues as Solomon,Who a thousand wives rejoiced in,And with birds’ tongues was acquainted,—Not the modern ones alone,But all dialects whatever,Whether dead, or old, or worn-out.New the land is, new the flowers!New the flowers and new the fragrance!Fragrance wild, and never heard of,Piercing sweetly through my nostrils,Teasing, prickling, full of passion—And my subtle sense of smellingRacks itself with meditating:“Where have I e’er smelt this odour?“Was’t in Regent Street, perchance,“In the sunny arms so yellow“Of that Javanese thin woman“Who was always eating flowers?“Was it else at Rotterdam,“Near the Column of Erasmus,“In the wafer-shop notorious“With its most mysterious curtain?”Whilst I in this puzzled fashionThe new world was contemplating,Seeming to instil into itStill more bashfulness,—a monkey,Who, affrighted, sought the bushes,Cross’d himself at my appearance,Crying with alarm: “A Spirit!“Yes, a Spirit from the old world!”—“Monkey, be not thus confounded!“I’m no spirit, I’m no spectre;“Life within my veins is boiling,“I’m life’s most true-hearted son.“Yet by living many years“With the dead, have I adopted“Dead men’s manners very likely,“And peculiar ways of thinking.“All the fairest years of life“Spent I in Kyffhauser’s cavern,“In the Venusberg, and other“Catacombs of the Romantic.“Have no fear of me, good monkey!“Thee I like, for on thy hairless“Tann’d and shaven hinder-quarters“Thou dost bear my fav’rite colours.”—Darling colours! Black-red-golden!Yes, these monkey-buttock-colours,Sorrowfully they remind meOf the flag of Barbarossa.
This, then, is America!This indeed the new world is!Not the present, which alreadyEuropeanized, is with’ring.—
This indeed the new world is,As by Christopher ColumbusFrom the ocean extricated;In its billowy freshness gleams it,
With its watery pearls still dripping,Which are scatter’d, colour-sprinkling,When the sunlight fair it kisses.O how healthy this new world is!
’Tis no churchyard of romance,’Tis no ancient Scherbenberg,All made up of mouldy symbols,And of petrified perukes.
From the healthy earth are shootingHealthy trees, and none amongst themBlaséis, or has consumptionEating up its spinal marrow.
On the branches are disportingMighty birds. Of chequer’d coloursIs their plumage. With their solemnLengthy beaks, and eyes encircled
With black marks, like spectacles,They in silence gaze upon thee,Till they shriek with sudden clamourAnd like washerwomen chatter.
Yet I know not what they’re saying,Notwithstanding that I’m learnedIn birds’ tongues as Solomon,Who a thousand wives rejoiced in,
And with birds’ tongues was acquainted,—Not the modern ones alone,But all dialects whatever,Whether dead, or old, or worn-out.
New the land is, new the flowers!New the flowers and new the fragrance!Fragrance wild, and never heard of,Piercing sweetly through my nostrils,
Teasing, prickling, full of passion—And my subtle sense of smellingRacks itself with meditating:“Where have I e’er smelt this odour?
“Was’t in Regent Street, perchance,“In the sunny arms so yellow“Of that Javanese thin woman“Who was always eating flowers?
“Was it else at Rotterdam,“Near the Column of Erasmus,“In the wafer-shop notorious“With its most mysterious curtain?”
Whilst I in this puzzled fashionThe new world was contemplating,Seeming to instil into itStill more bashfulness,—a monkey,
Who, affrighted, sought the bushes,Cross’d himself at my appearance,Crying with alarm: “A Spirit!“Yes, a Spirit from the old world!”—
“Monkey, be not thus confounded!“I’m no spirit, I’m no spectre;“Life within my veins is boiling,“I’m life’s most true-hearted son.
“Yet by living many years“With the dead, have I adopted“Dead men’s manners very likely,“And peculiar ways of thinking.
“All the fairest years of life“Spent I in Kyffhauser’s cavern,“In the Venusberg, and other“Catacombs of the Romantic.
“Have no fear of me, good monkey!“Thee I like, for on thy hairless“Tann’d and shaven hinder-quarters“Thou dost bear my fav’rite colours.”—
Darling colours! Black-red-golden!Yes, these monkey-buttock-colours,Sorrowfully they remind meOf the flag of Barbarossa.
On his head he wore the laurel,And upon his boots there glitter’dGolden spurs,—but notwithstandingHe was neither knight nor hero.He was but a robber captain,Who within the book of gloryWrote with his own wicked handHis own wicked name of—Cortez.Underneath Columbus’ name heWrote his own,—yes, close beneath it,And the schoolboy at his lessonsLearns by heart both names together.After Christopher ColumbusHe now names Fernando Cortez,As the second greatest manIn the new world’s proud Pantheon.Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice!That our name should thus be coupledWith the name of a vile scoundrelIn the memory of mortals!Were’t not better e’en to perishAll unknown, than draggle with itThrough eternity’s long agesSuch a name in comradeship?Master Christopher ColumbusWas a hero,—and his temper,That was pure as e’en the sunlight,Was as gen’rous in addition.Many people much have given,But Columbus to the worldHath a world entire imparted,And ’tis call’d America.He had not the power to free usFrom our dreary earthly prison,But he managed to enlarge itAnd our heavy chain to lengthen.Mortals thankfully revere him,Being, not of Europe only,But of Africa and Asia,Equally quite sick and weary.One alone, one hero onlyGave us more and gave us betterThan Columbus—that one mean IWho a God bestow’d upon us.His old father’s name was Amram,And his mother’s Jochebed,And himself, his name was Moses,And he is my greatest hero.But, my Pegasus, thou’rt loiteringFar too long with this Columbus;Know thou that our flight to-day isWith the lesser man,—with Cortez.So extend thy colour’d pinions,Wingèd steed! and carry meTo the new world’s beauteous countryThat they Mexico entitle.Carry me to yonder castle,Which the monarch MontezumaKindly offer’d to his SpanishGuests, to be their habitation.Not mere food and shelter onlyIn extravagant profusionGave the prince these foreign strollers,—Presents rich and precious also,Valuable, wrought with cunning,All of massive gold, and jewels,Bear gay witness to the monarch’sGenerosity and favour.This uncivilised, unlearned,Superstitious, blinded heathenStill believed in faith and honour,And the sacredness of guest-right.He accepted a proposalTo be present at a banquetThat the Spaniards in their castleWish’d to give, to do him honour.And with all his court attendantsCame the inoffensive monarchKindly to the Spanish quarters,Where by trumpets he was greeted.What they call’d the entertainmentKnow I not. ’Twas very likely“Spanish Truth!” of which the author’sName was Don Fernando Cortez.Cortez gave the signal—straightwayThey attack’d the peaceful monarch,And they bound him and retain’d himIn the castle as a hostage.But poor Montezuma died there,And the dam was broken downWhich the bold adventurersFrom the people’s wrath protected.Terribly began the tempest;Like a wild and furious oceanRaved and bluster’d ever nearerThe excited human billows.Valiantly in truth the SpaniardsDrove the tempest back. But dailyWas the castle fresh blockaded,And the conflict was exhausting.When the King was dead, the convoysOf provisions ceased entirely;In proportion as the rationsShorter grew, each face grew longer.With long faces on each otherGazed the sons of Spain with sadness,And they sigh’d, when they bethought themOf their cosy Christian dwellingsIn their cherish’d fatherland,Where the pious bells were ringing,And upon the hearth there bubbledPeaceful olla podridas,Thickly studded with garbanzos,Under which, with waggish fragranceChuckling famously, were hiddenThose dear garlic sausages.Then the leader held a council,And upon retreat decided;On the following morn at daybreakWas the force to leave the city.Easy ’twas for clever CortezCunningly to gain an entrance,But retreat to terra firmaOffer’d fatal obstacles.Mexico, the island city,In a mighty lake is founded,In the middle, wave-surrounded:E’en a haughty water fortress,With the continent connectedBut by ships and rafts and bridges,Which repose on piles gigantic,Little islands forming forts.’Twas before the sun had risenThat their march began the SpaniardsNot a single drum was beaten,Not a trumpeter was blowing.’Twas their object not to wakenFrom their quiet sleep their hosts—(For a hundred thousand IndiansWere encamp’d in Mexico).Yet without his host the SpaniardReckon’d, when his plans he settled;For the Mexicans had risenEarlier still to-day than he had.On the rafts and on the bridges,On the forts they all were waiting,That they to their guests might offerThen and there the parting cup.On the rafts and forts and bridgesHa! a frantic banquet follow’d;In red torrents stream’d the blood,And the bold carousers struggled,—Struggled, body press’d to body,And we see on many nakedIndian breasts the arabesqueOf the Spanish arms imprinted.’Twas a throttling and a chokingAnd a butchery that slowly,Sadly slowly, roll’d still onwardOver rafts and forts and bridges.Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’dSilently the Spaniards struggled,Step by step with toil and labourFor their flight a footing gaining.Fighting thus in narrow passesSmall to-day the’ advantage lyingIn old Europe’s strategy,Or her cannons, armour, horses.Many Spaniards in additionWith the gold were heavy laden,Lately captured or extorted—Ah! that yellow load of sinLamed and hemm’d them in the conflict,And the devilish metal provedNot to the poor spirit onlyRuinous, but to the body.And meanwhile the lake around themWith canoes and barks was cover’d;Archers in them sat, all shootingAt the rafts and forts and bridges.True they hit in the confusionMany of their Indian brethren,But they also hit full manyExcellent and brave hidalgos.On the third bridge fell at lastPoor young Gaston, who was bearingOn that day the flag whereonWas the Holy Virgin’s image.E’en this image’ self was struckBy the missiles of the Indians;Six such missiles were left stickingIn its very heart,—bright arrows,Like those swords of golden colourWhich transfix the sorrowing bosomOf the Mater DolorosaIn Good Friday’s sad procession.Gaston, when he died, made overHis proud banner to Gonsalvo,Who soon afterwards was strickenE’en to death, and died. Then CortezSeized himself the precious banner,He, the leader, and he bore itOn his steed till tow’rd the evening,When the fight at length was over.On that day a hundred SpaniardsFell, and sixty in addition;Eighty more alive were takenBy the Indians’ cruel hands.Many of them sorely wounded,Who ere long their breath surrender’dAnd a dozen horses, too, werePartly kill’d and partly captured.Cortez and his army onlyJust at evening gain’d the shelterOf the shore, a seacoast plantedNiggardly with weeping willows.
On his head he wore the laurel,And upon his boots there glitter’dGolden spurs,—but notwithstandingHe was neither knight nor hero.He was but a robber captain,Who within the book of gloryWrote with his own wicked handHis own wicked name of—Cortez.Underneath Columbus’ name heWrote his own,—yes, close beneath it,And the schoolboy at his lessonsLearns by heart both names together.After Christopher ColumbusHe now names Fernando Cortez,As the second greatest manIn the new world’s proud Pantheon.Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice!That our name should thus be coupledWith the name of a vile scoundrelIn the memory of mortals!Were’t not better e’en to perishAll unknown, than draggle with itThrough eternity’s long agesSuch a name in comradeship?Master Christopher ColumbusWas a hero,—and his temper,That was pure as e’en the sunlight,Was as gen’rous in addition.Many people much have given,But Columbus to the worldHath a world entire imparted,And ’tis call’d America.He had not the power to free usFrom our dreary earthly prison,But he managed to enlarge itAnd our heavy chain to lengthen.Mortals thankfully revere him,Being, not of Europe only,But of Africa and Asia,Equally quite sick and weary.One alone, one hero onlyGave us more and gave us betterThan Columbus—that one mean IWho a God bestow’d upon us.His old father’s name was Amram,And his mother’s Jochebed,And himself, his name was Moses,And he is my greatest hero.But, my Pegasus, thou’rt loiteringFar too long with this Columbus;Know thou that our flight to-day isWith the lesser man,—with Cortez.So extend thy colour’d pinions,Wingèd steed! and carry meTo the new world’s beauteous countryThat they Mexico entitle.Carry me to yonder castle,Which the monarch MontezumaKindly offer’d to his SpanishGuests, to be their habitation.Not mere food and shelter onlyIn extravagant profusionGave the prince these foreign strollers,—Presents rich and precious also,Valuable, wrought with cunning,All of massive gold, and jewels,Bear gay witness to the monarch’sGenerosity and favour.This uncivilised, unlearned,Superstitious, blinded heathenStill believed in faith and honour,And the sacredness of guest-right.He accepted a proposalTo be present at a banquetThat the Spaniards in their castleWish’d to give, to do him honour.And with all his court attendantsCame the inoffensive monarchKindly to the Spanish quarters,Where by trumpets he was greeted.What they call’d the entertainmentKnow I not. ’Twas very likely“Spanish Truth!” of which the author’sName was Don Fernando Cortez.Cortez gave the signal—straightwayThey attack’d the peaceful monarch,And they bound him and retain’d himIn the castle as a hostage.But poor Montezuma died there,And the dam was broken downWhich the bold adventurersFrom the people’s wrath protected.Terribly began the tempest;Like a wild and furious oceanRaved and bluster’d ever nearerThe excited human billows.Valiantly in truth the SpaniardsDrove the tempest back. But dailyWas the castle fresh blockaded,And the conflict was exhausting.When the King was dead, the convoysOf provisions ceased entirely;In proportion as the rationsShorter grew, each face grew longer.With long faces on each otherGazed the sons of Spain with sadness,And they sigh’d, when they bethought themOf their cosy Christian dwellingsIn their cherish’d fatherland,Where the pious bells were ringing,And upon the hearth there bubbledPeaceful olla podridas,Thickly studded with garbanzos,Under which, with waggish fragranceChuckling famously, were hiddenThose dear garlic sausages.Then the leader held a council,And upon retreat decided;On the following morn at daybreakWas the force to leave the city.Easy ’twas for clever CortezCunningly to gain an entrance,But retreat to terra firmaOffer’d fatal obstacles.Mexico, the island city,In a mighty lake is founded,In the middle, wave-surrounded:E’en a haughty water fortress,With the continent connectedBut by ships and rafts and bridges,Which repose on piles gigantic,Little islands forming forts.’Twas before the sun had risenThat their march began the SpaniardsNot a single drum was beaten,Not a trumpeter was blowing.’Twas their object not to wakenFrom their quiet sleep their hosts—(For a hundred thousand IndiansWere encamp’d in Mexico).Yet without his host the SpaniardReckon’d, when his plans he settled;For the Mexicans had risenEarlier still to-day than he had.On the rafts and on the bridges,On the forts they all were waiting,That they to their guests might offerThen and there the parting cup.On the rafts and forts and bridgesHa! a frantic banquet follow’d;In red torrents stream’d the blood,And the bold carousers struggled,—Struggled, body press’d to body,And we see on many nakedIndian breasts the arabesqueOf the Spanish arms imprinted.’Twas a throttling and a chokingAnd a butchery that slowly,Sadly slowly, roll’d still onwardOver rafts and forts and bridges.Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’dSilently the Spaniards struggled,Step by step with toil and labourFor their flight a footing gaining.Fighting thus in narrow passesSmall to-day the’ advantage lyingIn old Europe’s strategy,Or her cannons, armour, horses.Many Spaniards in additionWith the gold were heavy laden,Lately captured or extorted—Ah! that yellow load of sinLamed and hemm’d them in the conflict,And the devilish metal provedNot to the poor spirit onlyRuinous, but to the body.And meanwhile the lake around themWith canoes and barks was cover’d;Archers in them sat, all shootingAt the rafts and forts and bridges.True they hit in the confusionMany of their Indian brethren,But they also hit full manyExcellent and brave hidalgos.On the third bridge fell at lastPoor young Gaston, who was bearingOn that day the flag whereonWas the Holy Virgin’s image.E’en this image’ self was struckBy the missiles of the Indians;Six such missiles were left stickingIn its very heart,—bright arrows,Like those swords of golden colourWhich transfix the sorrowing bosomOf the Mater DolorosaIn Good Friday’s sad procession.Gaston, when he died, made overHis proud banner to Gonsalvo,Who soon afterwards was strickenE’en to death, and died. Then CortezSeized himself the precious banner,He, the leader, and he bore itOn his steed till tow’rd the evening,When the fight at length was over.On that day a hundred SpaniardsFell, and sixty in addition;Eighty more alive were takenBy the Indians’ cruel hands.Many of them sorely wounded,Who ere long their breath surrender’dAnd a dozen horses, too, werePartly kill’d and partly captured.Cortez and his army onlyJust at evening gain’d the shelterOf the shore, a seacoast plantedNiggardly with weeping willows.
On his head he wore the laurel,And upon his boots there glitter’dGolden spurs,—but notwithstandingHe was neither knight nor hero.
He was but a robber captain,Who within the book of gloryWrote with his own wicked handHis own wicked name of—Cortez.
Underneath Columbus’ name heWrote his own,—yes, close beneath it,And the schoolboy at his lessonsLearns by heart both names together.
After Christopher ColumbusHe now names Fernando Cortez,As the second greatest manIn the new world’s proud Pantheon.
Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice!That our name should thus be coupledWith the name of a vile scoundrelIn the memory of mortals!
Were’t not better e’en to perishAll unknown, than draggle with itThrough eternity’s long agesSuch a name in comradeship?
Master Christopher ColumbusWas a hero,—and his temper,That was pure as e’en the sunlight,Was as gen’rous in addition.
Many people much have given,But Columbus to the worldHath a world entire imparted,And ’tis call’d America.
He had not the power to free usFrom our dreary earthly prison,But he managed to enlarge itAnd our heavy chain to lengthen.
Mortals thankfully revere him,Being, not of Europe only,But of Africa and Asia,Equally quite sick and weary.
One alone, one hero onlyGave us more and gave us betterThan Columbus—that one mean IWho a God bestow’d upon us.
His old father’s name was Amram,And his mother’s Jochebed,And himself, his name was Moses,And he is my greatest hero.
But, my Pegasus, thou’rt loiteringFar too long with this Columbus;Know thou that our flight to-day isWith the lesser man,—with Cortez.
So extend thy colour’d pinions,Wingèd steed! and carry meTo the new world’s beauteous countryThat they Mexico entitle.
Carry me to yonder castle,Which the monarch MontezumaKindly offer’d to his SpanishGuests, to be their habitation.
Not mere food and shelter onlyIn extravagant profusionGave the prince these foreign strollers,—Presents rich and precious also,
Valuable, wrought with cunning,All of massive gold, and jewels,Bear gay witness to the monarch’sGenerosity and favour.
This uncivilised, unlearned,Superstitious, blinded heathenStill believed in faith and honour,And the sacredness of guest-right.
He accepted a proposalTo be present at a banquetThat the Spaniards in their castleWish’d to give, to do him honour.
And with all his court attendantsCame the inoffensive monarchKindly to the Spanish quarters,Where by trumpets he was greeted.
What they call’d the entertainmentKnow I not. ’Twas very likely“Spanish Truth!” of which the author’sName was Don Fernando Cortez.
Cortez gave the signal—straightwayThey attack’d the peaceful monarch,And they bound him and retain’d himIn the castle as a hostage.
But poor Montezuma died there,And the dam was broken downWhich the bold adventurersFrom the people’s wrath protected.
Terribly began the tempest;Like a wild and furious oceanRaved and bluster’d ever nearerThe excited human billows.
Valiantly in truth the SpaniardsDrove the tempest back. But dailyWas the castle fresh blockaded,And the conflict was exhausting.
When the King was dead, the convoysOf provisions ceased entirely;In proportion as the rationsShorter grew, each face grew longer.
With long faces on each otherGazed the sons of Spain with sadness,And they sigh’d, when they bethought themOf their cosy Christian dwellings
In their cherish’d fatherland,Where the pious bells were ringing,And upon the hearth there bubbledPeaceful olla podridas,
Thickly studded with garbanzos,Under which, with waggish fragranceChuckling famously, were hiddenThose dear garlic sausages.
Then the leader held a council,And upon retreat decided;On the following morn at daybreakWas the force to leave the city.
Easy ’twas for clever CortezCunningly to gain an entrance,But retreat to terra firmaOffer’d fatal obstacles.
Mexico, the island city,In a mighty lake is founded,In the middle, wave-surrounded:E’en a haughty water fortress,
With the continent connectedBut by ships and rafts and bridges,Which repose on piles gigantic,Little islands forming forts.
’Twas before the sun had risenThat their march began the SpaniardsNot a single drum was beaten,Not a trumpeter was blowing.
’Twas their object not to wakenFrom their quiet sleep their hosts—(For a hundred thousand IndiansWere encamp’d in Mexico).
Yet without his host the SpaniardReckon’d, when his plans he settled;For the Mexicans had risenEarlier still to-day than he had.
On the rafts and on the bridges,On the forts they all were waiting,That they to their guests might offerThen and there the parting cup.
On the rafts and forts and bridgesHa! a frantic banquet follow’d;In red torrents stream’d the blood,And the bold carousers struggled,—
Struggled, body press’d to body,And we see on many nakedIndian breasts the arabesqueOf the Spanish arms imprinted.
’Twas a throttling and a chokingAnd a butchery that slowly,Sadly slowly, roll’d still onwardOver rafts and forts and bridges.
Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’dSilently the Spaniards struggled,Step by step with toil and labourFor their flight a footing gaining.
Fighting thus in narrow passesSmall to-day the’ advantage lyingIn old Europe’s strategy,Or her cannons, armour, horses.
Many Spaniards in additionWith the gold were heavy laden,Lately captured or extorted—Ah! that yellow load of sin
Lamed and hemm’d them in the conflict,And the devilish metal provedNot to the poor spirit onlyRuinous, but to the body.
And meanwhile the lake around themWith canoes and barks was cover’d;Archers in them sat, all shootingAt the rafts and forts and bridges.
True they hit in the confusionMany of their Indian brethren,But they also hit full manyExcellent and brave hidalgos.
On the third bridge fell at lastPoor young Gaston, who was bearingOn that day the flag whereonWas the Holy Virgin’s image.
E’en this image’ self was struckBy the missiles of the Indians;Six such missiles were left stickingIn its very heart,—bright arrows,
Like those swords of golden colourWhich transfix the sorrowing bosomOf the Mater DolorosaIn Good Friday’s sad procession.
Gaston, when he died, made overHis proud banner to Gonsalvo,Who soon afterwards was strickenE’en to death, and died. Then Cortez
Seized himself the precious banner,He, the leader, and he bore itOn his steed till tow’rd the evening,When the fight at length was over.
On that day a hundred SpaniardsFell, and sixty in addition;Eighty more alive were takenBy the Indians’ cruel hands.
Many of them sorely wounded,Who ere long their breath surrender’dAnd a dozen horses, too, werePartly kill’d and partly captured.
Cortez and his army onlyJust at evening gain’d the shelterOf the shore, a seacoast plantedNiggardly with weeping willows.
When the battle day is over,Comes the frantic night of triumphSo in Mexico a hundredThousand lamps of joy are flaring;Hundred thousand lamps of joy, withWoodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,Throw a light as clear as daylightOver palaces and temples,And guildhouses,—likewise overVitzliputzli’s splendid temple,Idol-fortress built of red brick,Strangely like the old Egyptian,Babylonian, and AssyrianMonster buildings so colossal,As we see them in the picturesOf the English Henry Martin.[77]Yes, it is the same broad staircase,So exceeding broad, that on itMany thousand MexicansUp and down are walking freely,Whilst upon the steps are lyingMighty troops of savage warriors,Banqueting in joyous fashion,Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.This great staircase leadeth upwardsLike a zigzag to the platform,By a balustrade surroundedAt 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 horrorIt must needs excite our laughter.His appearance altogetherBrought to mind a combinationOf the “Dance of Death” at Basle,And the Mannekin at Brussels.On the god’s left side his priests areStation’d, on his right the people;Ornaments of colour’d feathersAre to-day the former wearing.On the altar-stairs of marbleSquats 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 ofttimesLeers upon the god above him.Vitzliputzli seems the glancesOf his servant to appreciate,And he twitches every eyelash,And his lips at times he twitches.On the altar steps squat alsoThe musicians of the temple,Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers—Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!And the Mexican Te DeumRises up in noisy chorus,As if many cats were mewing—As if many cats were mewing,But of that enlarged descriptionWhich are “tiger-cats” entitled,And, instead of mice, eat people!When the nightwind carries with itThese loud noises to the seashore,The poor Spaniards there encampingFeel sensations far from pleasant.Sadly ’neath the weeping willowsAre the Spaniards still remaining,Gazing tow’rd the distant cityWhich within the dark sea waterMirrors back, in sheer derision,All the flames of former pleasure—There they stand, as in the pitOf a vast gigantic playhouse,Vitzliputzli’s temple’s radiantPlatform serving as the stageWhere they act a tragic myst’ryTo commemorate their triumph.“Human sacrifice” the play is,Old, full old, its plot, its fable;But the piece is not so fearfulIn the Christian treatment of it.For into the blood is red wine,And into the actual bodyIs a thin and harmless waferTransubstantiated truly.’Mongst these savages at presentWas the joke in downright earnestTaken up; they fed on flesh,And the blood was human blood.This time ’twas indeed the pure bloodOf old Christians, which had neverNever mingled with the baserBlood of Jews or of Moriscos.O be joyful, Vitzliputzli!For to-day ’tis Spanish blood,And thou mayst refresh thy nostrilsWith its warm scent greedily.Eighty Spaniards will be slaughter’dOn this day to do thee honour—Proud repast to grace the tableOf thy priests, who flesh delight in.For the priest is but a mortal,And poor man, unhappy glutton,Cannot, like the gods, live onlyOn sweet smells and savoury odours.Hark! the death-drum now is beating,And the evil cowhorn screeches!They proclaim the’ approaching adventOf the victims’ sad procession.Eighty Spaniards, vilely naked,With their hands securely fasten’dTo their backs, are harshly drivenUp the temple’s lofty staircase.And to Vitzliputzli’s imageThey 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 anguishOverpow’r the whole collectiveCannibals’ wild charivari.Poor spectators by the ocean!Cortez and his warlike comradesBut too plainly could distinguishAll 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 helmetsSilently they took, and kneeling,Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly,And they sang the De Profundis.’Mongst the number of the victimsWas young Raimond de Mendoza,Offspring of the lovely abbess,Cortez’ first and youthful love.When he on the stripling’s bosomSaw the well-remember’d locketWhich enclosed his mother’s portrait,Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez—But from off his eyes he wiped themWith his buffalo’s hard gauntlet—Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorusWith the others: Miserere!
When the battle day is over,Comes the frantic night of triumphSo in Mexico a hundredThousand lamps of joy are flaring;Hundred thousand lamps of joy, withWoodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,Throw a light as clear as daylightOver palaces and temples,And guildhouses,—likewise overVitzliputzli’s splendid temple,Idol-fortress built of red brick,Strangely like the old Egyptian,Babylonian, and AssyrianMonster buildings so colossal,As we see them in the picturesOf the English Henry Martin.[77]Yes, it is the same broad staircase,So exceeding broad, that on itMany thousand MexicansUp and down are walking freely,Whilst upon the steps are lyingMighty troops of savage warriors,Banqueting in joyous fashion,Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.This great staircase leadeth upwardsLike a zigzag to the platform,By a balustrade surroundedAt 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 horrorIt must needs excite our laughter.His appearance altogetherBrought to mind a combinationOf the “Dance of Death” at Basle,And the Mannekin at Brussels.On the god’s left side his priests areStation’d, on his right the people;Ornaments of colour’d feathersAre to-day the former wearing.On the altar-stairs of marbleSquats 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 ofttimesLeers upon the god above him.Vitzliputzli seems the glancesOf his servant to appreciate,And he twitches every eyelash,And his lips at times he twitches.On the altar steps squat alsoThe musicians of the temple,Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers—Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!And the Mexican Te DeumRises up in noisy chorus,As if many cats were mewing—As if many cats were mewing,But of that enlarged descriptionWhich are “tiger-cats” entitled,And, instead of mice, eat people!When the nightwind carries with itThese loud noises to the seashore,The poor Spaniards there encampingFeel sensations far from pleasant.Sadly ’neath the weeping willowsAre the Spaniards still remaining,Gazing tow’rd the distant cityWhich within the dark sea waterMirrors back, in sheer derision,All the flames of former pleasure—There they stand, as in the pitOf a vast gigantic playhouse,Vitzliputzli’s temple’s radiantPlatform serving as the stageWhere they act a tragic myst’ryTo commemorate their triumph.“Human sacrifice” the play is,Old, full old, its plot, its fable;But the piece is not so fearfulIn the Christian treatment of it.For into the blood is red wine,And into the actual bodyIs a thin and harmless waferTransubstantiated truly.’Mongst these savages at presentWas the joke in downright earnestTaken up; they fed on flesh,And the blood was human blood.This time ’twas indeed the pure bloodOf old Christians, which had neverNever mingled with the baserBlood of Jews or of Moriscos.O be joyful, Vitzliputzli!For to-day ’tis Spanish blood,And thou mayst refresh thy nostrilsWith its warm scent greedily.Eighty Spaniards will be slaughter’dOn this day to do thee honour—Proud repast to grace the tableOf thy priests, who flesh delight in.For the priest is but a mortal,And poor man, unhappy glutton,Cannot, like the gods, live onlyOn sweet smells and savoury odours.Hark! the death-drum now is beating,And the evil cowhorn screeches!They proclaim the’ approaching adventOf the victims’ sad procession.Eighty Spaniards, vilely naked,With their hands securely fasten’dTo their backs, are harshly drivenUp the temple’s lofty staircase.And to Vitzliputzli’s imageThey 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 anguishOverpow’r the whole collectiveCannibals’ wild charivari.Poor spectators by the ocean!Cortez and his warlike comradesBut too plainly could distinguishAll 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 helmetsSilently they took, and kneeling,Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly,And they sang the De Profundis.’Mongst the number of the victimsWas young Raimond de Mendoza,Offspring of the lovely abbess,Cortez’ first and youthful love.When he on the stripling’s bosomSaw the well-remember’d locketWhich enclosed his mother’s portrait,Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez—But from off his eyes he wiped themWith his buffalo’s hard gauntlet—Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorusWith the others: Miserere!
When the battle day is over,Comes the frantic night of triumphSo in Mexico a hundredThousand lamps of joy are flaring;
Hundred thousand lamps of joy, withWoodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,Throw a light as clear as daylightOver palaces and temples,
And guildhouses,—likewise overVitzliputzli’s splendid temple,Idol-fortress built of red brick,Strangely like the old Egyptian,
Babylonian, and AssyrianMonster buildings so colossal,As we see them in the picturesOf the English Henry Martin.[77]
Yes, it is the same broad staircase,So exceeding broad, that on itMany thousand MexicansUp and down are walking freely,
Whilst upon the steps are lyingMighty troops of savage warriors,Banqueting in joyous fashion,Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.
This great staircase leadeth upwardsLike a zigzag to the platform,By a balustrade surroundedAt 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 horrorIt must needs excite our laughter.
His appearance altogetherBrought to mind a combinationOf the “Dance of Death” at Basle,And the Mannekin at Brussels.
On the god’s left side his priests areStation’d, on his right the people;Ornaments of colour’d feathersAre to-day the former wearing.
On the altar-stairs of marbleSquats 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 ofttimesLeers upon the god above him.
Vitzliputzli seems the glancesOf his servant to appreciate,And he twitches every eyelash,And his lips at times he twitches.
On the altar steps squat alsoThe musicians of the temple,Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers—Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!
Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!And the Mexican Te DeumRises up in noisy chorus,As if many cats were mewing—
As if many cats were mewing,But of that enlarged descriptionWhich are “tiger-cats” entitled,And, instead of mice, eat people!
When the nightwind carries with itThese loud noises to the seashore,The poor Spaniards there encampingFeel sensations far from pleasant.
Sadly ’neath the weeping willowsAre the Spaniards still remaining,Gazing tow’rd the distant cityWhich within the dark sea water
Mirrors back, in sheer derision,All the flames of former pleasure—There they stand, as in the pitOf a vast gigantic playhouse,
Vitzliputzli’s temple’s radiantPlatform serving as the stageWhere they act a tragic myst’ryTo commemorate their triumph.
“Human sacrifice” the play is,Old, full old, its plot, its fable;But the piece is not so fearfulIn the Christian treatment of it.
For into the blood is red wine,And into the actual bodyIs a thin and harmless waferTransubstantiated truly.
’Mongst these savages at presentWas the joke in downright earnestTaken up; they fed on flesh,And the blood was human blood.
This time ’twas indeed the pure bloodOf old Christians, which had neverNever mingled with the baserBlood of Jews or of Moriscos.
O be joyful, Vitzliputzli!For to-day ’tis Spanish blood,And thou mayst refresh thy nostrilsWith its warm scent greedily.
Eighty Spaniards will be slaughter’dOn this day to do thee honour—Proud repast to grace the tableOf thy priests, who flesh delight in.
For the priest is but a mortal,And poor man, unhappy glutton,Cannot, like the gods, live onlyOn sweet smells and savoury odours.
Hark! the death-drum now is beating,And the evil cowhorn screeches!They proclaim the’ approaching adventOf the victims’ sad procession.
Eighty Spaniards, vilely naked,With their hands securely fasten’dTo their backs, are harshly drivenUp the temple’s lofty staircase.
And to Vitzliputzli’s imageThey 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 anguishOverpow’r the whole collectiveCannibals’ wild charivari.
Poor spectators by the ocean!Cortez and his warlike comradesBut too plainly could distinguishAll 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 helmetsSilently they took, and kneeling,Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly,And they sang the De Profundis.
’Mongst the number of the victimsWas young Raimond de Mendoza,Offspring of the lovely abbess,Cortez’ first and youthful love.
When he on the stripling’s bosomSaw the well-remember’d locketWhich enclosed his mother’s portrait,Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez—
But from off his eyes he wiped themWith his buffalo’s hard gauntlet—Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorusWith the others: Miserere!
Now the stars are glimm’ring paler,And the morning mists are risingFrom the ocean-flood, like spiritsDragging their white shrouds behind them.Feasts and lights are all extinguish’dIn 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!“We’ll to-morrow slay the horses,“Neighing noble monsters are they,“Offspring of the tempest spirits’“Amorous toying with the seacow.“If thou’lt gracious be, I’ll slaughter“In thine honour my two grandsons,“Pretty children,—sweet their blood is,—“My old age’s only pleasure.“But indeed thou must be gracious,“And must grant us further triumphs,“Let us conquer, darling godhead,“Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!“All our enemies destroy thou,“All these strangers who from distant“And still undiscover’d countries“Hither came across the ocean—“Wherefore did they leave their dwellings?“Was it crime or hunger drove them?“‘Stop at home and live in quiet’“Is a sensible old proverb.“What is their desire? Our money“Stick they in their greedy pockets,“And they wish us to be happy—“So they tell us,—in the heavens!“We at first believed them fully“Beings of a higher order,“Children of the Sun, immortal,“Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.“But they’re only men, as mortal“As ourselves; my knife to-night has“Proved beyond all doubt and question“Their extreme mortality.“They are mortal, and no fairer“Than ourselves, and many of them“Are as ugly as the monkeys,“And their faces, like the latter,“Are all hairy, and ’tis whisper’d“Many of them carry hidden“In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for“Those not monkeys need no breeches.“Morally they’re also ugly“And of piety know nothing,“And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d“Their own deities to swallow!“O destroy this vile abandon’d“Wicked brood, these god-devourers—“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli,“Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”—Thus the priest address’d the god,And the god’s reply resoundedSighing, rattling, like the nightwindToying with the ocean sedges:“Red-coat, red-coat, bloody slayer!“Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,—“Plunge thy sacrificial knife now“In thine own old worn-out body!“From thy body, thus slit open,“Will thy spirit make its exit,“Over roots and over pebbles“Tripping to the green frog’s pond.“There thou’lt find my aunt, the rat-queen,“Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee:“‘So good morning, naked spirit!“‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?“‘Is he Vitzliputzlied nicely“‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey?“‘Does good fortune from his forehead“‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?“‘Or does Katzlagara scratch him,“‘Hated goddess of all evil,“‘With her black paws made of iron,“‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’“Naked spirit, give this answer:“‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting,“‘And a pestilence he wishes“‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!“‘Thou didst urge him to the conflict,“‘And thy counsel was destruction;“‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil“‘Old and mournful prophecy“‘Of the kingdom’s subjugation“‘By the men so fiercely bearded,“‘Who on wooden birds all flying“‘From the Eastern land come hither.“‘There’s an ancient proverb also—“‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise—“‘And the God’s will is redoubled“‘When the woman is his mother.“‘She it is that wakes my anger,“‘She, the haughty queen of heaven,“‘She, a pure and spotless virgin,“‘Working charms and versed in magic.“‘She protects the Spanish people,“‘And we all at length must perish,“‘I, the poorest of the godheads,“‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’—“When thou hast fulfill’d thy message,Red-coat, let thy naked spiritIn a sandhole creep; sleep soundlyOut of sight of all my misery.“This proud temple will be shatter’d,“I myself shall in its ruins“Disappear,—mere dust and rubbish,—“No one e’er again will see me.“Yet I shall not die; we godheads“Grow as old as do the parrots,“And we cast our skins, and like them“Only change at times our feathers.“To my foemen’s native country“Which they give the name of Europe“I shall fly away, beginning“There a really new career.“I’ll turn devil, and the god“Then shall be a God-be-with-us;“As my foemen’s evil spirit“I can work as best may suit me.“There my enemies I’ll trouble,“And alarm them all with phantoms;“As a foretaste of hell’s torments,“Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.“Both their wise men and their doltards“I’ll allure with my seductions;“And their virtue will I tickle“Till it laughs like any strumpet.“Yes, I’ll turn into a devil,“And salute as my dear comrades“Satanas and Belial with him,“Astaroth and Beelzebub.“Thee I’ll also greet, O Lilis,“Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent“Teach me all thy dreadful secrets,“And the charming art of lying!“My belovèd Mexico,“I no longer can preserve thee,“But I’ll fearfully avenge thee,“My belovèd Mexico!”
Now the stars are glimm’ring paler,And the morning mists are risingFrom the ocean-flood, like spiritsDragging their white shrouds behind them.Feasts and lights are all extinguish’dIn 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!“We’ll to-morrow slay the horses,“Neighing noble monsters are they,“Offspring of the tempest spirits’“Amorous toying with the seacow.“If thou’lt gracious be, I’ll slaughter“In thine honour my two grandsons,“Pretty children,—sweet their blood is,—“My old age’s only pleasure.“But indeed thou must be gracious,“And must grant us further triumphs,“Let us conquer, darling godhead,“Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!“All our enemies destroy thou,“All these strangers who from distant“And still undiscover’d countries“Hither came across the ocean—“Wherefore did they leave their dwellings?“Was it crime or hunger drove them?“‘Stop at home and live in quiet’“Is a sensible old proverb.“What is their desire? Our money“Stick they in their greedy pockets,“And they wish us to be happy—“So they tell us,—in the heavens!“We at first believed them fully“Beings of a higher order,“Children of the Sun, immortal,“Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.“But they’re only men, as mortal“As ourselves; my knife to-night has“Proved beyond all doubt and question“Their extreme mortality.“They are mortal, and no fairer“Than ourselves, and many of them“Are as ugly as the monkeys,“And their faces, like the latter,“Are all hairy, and ’tis whisper’d“Many of them carry hidden“In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for“Those not monkeys need no breeches.“Morally they’re also ugly“And of piety know nothing,“And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d“Their own deities to swallow!“O destroy this vile abandon’d“Wicked brood, these god-devourers—“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli,“Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”—Thus the priest address’d the god,And the god’s reply resoundedSighing, rattling, like the nightwindToying with the ocean sedges:“Red-coat, red-coat, bloody slayer!“Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,—“Plunge thy sacrificial knife now“In thine own old worn-out body!“From thy body, thus slit open,“Will thy spirit make its exit,“Over roots and over pebbles“Tripping to the green frog’s pond.“There thou’lt find my aunt, the rat-queen,“Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee:“‘So good morning, naked spirit!“‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?“‘Is he Vitzliputzlied nicely“‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey?“‘Does good fortune from his forehead“‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?“‘Or does Katzlagara scratch him,“‘Hated goddess of all evil,“‘With her black paws made of iron,“‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’“Naked spirit, give this answer:“‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting,“‘And a pestilence he wishes“‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!“‘Thou didst urge him to the conflict,“‘And thy counsel was destruction;“‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil“‘Old and mournful prophecy“‘Of the kingdom’s subjugation“‘By the men so fiercely bearded,“‘Who on wooden birds all flying“‘From the Eastern land come hither.“‘There’s an ancient proverb also—“‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise—“‘And the God’s will is redoubled“‘When the woman is his mother.“‘She it is that wakes my anger,“‘She, the haughty queen of heaven,“‘She, a pure and spotless virgin,“‘Working charms and versed in magic.“‘She protects the Spanish people,“‘And we all at length must perish,“‘I, the poorest of the godheads,“‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’—“When thou hast fulfill’d thy message,Red-coat, let thy naked spiritIn a sandhole creep; sleep soundlyOut of sight of all my misery.“This proud temple will be shatter’d,“I myself shall in its ruins“Disappear,—mere dust and rubbish,—“No one e’er again will see me.“Yet I shall not die; we godheads“Grow as old as do the parrots,“And we cast our skins, and like them“Only change at times our feathers.“To my foemen’s native country“Which they give the name of Europe“I shall fly away, beginning“There a really new career.“I’ll turn devil, and the god“Then shall be a God-be-with-us;“As my foemen’s evil spirit“I can work as best may suit me.“There my enemies I’ll trouble,“And alarm them all with phantoms;“As a foretaste of hell’s torments,“Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.“Both their wise men and their doltards“I’ll allure with my seductions;“And their virtue will I tickle“Till it laughs like any strumpet.“Yes, I’ll turn into a devil,“And salute as my dear comrades“Satanas and Belial with him,“Astaroth and Beelzebub.“Thee I’ll also greet, O Lilis,“Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent“Teach me all thy dreadful secrets,“And the charming art of lying!“My belovèd Mexico,“I no longer can preserve thee,“But I’ll fearfully avenge thee,“My belovèd Mexico!”
Now the stars are glimm’ring paler,And the morning mists are risingFrom the ocean-flood, like spiritsDragging their white shrouds behind them.
Feasts and lights are all extinguish’dIn 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!
“We’ll to-morrow slay the horses,“Neighing noble monsters are they,“Offspring of the tempest spirits’“Amorous toying with the seacow.
“If thou’lt gracious be, I’ll slaughter“In thine honour my two grandsons,“Pretty children,—sweet their blood is,—“My old age’s only pleasure.
“But indeed thou must be gracious,“And must grant us further triumphs,“Let us conquer, darling godhead,“Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!
“All our enemies destroy thou,“All these strangers who from distant“And still undiscover’d countries“Hither came across the ocean—
“Wherefore did they leave their dwellings?“Was it crime or hunger drove them?“‘Stop at home and live in quiet’“Is a sensible old proverb.
“What is their desire? Our money“Stick they in their greedy pockets,“And they wish us to be happy—“So they tell us,—in the heavens!
“We at first believed them fully“Beings of a higher order,“Children of the Sun, immortal,“Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.
“But they’re only men, as mortal“As ourselves; my knife to-night has“Proved beyond all doubt and question“Their extreme mortality.
“They are mortal, and no fairer“Than ourselves, and many of them“Are as ugly as the monkeys,“And their faces, like the latter,
“Are all hairy, and ’tis whisper’d“Many of them carry hidden“In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for“Those not monkeys need no breeches.
“Morally they’re also ugly“And of piety know nothing,“And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d“Their own deities to swallow!
“O destroy this vile abandon’d“Wicked brood, these god-devourers—“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli,“Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”—
Thus the priest address’d the god,And the god’s reply resoundedSighing, rattling, like the nightwindToying with the ocean sedges:
“Red-coat, red-coat, bloody slayer!“Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,—“Plunge thy sacrificial knife now“In thine own old worn-out body!
“From thy body, thus slit open,“Will thy spirit make its exit,“Over roots and over pebbles“Tripping to the green frog’s pond.
“There thou’lt find my aunt, the rat-queen,“Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee:“‘So good morning, naked spirit!“‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?
“‘Is he Vitzliputzlied nicely“‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey?“‘Does good fortune from his forehead“‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?
“‘Or does Katzlagara scratch him,“‘Hated goddess of all evil,“‘With her black paws made of iron,“‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’
“Naked spirit, give this answer:“‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting,“‘And a pestilence he wishes“‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!
“‘Thou didst urge him to the conflict,“‘And thy counsel was destruction;“‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil“‘Old and mournful prophecy
“‘Of the kingdom’s subjugation“‘By the men so fiercely bearded,“‘Who on wooden birds all flying“‘From the Eastern land come hither.
“‘There’s an ancient proverb also—“‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise—“‘And the God’s will is redoubled“‘When the woman is his mother.
“‘She it is that wakes my anger,“‘She, the haughty queen of heaven,“‘She, a pure and spotless virgin,“‘Working charms and versed in magic.
“‘She protects the Spanish people,“‘And we all at length must perish,“‘I, the poorest of the godheads,“‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’—
“When thou hast fulfill’d thy message,Red-coat, let thy naked spiritIn a sandhole creep; sleep soundlyOut of sight of all my misery.
“This proud temple will be shatter’d,“I myself shall in its ruins“Disappear,—mere dust and rubbish,—“No one e’er again will see me.
“Yet I shall not die; we godheads“Grow as old as do the parrots,“And we cast our skins, and like them“Only change at times our feathers.
“To my foemen’s native country“Which they give the name of Europe“I shall fly away, beginning“There a really new career.
“I’ll turn devil, and the god“Then shall be a God-be-with-us;“As my foemen’s evil spirit“I can work as best may suit me.
“There my enemies I’ll trouble,“And alarm them all with phantoms;“As a foretaste of hell’s torments,“Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.
“Both their wise men and their doltards“I’ll allure with my seductions;“And their virtue will I tickle“Till it laughs like any strumpet.
“Yes, I’ll turn into a devil,“And salute as my dear comrades“Satanas and Belial with him,“Astaroth and Beelzebub.
“Thee I’ll also greet, O Lilis,“Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent“Teach me all thy dreadful secrets,“And the charming art of lying!
“My belovèd Mexico,“I no longer can preserve thee,“But I’ll fearfully avenge thee,“My belovèd Mexico!”