Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ROMANCERO: BOOK 1. HISTORIES: VITZLIPUTZLI, by HEINRICH HEINE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ROMANCERO: BOOK 1. HISTORIES: VITZLIPUTZLI, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: On his head he wore the laurel
Last Line: "my beloved mexico!"
Subject(s): Columbus, Christopher (1451-1506); Explorers; Mexico; Exploring; Discovery; Discoverers


1.

ON his head he wore the laurel,
And upon his boots there glitter'd
Golden spurs, -- but notwithstanding
He was neither knight nor hero.

He was but a robber captain,
Who within the book of glory
Wrote with his own wicked hand
His own wicked name of -- Cortez.

Underneath Columbus' name he
Wrote his own, -- yes, close beneath it,
And the schoolboy at his lessons
Learns by heart both names together.

After Christopher Columbus
He now names Fernando Cortez,
As the second greatest man
In the new world's proud Pantheon.

Heroes' fate's last stroke of malice!
That our name should thus be coupled
With the name of a vile scoundrel
In the memory of mortals!

Were't not better e'en to perish
All unknown, than draggle with it
Through eternity's long ages
Such a name in comradeship?

Master Christopher Columbus
Was 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 world
Hath a world entire imparted,
And 'tis call'd America.

He had not the power to free us
From our dreary earthly prison,
But he managed to enlarge it
And 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 only
Gave us more and gave us better
Than Columbus -- that one mean I
Who 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 loitering
Far too long with this Columbus;
Know thou that our flight to-day is
With the lesser man, -- with Cortez.

So extend thy colour'd pinions,
Winged steed! and carry me
To the new world's beauteous country
That they Mexico entitle.

Carry me to yonder castle,
Which the monarch Montezuma
Kindly offer'd to his Spanish
Guests, to be their habitation.

Not mere food and shelter only
In extravagant profusion
Gave 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's
Generosity and favour.

This uncivilised, unlearned,
Superstitious, blinded heathen
Still believed in faith and honour,
And the sacredness of guest-right.

He accepted a proposal
To be present at a banquet
That the Spaniards in their castle
Wish'd to give, to do him honour.

And with all his court attendants
Came the inoffensive monarch
Kindly to the Spanish quarters,
Where by trumpets he was greeted.

What they call'd the entertainment
Know I not. 'Twas very likely
"Spanish Truth!" of which the author's
Name was Don Fernando Cortez.

Cortez gave the signal -- straightway
They attack'd the peaceful monarch,
And they bound him and retain'd him
In the castle as a hostage.

But poor Montezuma died there,
And the dam was broken down
Which the bold adventurers
From the people's wrath protected.

Terribly began the tempest;
Like a wild and furious ocean
Raved and bluster'd ever nearer
The excited human billows.

Valiantly in truth the Spaniards
Drove the tempest back. But daily
Was the castle fresh blockaded,
And the conflict was exhausting.

When the King was dead, the convoys
Of provisions ceased entirely;
In proportion as the rations
Shorter grew, each face grew longer.

With long faces on each other
Gazed the sons of Spain with sadness,
And they sigh'd, when they bethought them
Of their cosy Christian dwellings

In their cherish'd fatherland,
Where the pious bells were ringing,
And upon the hearth there bubbled
Peaceful olla podridas,

Thickly studded with garbanzos,
Under which, with waggish fragrance
Chuckling famously, were hidden
Those dear garlic sausages.

Then the leader held a council,
And upon retreat decided;
On the following morn at daybreak
Was the force to leave the city.

Easy 'twas for clever Cortez
Cunningly to gain an entrance,
But retreat to terra firma
Offer'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 connected
But by ships and rafts and bridges,
Which repose on piles gigantic,
Little islands forming forts.

'Twas before the sun had risen
That their march began the Spaniards
Not a single drum was beaten,
Not a trumpeter was blowing.

'Twas their object not to waken
From their quiet sleep their hosts --
(For a hundred thousand Indians
Were encamp'd in Mexico).

Yet without his host the Spaniard
Reckon'd, when his plans he settled;
For the Mexicans had risen
Earlier 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 offer
Then and there the parting cup.

On the rafts and forts and bridges
Ha! 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 naked
Indian breasts the arabesque
Of the Spanish arms imprinted.

'Twas a throttling and a choking
And a butchery that slowly,
Sadly slowly, roll'd still onward
Over rafts and forts and bridges.

Whilst the Indians sang and bellow'd
Silently the Spaniards struggled,
Step by step with toil and labour
For their flight a footing gaining.

Fighting thus in narrow passes
Small to-day the' advantage lying
In old Europe's strategy,
Or her cannons, armour, horses.

Many Spaniards in addition
With 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 proved
Not to the poor spirit only
Ruinous, but to the body.

And meanwhile the lake around them
With canoes and barks was cover'd;
Archers in them sat, all shooting
At the rafts and forts and bridges.

True they hit in the confusion
Many of their Indian brethren,
But they also hit full many
Excellent and brave hidalgos.

On the third bridge fell at last
Poor young Gaston, who was bearing
On that day the flag whereon
Was the Holy Virgin's image.

E'en this image' self was struck
By the missiles of the Indians;
Six such missiles were left sticking
In its very heart, -- bright arrows,

Like those swords of golden colour
Which transfix the sorrowing bosom
Of the Mater Dolorosa
In Good Friday's sad procession.

Gaston, when he died, made over
His proud banner to Gonsalvo,
Who soon afterwards was stricken
E'en to death, and died. Then Cortez

Seized himself the precious banner,
He, the leader, and he bore it
On his steed till tow'rd the evening,
When the fight at length was over.

On that day a hundred Spaniards
Fell, and sixty in addition;
Eighty more alive were taken
By the Indians' cruel hands.

Many of them sorely wounded,
Who ere long their breath surrender'd
And a dozen horses, too, were
Partly kill'd and partly captured.

Cortez and his army only
Just at evening gain'd the shelter
Of the shore, a seacoast planted
Niggardly with weeping willows.

2.

WHEN the battle day is over,
Comes the frantic night of triumph
So in Mexico a hundred
Thousand lamps of joy are flaring;

Hundred thousand lamps of joy, with
Woodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,
Throw a light as clear as daylight
Over palaces and temples,

And guildhouses, -- likewise over
Vitzliputzli's splendid temple,
Idol-fortress built of red brick,
Strangely like the old Egyptian,

Babylonian, and Assyrian
Monster buildings so colossal,
As we see them in the pictures
Of the English Henry Martin.

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, eowhorn 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.

'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!

"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 resounded
Sighing, rattling, like the nightwind
Toying 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 spirit
"In a sandhole creep; sleep soundly
"Out of sight of all my misery.

"This proud temple will be shattered,
"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 beloved Mexico,
"I no longer can preserve thee,
"But I'll fearfully avenge thee,
"My beloved Mexico!"





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net