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In Anahuac there reigned a king Some fifty summers old, The bloody darling of his gods, Who sent him luck and gold And captives from a thousand fights, And victory in each war; No mercy kept within his heartHe trusted in his star. But doubts began to sap his mind, For he was growing old. The gods he feared might turn unkind; He gave them plundered gold And hung their images with hearts Like roses on a bride, And all the young slaves from the marts On Huitzil's altars died. The priests got everything they sought. They said the gods were wroth; They had the rolls of tribute broughtChose bales of twisted cloth, And cloaks of richest feather-work, And opals set in gilt, And many a keen obsidian knife With carved and curious hilt, And pearls for which their wives would quarrel, And bags of cochineal, And carefully matched and scarlet coral, And chests of yellow meal, And rainbow skins of quetzal birds, Lip jewels, and each a ring; And all they gave was doubtful wordsNo comfort to the king.
Scrivi una recensione per "The Bride of Huitzil: An Aztec Legend"
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