BOOK THE SIXTH.
197
Gazing to Huixachtla’s distant top,
On that last night, doubtful if ever morn 100
Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire,
That kindled by the fierce Copolcan priest,
Flames on the breast of some brave prisoner,
A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze
Beaming on Iztapalapan’s near towers, 105
Or on Tezcuco’s calmy lake flash’d far,
Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy
Wake the loud echo; the glad husband tears
The mantling aloe from the female’s face,
And children, now deliver’d from the dread 110
Of everlasting darkness, look abroad,
Hail the good omen, and expect the sun
Uninjur‘d still to run his flaming race.
On that last night, doubtful if ever morn 100
Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire,
That kindled by the fierce Copolcan priest,
Flames on the breast of some brave prisoner,
A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze
Beaming on Iztapalapan’s near towers, 105
Or on Tezcuco’s calmy lake flash’d far,
Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy
Wake the loud echo; the glad husband tears
The mantling aloe from the female’s face,
And children, now deliver’d from the dread 110
Of everlasting darkness, look abroad,
Hail the good omen, and expect the sun
Uninjur‘d still to run his flaming race.
Thus whilst in that besieged town the night
Wain’d sleepless, silent slept the hallowed host. 115
And now the morning came. From his hard couch,
Lightly upstarting and bedight in arms,
Wain’d sleepless, silent slept the hallowed host. 115
And now the morning came. From his hard couch,
Lightly upstarting and bedight in arms,
The
