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XXIV. GUATEMOZIN.

THOUGHT rends the mists of History; and so,
The curtain of four centuries uprolled,
Unveils to view a scene of sufferance old.
See, on a torture-bed of coals aglow,
Where the last Aztec emperor lies low,
His courtiers round him, suffering pains untold;
Whilst the fierce Spaniard, ravening for gold,
The embers stirs, to enhance his victims' woe.
Awhile they suffer all in silent pain,
Till one, his martyred patience at an end,
Uplifts his voice and groans; whereat, his eyes
Upon him turning with a mild disdain,
“And I,” in answer Guatemozin sighs,
“Am I, then, on a bed of roses, friend?”