Nay wooed, the blissful dream; and oft at eve, When the moon shone upon the wandering stream, She paced the castle's battlements, that threw Beneath their solemn shadow, and, resigned To fancy and to tears, thought it most sweet To wander o'er the world with him she loved. Nor was his birth ignoble, for he shone 'Mid England's gallant youth in Edward's reign: With countenance erect, and honest eye 220 Commanding (yet suffused in tenderness At times), and smiles that like the lightning played On his brown cheek,—so gently stern he stood, Accomplished, generous, gentle, brave, sincere,— Robert a Machin. But the sullen pride Of haughty D'Arfet scorned all other claim To his high heritage, save what the pomp Of amplest wealth and loftier lineage gave. Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks One loved, one honoured object, wealth alone 230 He worshipped; and for this he could consign His only child, his aged hope, to loathed Embraces, and a life of tears! Nor here His hard ambition ended; for he sought, By secret whispers of conspiracies, His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift His arm avenging, and upon a youth Of promise close the dark forgotten gates Of living sepulture, and in the gloom Inhume the slowly-wasting victim. 240 So He purposed, but in vain; the ardent youth Rescued her—her whom more than life he loved, Ev'n when the horrid day of sacrifice Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark, And while he kissed a stealing tear that fell On her pale cheek, as trusting she reclined Her head upon his breast, with ardour cried— Be mine, be only mine! the hour invites; Be mine, be only mine! So won, she cast 250 A look of last affection on the towers Where she had passed her infant days, that now Shone to the setting sun. I follow thee, Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the air A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her feet Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides Down the smooth current, as the twilight fades, Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot Where D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose, Is lost; a tear starts to her eye, she thinks 260 Of him whose gray head to the earth shall bend, When he speaks nothing—but be all, like death, Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze, And oh! that now some fairy pinnace light Might flit across the wave (by no seen power Directed, save when Love upon the prow Gathered or spread with tender hand the sail), That now some fairy pinnace, o'er the surge Silent, as in a summer's dream, might waft The passengers upon the conscious flood 270 To regions bright of undisturbed joy! But hark! The wind is in the shrouds;—the cordage sings With fitful violence;—the blast now swells, Now sinks. Dread gloom invests the further wave, Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneath The veering bowsprit. Oh, retire to rest, Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose cheek Turn pale to see another thus exposed! 280 Hark! the deep thunder louder peals—Oh, save!— The high mast crashes; but the faithful arm Of love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye, Soon as the gray of morning peeps, shall view Green Erin's hills aspiring! The sad morn Comes forth; but terror on the sunless wave Still, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smiles Beneath the flash that through the struggling clouds Bursts frequent, half revealing his scathed front, 290 Above the rocking of the waste that rolls Boundless around. No word through the long day She spoke;—another slowly came;—no word The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sun Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge, And cheerless rose again:—Ah, where are now Thy havens, France! But yet—resign not yet— Ye lost seafarers—oh, resign not yet All hope—the storm is passed; the drenched sail 300 Shines in the passing beam! Look up, and say— Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers! And lo! scarce seen, A distant dusky spot appears;—they reach An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales, And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams, Shine forth; a Paradise, which Heaven alone, Who saw the silent anguish of despair, Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves. They gain the haven; through untrodden scenes, 310 Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man Since first the earth arose, they wind. The voice Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet, As waving woods retired, or falling streams, Can make; most soothing to the weary heart, Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate, And wearied long with watchings and with grief, Seek but a place of safety. All things here Whisper repose and peace; the very birds That 'mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes, 320 The songsters of the lonely valley, sing— Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us. The wild wood opens, and a shady glen Appears, embowered with mantling laurels high, That sloping shade the flowery valley's side; A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves, Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain, It glances light along its yellow bed;— The shaggy inmates of the forest lick 330 The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand. A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade Its trembling top; and there upon the bank They rest them, while each heart o'erflows with joy. Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet, Came down: a softer sound the circling seas, The ancient woods resounded, while the dove, Her murmurs interposing, tenderness Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts Of those who, severed wide from human kind, 340 Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed, Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon Arose—they saw it not—cheek was to cheek Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear Witnessed how blissful was that hour, that seemed Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss Stole on the listening silence; ne'er till now Here heard; they trembled, ev'n as if the Power That made the world, that planted the first pair In Paradise, amid the garden walked:— 350 This since the fairest garden that the world Has witnessed, by the fabling sons of Greece Hesperian named, who feigned the watchful guard Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit. Such was this sylvan Paradise; and here The loveliest pair, from a hard world remote, Upon each other's neck reclined; their breath Alone was heard, when the dove ceased on high Her plaint; and tenderly their faithful arms Infolded each the other. 360 Thou, dim cloud, That from the search of men these beauteous vales Hast closed, oh, doubly veil them! But alas, How short the dream of human transport! Here, In vain they built the leafy bower of love, Or culled the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit. The hours unheeded stole! but ah, not long— Again the hollow tempest of the night Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods resound; Slow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sail 370 Along the rocking of the windy waste Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss, Poor victims! never more shall ye behold Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child! Who, listening to the voice of love, hast left Thy friends, thy country,—oh, may the wan hue Of pining memory, the sunk cheek, the eye Where tenderness yet dwells, atone (if love Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong 380 Beset), atone ev'n now thy rash resolves! Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day, thy bloom Fades, and the tender lustre of thy eye Is dimmed: thy form, amid creation, seems The only drooping thing. Thy look was soft, And yet most animated, and thy step Light as the roe's upon the mountains. Now, Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree That fanned its joyous leaves above thy head, 390 Where love had decked the blooming bower, and strewn The sweets of summer: DEATH is on thy cheek, And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns Of him, who, agonised and hopeless, hangs With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the sight,— She faints—she dies!— He laid her in the earth, Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined, Placed the last tribute of his earthly love. 400

INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRAVE OF ANNA D'ARFET.

O'er my poor ANNA'S lowly grave No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring; But angels, as the high pines wave, Their half-heard "Miserere" sing.

No flowers of transient bloom at eve The maidens on the turf shall strew; Nor sigh, as the sad spot they leave, Sweets to the sweet! a long adieu!

But in this wilderness profound, O'er her the dove shall build her nest; 410 And ocean swell with softer sound A requiem to her dreams of rest!

Ah! when shall I as quiet be, When not a friend, or human eye, Shall mark beneath the mossy tree The spot where we forgotten lie!

To kiss her name on the cold stone, Is all that now on earth I crave; For in this world I am alone— Oh, lay me with her in the grave! 420

ROBERT A MACHIN, 1344.

Miserere nobis, Domine.

He placed the rude inscription on her stone, Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon Himself beside it sunk—yet ere he died, Faintly he spoke: If ever ye shall hear, Companions of my few and evil days, Again the convent's vesper bells, oh! think Of me; and if in after-times the search Of men should reach this far removed spot, Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine, And virgin choirs chaunt duly o'er our grave: 430 Peace, peace! His arm upon the mournful stone He dropped; his eyes, ere yet in death they closed, Turned to the name, till he could see no more ANNA. His pale survivors, earth to earth, Weeping consigned his poor remains, and placed Beneath the sod where all he loved was laid. Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods, They sought their country o'er the waves, and left Those scenes once more to deepest solitude. The beauteous ponciana hung its head 440 O'er the gray stone; but never human eye Had mark'd the spot, or gazed upon the grave Of the unfortunate, but for the voice Of ENTERPRISE, that spoke, from Sagre's towers, Through ocean's perils, storms, and unknown wastes— Speed we to Asia! Here, Discovery, pause!— Then from the tomb of him who first was cast Upon this Heaven-appointed isle, thy gaze Uplift, and far beyond the Cape of Storms 450 Pursue De Gama's tract. Mark the rich shores Of Madagascar, till the purple East Shines in luxuriant beauty wide disclosed. But cease thy song, presumptuous Muse!—a bard, In tones whose patriot sound shall never die, Has struck his deep shell, and the glorious theme Recorded. Say, what lofty meed awaits The triumph of his victor conch, that swells Its music on the yellow Tagus' side, 460 As when Arion, with his glittering harp And golden hair, scarce sullied from the main, Bids all the high rocks listen to his voice Again! Alas, I see an aged form, An old man worn by penury, his hair Blown white upon his haggard cheek, his hand Emaciated, yet the strings with thrilling touch Soliciting; but the vain crowds pass by: His very countrymen, whose fame his song Has raised to heaven, in stately apathy 470 Wrapped up, and nursed in pride's fastidious lap, Regard not. As he plays, a sable man Looks up, but fears to speak, and when the song Has ceased, kisses his master's feeble hand. Is that cold wasted hand, that haggard look, Thine, Camoens? Oh, shame upon the world! And is there none, none to sustain thee found, But he, himself unfriended, who so far Has followed, severed from his native isles, To scenes of gorgeous cities, o'er the sea, 480 Thee and thy broken fortunes! GOD of worlds! Oh, whilst I hail the triumph and high boast Of social life, let me not wrong the sense Of kindness, planted in the human heart By man's great Maker, therefore I record Antonio's faithful, gentle, generous love To his heartbroken master, that might teach, High as it bears itself, a polished world More charity. 490 DISCOVERY, turn thine eyes! COLUMBUS' toiling ship is on the deep, Stemming the mid Atlantic. Waste and wild The view! On the same sunshine o'er the waves The murmuring mariners, with languid eye, Ev'n till the heart is sick, gaze day by day! At midnight in the wind sad voices sound! When the slow morning o'er the offing dawns, Heartless they view the same drear weltering waste 500 Of seas: and when the sun again goes down Silent, hope dies within them, and they think Of parting friendship's last despairing look! See too, dread prodigy, the needle veers Her trembling point—will Heaven forsake them too! But lift thy sunk eye, and thy bloodless look, Despondence! Milder airs at morning breathe:— Below the slowly-parting prow the sea Is dark with weeds; and birds of land are seen To wing the desert tract, as hasting on 510 To the green valleys of their distant home. Yet morn succeeds to morn—and nought around Is seen, but dark weeds floating many a league, The sun's sole orb, and the pale hollowness Of heaven's high arch streaked with the early clouds. Watchman, what from the giddy mast? A shade Appears on the horizon's hazy line. Land! land! aloud is echoed; but the spot Fades as the shouting crew delighted gaze— 520 It fades, and there is nothing—nothing now But the blue sky, the clouds, and surging seas! As one who, in the desert, faint with thirst, Upon the trackless and forsaken sands Sinks dying; him the burning haze deceives, As mocking his last torments, while it seems, To his distempered vision, like th' expanse Of lucid waters cool: so falsely smiles Th' illusive land upon the water's edge, To the long-straining eye showing what seems 530 Its headlands and its distant trending shores;— But all is false, and like the pensive dream Of poor imagination, 'mid the waves Of troubled life, decked with unreal hues, And ending soon in emptiness and tears. 'Tis midnight, and the thoughtful chief, retired From the vexed crowd, in his still cabin hears The surge that rolls below; he lifts his eyes, And casts a silent anxious look without. It is a light—great God—it is a light! 540 It moves upon the shore!—Land—there is land! He spoke in secret, and a tear of joy Stole down his cheek, when on his knees he fell. Thou, who hast been his guardian in wastes Of the hoar deep, accept his tears, his prayers; While thus he fondly hopes the purer light Of thy great truths on the benighted world Shall beam! The lingering night is past;—the sun Shines out, while now the red-cross streamers wave 550 High up the gently-surging bay. From all Shouts, songs, and rapturous thanksgiving loud, Burst forth: Another world, entranced they cry, Another living world!—Awe-struck and mute The gazing natives stand, and drop their spears, In homage to the gods! So from the deep They hail emerging; sight more awful far Than ever yet the wondering voyager Greeted;—the prospect of a new-found world, 560 Now from the night of dark uncertainty At once revealed in living light! How beats The heart! What thronging thoughts awake! Whence sprung The roaming nations? From that ancient race That peopled Asia—Noah's sons? How, then, Passed they the long and lone expanse between Of stormy ocean, from the elder earth Cut off, and lost, for unknown ages, lost In the vast deep? But whilst the awful view 570 Stands in thy sight revealed, Spirit, awake To prouder energies! Even now, in thought, I see thee opening bold Magellan's tract![185] The straits are passed! Thou, as the seas expand, Pausest a moment, when beneath thine eye Blue, vast, and rocking, through its boundless rule, The long Pacific stretches. Nor here cease Thy search, but with De Quiros[186] to the South Still urge thy way, if yet some continent Stretch to its dusky pole, with nations spread, 580 Forests, and hills, and streams. So be thy search With ampler views rewarded, till, at length, Lo, the round world is compassed! Then return Back to the bosom of the tranquil Thames, And hail Britannia's victor ship,[187] that now From many a storm restored, winds its slow way Silently up the current, and so finds, Like to a time-worn pilgrim of the world, Rest, in that haven where all tempests cease. 590

[180] The Pharos was not erected by Alexander, but Alexandria is here supposed to be finished.

[181] Cape Bojador.

[182] John Gongalez Zarco was employed by Prince Henry to conduct the enterprise of discovery along the Western coast of Africa.

[183] Porto Santo.

[184] I have called the three islands of Madeiras the Hesperides, who, in ancient mythology, are the three daughters of Atlas; as I consider the orange-trees and mysterious shade, with the rocks discerned through it on a nearer approach, to be the best solution of the fable of the golden fruit, the dragon, and the three daughters of Atlas.

[185] Magellan's ship first circumnavigated the globe, passing through the straits, called by his name, into the South Sea, and proceeding West to the East Indies. He himself, like our revered Cooke, perished in the enterprise.

[186] De Quiros first discovered the New Hebrides, in the South Sea; afterwards explored by Cooke, who bears testimony to the accuracy of De Quiros. These islands were supposed part of a great continent stretching to the South pole, called Terra Australis incognita.

[187] Drake's ship, in which he sailed round the world; she was laid up at Deptford—hence Ben Johnson, in Every Man in his Humour, "O Coz, it cannot be altered, go not about it; Drake's old ship at Deptford may sooner circle the world again."

BOOK THE FIFTH.

Such are thy views, DISCOVERY! The great world Rolls to thine eye revealed; to thee the Deep Submits its awful empire; Industry Awakes, and Commerce to the echoing marts From east to west unwearied pours her wealth. Man walks sublimer; and Humanity, Matured by social intercourse, more high, More animated, lifts her sovereign mien, And waves her golden sceptre. Yet the heart Asks trembling, is no evil found! Oh, turn, 10 Meek Charity, and drop a human tear For the sad fate of Afric's injured sons, And hide, for ever hide, the sight of chains, Anguish, and bondage! Yes, the heart of man Is sick, and Charity turns pale, to think How soon, for pure religion's holy beam, Dark crimes, that sullied the sweet day, pursued, Like vultures, the Discoverer's ocean tract, Screaming for blood, to fields of rich Peru, Or ravaged Mexico, while Gold more Gold! 20 The caverned mountains echoed, Gold more Gold! Then see the fell-eyed, prowling buccaneer, Grim as a libbard! He his jealous look Turns to the dagger at his belt, his hand By instinct grasps a bloody scymitar, And ghastly is his smile, as o'er the woods He sees the smoke of burning villages Ascend, and thinks ev'n now he counts his spoil. See thousands destined to the lurid mine, Never to see the sun again; all names 30 Of husband, sire, all tender charities Of love, deep buried with them in that grave, Where life is as a thing long passed; and hope No more its sickly ray, to cheer the gloom, Extends. Thou, too, dread Ocean, toss thine arms, Exulting, for the treasures and the gems That thy dark oozy realm emblaze; and call The pale procession of the dead, from caves Where late their bodies weltered, to attend 40 Thy kingly sceptre, and proclaim thy might! Lord of the Hurricane! bid all thy winds Swell, and destruction ride upon the surge, Where, after the red lightning flash that shows The labouring ship, all is at once deep night And long suspense, till the slow dawn of day Gleams on the scattered corses of the dead, That strew the sounding shore! Then think of him, Ye who rejoice with those you love, at eve, 50 When winds of winter shake the window-frame, And more endear your fire, oh, think of him, Who, saved alone from the destroying storm, Is cast on some deserted rock; who sees Sun after sun descend, and hopeless hears; At morn the long surge of the troubled main, That beats without his wretched cave; meantime He fears to wake the echoes with his voice, So dread the solitude! Let Greenland's snows 60 Then shine, and mark the melancholy train There left to perish, whilst the cold pale day Declines along the further ice, that binds The ship, and leaves in night the sinking scene. Sad winter closes on the deep; the smoke Of frost, that late amusive to the eye Rose o'er the coast, is passed, and all is now One torpid blank; the freezing particles Blown blistering, and the white bear seeks her cave. Ill-fated outcasts, when the morn again 70 Shall streak with feeble beam the frozen waste, Your air-bleached and unburied carcases Shall press the ground, and, as the stars fade off, Your stony eyes glare 'mid the desert snows! These triumphs boast, fell Demon of the Deep! Though never more the universal shriek Of all that perish thou shalt hear, as when The deep foundations of the guilty earth Were shaken at the voice of God, and man Ceased in his habitations; yet the sea 80 Thy might tempestuous still, and joyless rule, Confesses. Ah! what bloodless shadows throng Ev'n now, slow rising from their oozy beds, From Mete,[188] and those gates of burial That guard the Erythraean; from the vast Unfathomed caverns of the Western main Or stormy Orcades; whilst the sad shell Of poor Arion,[189] to the hollow blast Slow seems to pour its melancholy tones, And faintly vibrate, as the dead pass by. 90 I see the chiefs, who fell in distant lands, The prey of murderous savages, when yells, And shouts, and conch, resounded through the woods. Magellan and De Solis seem to lead The mournful train. Shade of Perouse! oh, say Where, in the tract of unknown seas, thy bones Th' insulting surge has swept? But who is he, Whose look, though pale and bloody, wears the trace Of pure philanthropy? The pitying sigh 100 Forbid not; he was dear to Britons, dear To every beating heart, far as the world Extends; and my faint faltering touch ev'n now Dies on the strings, when I pronounce thy name, Oh, lost, lamented, generous, hapless Cook! But cease the vain complaint; turn from the shores, Wet with his blood, Remembrance: cast thine eyes Upon the long seas, and the wider world, Displayed from his research. Smile, glowing Health! For now no more the wasted seaman sinks, 110 With haggard eye and feeble frame diseased; No more with tortured longings for the sight Of fields and hillocks green, madly he calls On Nature, when before his swimming eye The liquid long expanse of cheerless seas Seems all one flowery plain. Then frantic dreams Arise; his eye's distemper'd flash is seen From the sunk socket, as a demon there Sat mocking, till he plunges in the flood, And the dark wave goes o'er him. 120 Nor wilt thou, O Science! fail to deck the cold morai[190] Of him who wider o'er earth's hemisphere Thy views extended. On, from deep to deep, Thou shalt retrace the windings of his track; From the high North to where the field-ice binds The still Antarctic. Thence, from isle to isle, Thou shalt pursue his progress; and explore New-Holland's eastern shores,[191] where now the sons Of distant Britain, from her lap cast out, 130 Water the ground with tears of penitence, Perhaps, hereafter, in their destined time, Themselves to rise pre-eminent. Now speed, By Asia's eastern bounds, still to the North, Where the vast continents of either world Approach: Beyond, 'tis silent boundless ice, Impenetrable barrier, where all thought Is lost; where never yet the eagle flew, Nor roamed so far the white bear through the waste. But thou, dread POWER! whose voice from chaos called 140 The earth, who bad'st the Lord of light go forth, Ev'n as a giant, and the sounding seas Roll at thy fiat: may the dark deep clouds, That thy pavilion shroud from mortal sight, So pass away, as now the mystery, Obscure through rolling ages, is disclosed; How man, from one great Father sprung, his race Spread to that severed continent! Ev'n so, FATHER, in thy good time, shall all things stand Revealed to knowledge. 150 As the mind revolves The change of mighty empires, and the fate Of HIM whom Thou hast made, back through the dusk Of ages Contemplation turns her view: We mark, as from its infancy, the world Peopled again, from that mysterious shrine That rested on the top of Ararat, Highest of Asian mountains; spreading on, The Cushites from their mountain caves descend; Then before GOD the sons of Ammon stood 160 In their gigantic might, and first the seas Vanquished: But still from clime to clime the groan Of sacrifice, and Superstition's cry, Was heard; but when the Dayspring rose of heaven, Greece's hoar forests echoed, The great Pan Is dead! From Egypt, and the rugged shores Of Syrian Tyre, the gods of darkness fly; Bel is cast down, and Nebo, horrid king, Bows in imperial Babylon: But, ah! Too soon, the Star of Bethlehem, whose ray 170 The host of heaven hailed jubilant, and sang, Glory to God on high, and on earth peace, With long eclipse is veiled. Red Papacy Usurped the meek dominion of the Lord Of love and charity: vast as a fiend She rose, Heaven's light was darkened with her frown, And the earth murmured back her hymns of blood, As the meek martyr at the burning stake Stood, his last look uplifted to his GOD! 180 But she is now cast down, her empire reft. They who in darkness walked, and in the shade Of death, have seen a new and holy light, As in th' umbrageous forest, through whose boughs, Mossy and damp, for many a league, the morn With languid beam scarce pierces, here and there Touching some solitary trunk, the rest Dark waving in the noxious atmosphere: Through the thick-matted leaves the serpent winds His way, to find a spot of casual sun; 190 The gaunt hyaena through the thicket glides At eve: then, too, the couched tiger's eye Flames in the dusk, and oft the gnashing jaws Of the fell crocodile are heard. At length, By man's superior energy and toil, The sunless brakes are cleared; the joyous morn Shines through the opening leaves; rich culture smiles Around; and howling to their distant wilds The savage inmates of the wood retire. Such is the scene of human life, till want 200 Bids man his strength put forth; then slowly spreads The cultured stream of mild humanity, And gentler virtues, and more noble aims Employ the active mind, till beauty beams Around, and Nature wears her richest robe, Adorned with lovelier graces. Then the charms Of woman, fairest of the works of Heaven, Whom the cold savage, in his sullen pride, Scorned as unworthy of his equal love, With more attractive influence wins the heart 210 Of her protector. Then the names of sire, Of home, of brother, and of children, grow More sacred, more endearing; whilst the eye, Lifted beyond this earthly scene, beholds A Father who looks down from heaven on all! O Britain, my loved country! dost thou rise Most high among the nations! Do thy fleets Ride o'er the surge of ocean, that subdued Rolls in long sweep beneath them! Dost thou wear Thy garb of gentler morals gracefully! 220 Is widest science thine, and the fair train Of lovelier arts! While commerce throngs thy ports With her ten thousand streamers, is the tract Of the undeviating ploughshare white That rips the reeking furrow, followed soon By plenty, bidding all the scene rejoice, Even like a cultured garden! Do the streams That steal along thy peaceful vales, reflect Temples, and Attic domes, and village towers! Is beauty thine, fairest of earthly things, 230 Woman; and doth she gain that liberal love And homage, which the meekness of her voice, The rapture of her smile, commanding most When she seems weakest, must demand from him, Her master; whose stern strength at once submits In manly, but endearing, confidence, Unlike his selfish tyranny who sits The sultan of his harem! Oh, then, think How great the blessing, and how high thy rank 240 Amid the civilised and social world! But hast thou no deep failings, that may turn Thy thoughts within thyself! Ask, for the sun That shines in heaven hath seen it, hath thy power Ne'er scattered sorrow over distant lands! Ask of the East, have never thy proud sails Borne plunder from dismembered provinces, Leaving the groans of miserable men Behind! And free thyself, and lifting high The charter of thy freedom, bought with blood, 250 Hast thou not stood, in patient apathy, A witness of the tortures and the chains That Afric's injured sons have known! Stand up; Yes, thou hast visited the caves, and cheered The gloomy haunts of sorrow; thou hast shed A beam of comfort and of righteousness On isles remote; hast bid the bread-fruit shade Th' Hesperian regions, and has softened much With bland amelioration, and with charms Of social sweetness, the hard lot of man. 260 But weighed in truth's firm balance, ask, if all Be even. Do not crimes of ranker growth Batten amid thy cities, whose loud din, From flashing and contending cars, ascends, Till morn! Enchanting, as if aught so sweet Ne'er faded, do thy daughters wear the weeds Of calm domestic peace and wedded love; Or turn, with beautiful disdain, to dash Gay pleasure's poisoned chalice from their lips Untasted! Hath not sullen atheism, 270 Weaving gay flowers of poesy, so sought To hide the darkness of his withered brow With faded and fantastic gallantry Of roses, thus to win the thoughtless smile Of youthful ignorance! Hast thou with awe Looked up to Him whose power is in the clouds, Who bids the storm rush, and it sweeps to earth The nations that offend, and they are gone, Like Tyre and Babylon! Well weigh thyself: Then shalt thou rise undaunted in the might 280 Of thy Protector, and the gathered hate Of hostile bands shall be but as the sand Blown on the everlasting pyramid. Hasten, O Love and Charity! your work, Ev'n now whilst it is day; far as the world Extends may your divinest influence Be felt, and more than felt, to teach mankind They all are brothers, and to drown the cries Of superstition, anarchy, or blood! Not yet the hour is come: on Ganges' banks 290 Still superstition hails the flame of death, Behold, gay dressed, as in her bridal tire, The self-devoted beauteous victim slow Ascend the pile where her dead husband lies: She kisses his cold cheeks, inclines her breast On his, and lights herself the fatal pile That shall consume them both! On Egypt's shore, Where Science rose, now Sloth and Ignorance Sleep like the huge Behemoth in the sun! 300 The turbaned Moor still stains with strangers' blood The inmost sands of Afric. But all these The light shall visit, and that vaster tract From Fuego to the furthest Labrador, Where roam the outcast Esquimaux, shall hear The voice of social fellowship; the chief Whose hatchet flashed amid the forest gloom, Who to his infants bore the bleeding scalp Of his fall'n foe, shall weep unwonted tears! Come, Faith; come, Hope; come, meek-eyed Charity! 310 Complete the lovely prospect: every land Shall lift up one hosannah; every tongue Proclaim thee FATHER, INFINITE, and WISE, And GOOD. The shores of palmy Senegal (Sad Afric's injured sons no more enslaved) Shall answer HALLELUJAH, for the LORD Of truth and mercy reigns;—reigns KING OF KINGS;— HOSANNAH—KING OF KINGS—and LORD OF LORDS! So may His kingdom come, when all the earth, Uniting thus as in one hymn of praise, 320 Shall wait the end of all things. This great globe, His awful plan accomplished, then shall sink In flames, whilst through the clouds, that wrap the place Where it had rolled, and the sun shone, the voice Of the ARCHANGEL, and the TRUMP OF GOD, Amid heaven's darkness rolling fast away, Shall sound! Then shall the sea give up its dead;— But man's immortal mind, all trials past That shook his feverish frame, amidst the scenes 330 Of peril and distemper, shall ascend Exulting to its destined seat of rest, And "justify His ways" from whom it sprung.

[188] Mete, in the Arabic, according to Bruce, signifies "the place of burial." The entrance of the Red Sea was so called, from the dangers of the navigation. See Bruce.

[189] Alluding to the pathetic poem of the Shipwreck, whose author, Falconer, described himself under the name of Arion, and who was afterwards lost in the "Aurora."

[190] "Morai" is a grave.

[191] Botany Bay.



THE MISSIONARY.

Amor patriae ratione potentior omni.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.[192]

It is not necessary to relate the causes which induced me to publish this poem without a name.

The favour with which it has been received may make me less diffident in avowing it; and, as a second edition has been generally called for, I have endeavoured to make it, in every respect, less unworthy of the public eye.

I have availed myself of every sensible objection, the most material of which was the circumstance, that the Indian maid, described in the first book, had not a part assigned to her of sufficient interest in the subsequent events of the poem, and that the character of the Missionary was not sufficiently professional.

The single circumstance that a Spanish commander, with his army in South America, was destroyed by the Indians, in consequence of the treachery of his page, who was a native, and that only a priest was saved, is all that has been taken from history. The rest of this poem, the personages, father, daughter, wife, et cet. (with the exception of the names of Indian warriors) is imaginary. The time is two months. The first four books include as many days and nights. The rest of the time is occupied by the Spaniards' march, the assembly of warriors, et cet.

The place in which the scene is laid, was selected because South America has of late years received additional interest, and because the ground was at once new, poetical, and picturesque.

From old-fashioned feelings, perhaps, I have admitted some aerial agents, or what is called machinery. It is true that the spirits cannot be said to accelerate or retard the events; but surely they may be allowed to show a sympathy with the fate of those, among whom poetical fancy has given them a prescriptive ideal existence. They may be further excused, as relieving the narrative, and adding to the imagery.

The causes which induced me to publish this poem without a name, induced me also to attempt it in a versification to which I have been least accustomed, which, to my ear, is most uncongenial, and which is, in itself, most difficult. I mention this, in order that, if some passages should be found less harmonious than they might have been, the candour of the reader may pardon them.

Scene—SOUTH AMERICA.

Characters.—Valdivia, commander of the Spanish armies—Lautaro, his page, a native of Chili—Anselmo, the missionary—Indiana, his adopted daughter, wife of Lautaro—Zarinel, the wandering minstrel.

Indians.—Attacapac, father of Lautaro—Olola, his daughter, sister of Lautaro—Caupolican, chief of the Indians—Indian warriors.

The chief event of the poem turns upon the conduct of Lautaro; but as the Missionary acts so distinguished a part, and as the whole of the moral depends upon him, it was thought better to retain the title which was originally given to the poem.

[192] Dedicated to the Marquis of Lansdowne.



THE MISSIONARY.

INTRODUCTION.

When o'er the Atlantic wild, rocked by the blast, Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign passed, Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throne Cast forth, and wandering to a clime unknown, To seek a refuge on that distant shore, That once her country's legions dyed with gore;— Sudden, methought, high towering o'er the flood, Hesperian world! thy mighty genius stood; Where spread, from cape to cape, from bay to bay, Serenely blue, the vast Pacific lay; 10 And the huge Cordilleras to the skies With all their burning summits seemed to rise. Then the stern spirit spoke, and to his voice The waves and woods replied:—Mountains, rejoice! Thou solitary sea, whose billows sweep The margin of my forests, dark and deep, Rejoice! the hour is come: the mortal blow, That smote the golden shrines of Mexico, In Europe is avenged; and thou, proud Spain, Now hostile hosts insult thy own domain; 20 Now Fate, vindictive, rolls, with refluent flood, Back on thy shores the tide of human blood, Think of my murdered millions! of the cries That once I heard from all my kingdoms rise; Of Famine's feeble plaint, of Slavery's tear;— Think, too, if Valour, Freedom, Fame, be dear, How my Antarctic sons, undaunted, stood, Exacting groan for groan, and blood for blood; And shouted, (may the sounds be hailed by thee!) Tyrants, the virtuous and the brave are free! 30

CANTO FIRST.

ARGUMENT.

One Day and Part of Night.

Valley in the Andes—Old Indian warrior—Loss of his son and daughter.

Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes: high overhead, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires, And Chillan[193] trailed its smoke and smouldering fires. A glen beneath, a lonely spot of rest, Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest. Summer was in its prime;—the parrot-flocks Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks; 10 The chrysomel[194] and purple butterfly,[195] Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers, With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flowers, The woodpecker is heard with busy bill, The mock-bird sings—and all beside is still, And look! the cataract that bursts so high, As not to mar the deep tranquillity, The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends; 20 Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. Chequering, with partial shade, the beams of noon, And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, Here its gay net-work, and fantastic twine, The purple cogul[196] threads from pine to pine, And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. There, through the trunks with moss and lichens white, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, 30 And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes, With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes. So smiles the scene;—but can its smiles impart Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart? He heeds not now, when beautifully bright, The humming-bird is circling in his sight; Nor ev'n, above his head, when air is still, Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill; But gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, Rock after rock, in glittering masses piled 40 To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high Gray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky, He cries, Oh! if thy spirit yet be fled To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead,— In yonder tract of purest light above, Dear long-lost object of a father's love, Dost thou abide; or like a shadow come, Circling the scenes of thy remembered home, And passing with the breeze, or, in the beam Of evening, light the desert mountain stream! 50 Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard, In the sad notes of that melodious bird,[197] Which, as we listen with mysterious dread, Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead? Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away, Thine eyes yet view the living light of day; Sad, in the stranger's land, thou may'st sustain A weary life of servitude and pain, With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam, And think of these white rocks and torrent stream, 60 Never to hear the summer cocoa wave, Or weep upon thy father's distant grave. Ye, who have waked, and listened with a tear, When cries confused, and clangours rolled more near; With murmured prayer, when Mercy stood aghast, As War's black trump pealed its terrific blast, And o'er the withered earth the armed giant passed! Ye, who his track with terror have pursued, When some delightful land, all blood-imbrued, He swept; where silent is the champaign wide, 70 That echoed to the pipe of yester-tide, Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong The last deep echoes of his parting gong; Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot Where trailed the smoke of many a peaceful cot, Save livid corses that unburied lie, And conflagrations, reeking to the sky;— Come listen, whilst the causes I relate That bowed the warrior to the storms of fate, And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate. 80 In other days, when, in his manly pride, Two children for a father's fondness vied,— Oft they essayed, in mimic strife, to wield His lance, or laughing peeped behind his shield; Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade, Lightsome of heart as gay of look they played, Brother and sister. She, along the dew, Blithe as the squirrel of the forest flew; Blue rushes wreathed her head; her dark-brown hair Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare; 90 Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made, That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade. Light was her form; a clasp of silver braced The azure-dyed ichella[198] round her waist; Her ancles rung with shells, as unconfined She danced, and sung wild carols to the wind. With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye, So beautiful in youth she bounded by. Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland,— The tame alpaca[199] stood and licked her hand; 100 She brought him gathered moss, and loved to deck With flowery twine his tall and stately neck, Whilst he with silent gratitude replies, And bends to her caress his large blue eyes. These children danced together in the shade, Or stretched their hands to see the rainbow fade; Or sat and mocked, with imitative glee, The paroquet, that laughed from tree to tree; Or through the forest's wildest solitude, From glen to glen, the marmozet pursued; 110 And thought the light of parting day too short, That called them, lingering, from their daily sport. In that fair season of awakening life, When dawning youth and childhood are at strife; When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands Tiptoe, with glistening eye and outspread hands; With airy look, and form and footsteps light, And glossy locks, and features berry-bright, And eye like the young eaglet's, to the ray Of noon unblenching as he sails away; 120 A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung, A small stone-hatchet o'er his shoulder slung, With slender lance, and feathers blue and red, That, like the heron's[200] crest, waved on his head,— Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy, Lautaro was a graceful Indian boy: Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow, Or tracked the jagguar on the morning snow; Startled the condor, on the craggy height; Then silent sat, and marked its upward flight, 130 Lessening in ether to a speck of white. But when the impassioned chieftain spoke of war, Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar,— Spoke of the strangers of the distant main, And the proud banners of insulting Spain,— Of the barbed horse and iron horseman spoke, And his red gods, that, wrapped in rolling smoke, Roared from the guns;—the boy, with still-drawn breath, Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death; Then raised his animated eyes, and cried, 140 Oh, let me perish by my father's side! Once, when the moon, o'er Chillan's cloudless height, Poured, far and wide, its softest, mildest light, A predatory band of mailed men Burst on the stillness of the sheltered glen: They shouted, Death! and shook their sabres high, That shone terrific to the moonlight sky; Where'er they rode, the valley and the hill Echoed the shrieks of death, till all again was still. The warrior, ere he sank in slumber deep, 150 Had kissed his son, soft-breathing in his sleep, Where on a Llama's skin he lay, and said, Placing his hand, with tears, upon his head, Aerial nymphs![201] that in the moonlight stray, O gentle spirits! here awhile delay; Bless, as ye pass unseen, my sleeping boy, Till blithe he wakes to daylight and to joy. If the GREAT SPIRIT will, in future days, O'er the fall'n foe his hatchet he shall raise, And, 'mid a grateful nation's high applause, 160 Avenge his violated country's cause! Now, nearer points of spears, and many a cone Of moving helmets, in the moonlight shone, As, clanking through the pass, the band of blood Sprang, like hyaenas, from the secret wood. They rush, they seize their unresisting prey, Ruthless they tear the shrieking boy away; But, not till gashed by many a sabre wound, The father sank, expiring, on the ground. He waked from the dark trance to life and pain, 170 But never saw his darling child again. Seven snows had fallen, and seven green summers passed, Since here he heard that son's loved accents last. Still his beloved daughter soothed his cares, Whilst time began to strew with white his hairs. Oft as his painted feathers he unbound, Or gazed upon his hatchet on the ground, Musing with deep despair, nor strove to speak, Light she approached, and climbed to reach his cheek, Held with both hands his forehead, then her head 180 Drew smiling back, and kissed the tear he shed. But late, to grief and hopeless love a prey, She left his side, and wandered far away. Now in this still and shelter'd glen, that smiled Beneath the crags of precipices wild, Wrapt in a stern yet sorrowful repose, The warrior half forgot his country's woes; Forgot how many, impotent to save, Shed their best blood upon a father's grave; How many, torn from wife and children, pine 190 In the dark caverns of the hopeless mine, Never to see again the blessed morn;— Slaves in the lovely land where they were born; How many at sad sunset, with a tear, The distant roar of sullen cannons hear, Whilst evening seems, as dies the sound, to throw A deadlier stillness on a nation's woe! So the dark warrior, day succeeding day, Wore in distempered thought the noons away; And still, when weary evening came, he sighed, 200 My son, my son! or, with emotion, cried, When I descend to the cold grave alone, Who shall be there to mourn for me?—Not one![202] The crimson orb of day now westering flung His beams, and o'er the vast Pacific hung; When from afar a shrilling sound was heard, And, hurrying o'er the dews, a scout appeared. The watchful warrior knew the piercing tones, The signal-call of war, from human bones,— What tidings? with impatient look, he cried. 210 Tidings of war, the hurrying scout replied; Then the sharp pipe[203] with shriller summons blew, And held the blood-red arrow high in view.[204]

CHIEF.

Where speed the foes?

INDIAN.

Along the southern main, Have passed the vultures of accursed Spain.

CHIEF.

Ruin pursue them on the distant flood, And be their deadly portion—blood for blood!

INDIAN.

When, round and red, the moon shall next arise, The chiefs attend the midnight sacrifice 220 In Encol's wood, where the great wizard dwells, Who wakes the dead man by his thrilling spells; Thee,[205] Ulmen of the Mountains, they command To lift the hatchet for thy native land; Whilst in dread circle, round the sere-wood smoke, The mighty gods of vengeance they invoke; And call the spirits of their fathers slain, To nerve their lifted arm, and curse devoted Spain. So spoke the scout of war;—and o'er the dew, Onward along the craggy valley, flew. 230 Then the stern warrior sang his song of death— And blew his conch, that all the glens beneath Echoed, and rushing from the hollow wood, Soon at his side three hundred warriors stood.

WARRIOR.

Children, who for his country dares to die?

Three hundred brandished spears shone to the sky: We perish, or we leave our country free; Father, our blood for Chili and for thee! The mountain-chief essayed his club to wield, And shook the dust indignant from the shield. 240 Then spoke:—

O Thou! that with thy lingering light Dost warm the world, till all is hushed in night; I look upon thy parting beams, O sun! And say, ev'n thus my course is almost run. When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave, And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave, Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire, Below the deep, to unknown worlds of fire! Yet though thou sinkest, awful, in the main, 250 The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train Of stars, that shine with soft and silent light, Making so beautiful the brow of night. Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed, The light of after-fame around shall spread; The sons of distant Ocean, when they see The grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree, And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave, Shall pause and say, There sleep in dust the brave! All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled! 260 Stern Guecubu,[206] angel of the dead, Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire; Whose dwelling is beneath the central fire Of yonder burning mountain; who hast passed O'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blast Scattered my summer-leaves that clustered round, And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground; Angel of dire despair, oh! come not nigh, Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie; But thou, O mild and gentle spirit! stand, 270 Angel[207] of hope and peace, at my right hand, (When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guide My pathless voyage o'er the unknown tide, To scenes of endless joy, to that fair isle, Where bowers of bliss, and soft savannahs smile: Where my forefathers oft the fight renew, And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue; Where, ceased the struggles of all human pain, I may behold thee—thee, my son, again! He spoke, and whilst at evening's glimmering close 280 The distant mist, like the gray ocean, rose, With patriot sorrows swelling at his breast, He sank upon a jagguar's hide to rest. 'Twas night: remote on Caracalla's bay, Valdivia's army, hushed in slumber, lay. Around the limits of the silent camp, Alone was heard the steed's patroling tramp From line to line, whilst the fixed sentinel Proclaimed the watch of midnight—All is well! Valdivia dreamed of millions yet untold, 290 Villrica's gems, and El Dorado's gold! What different feelings, by the scene impressed, Rose in sad tumult o'er Lautaro's breast! On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept, Thoughtful he turned his waking eyes, and wept, And whilst the thronging forms of memory start, Thus holds communion with his lonely heart: Land of my fathers, still I tread your shore, And mourn the shade of hours that are no more; Whilst night-airs, like remembered voices, sweep, 300 And murmur from the undulating deep. Was it thy voice, my father! Thou art dead, The green rush waves on thy forsaken bed. Was it thy voice, my sister! Gentle maid, Thou too, perhaps, in the dark cave art laid; Perhaps, even now, thy spirit sees me stand A homeless stranger in my native land; Perhaps, even now, along the moonlight sea, It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me! Land of my fathers! yet, oh yet forgive, 310 That with thy deadly enemies I live: The tenderest ties (it boots not to relate) Have bound me to their service, and their fate; Yet, whether on Peru's war-wasted plain, Or visiting these sacred shores again, Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be, Land of my fathers, it shall beat for thee!

[193] A volcano in Chili.

[194] The chrysomela is a beautiful insect of which the young women of Chili make necklaces.

[195] The parrot butterfly, peculiar to this part of America, the largest and most brilliant of its kind.—Papilio psittacus.

[196] A most beautiful climbing plant. The vine is of the size of packthread: it climbs on the trees without attaching itself to them: when it reaches the top, it descends perpendicularly; and as it continues to grow, it extends itself from tree to tree, until it offers to the eye a confused tissue, exhibiting some resemblance to the rigging of a ship.—Molina.

[197] I chanced once to lodge in a village named Upec by the Frenchmen: there, in the night, I heard those birds, not singing, but making a lamentable noise. I saw the barbarians most attentive, and, being ignorant of the whole matter, reproved their folly. But when I smiled a little upon a Frenchman standing by me, a certain old man, severely enough, restrained me with these words: "Hold your peace, lest you hinder us who attentively hearken to the happy tidings of our ancestors; for as often as we hear these birds, so often also are we cheered, and our strength receiveth increase."—Callender's Voyage.

[198] The ichella is a short cloak, of a greenish-blue colour, of wool, fastened before with a silver buckle.—Molina.

[199] The alpaca is perhaps the most beautiful, gentle, and interesting of living animals: one was to be seen in London in 1812.

[200] Ardea cristata.

[201] Every warrior of Chili, according to Molina, has his attendant "nymph" or fairy—the belief in which is nearly similar to the popular and poetical idea of those beings in Europe. Meulen is the benevolent spirit.

[202] I have taken this line from the conclusion of the celebrated speech of the old North American warrior, Logan, "Who is there to mourn for Logan?—not one!"

[203] Their pipes of war are made of the bones of their enemies, who have been sacrificed.

[204] The way in which the warriors are summoned, is something like the "running the cross" in Scotland, which is so beautifully described by Walter Scott. The scouts on this occasion bear an arrow bound with red fillets.

[205] Ulmen is the same as Casique, or chief.

[206] Guecubu{h} is the evil spirit of the Chilians.

[207] They have their evil and good spirits.

CANTO SECOND.

ARGUMENT.

The Second Day.

Night—Spirit of the Andes—Valdivia—Lautaro—Missionary—The Hermitage.

The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows, Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,— A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone, Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone; And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke, Thus to the spirits of the fire he spoke:—

Ye, who tread the hidden deeps, Where the silent earthquake sleeps; Ye, who track the sulphurous tide, Or on hissing vapours ride,— 10 Spirits, come! From worlds of subterraneous night; From fiery realms of lurid light; From the ore's unfathomed bed; From the lava's whirlpools red,— Spirits, come! On Chili's foes rush with vindictive sway, And sweep them from the light of living day! Heard ye not the ravenous brood, That flap their wings, and scream for blood? 20 On Peru's devoted shore Their murderous beaks are red with gore; Yet here, impatient for new prey, The insatiate vultures track their way. Let them perish! they, whose bands Swept remote and peaceful lands! Let them perish!—on their head, Descend the darkness of the dead! Spirits, now your caves forsake: Hark! ten thousand warriors wake!— 30 Spirits, their high cause defend!— From your caves ascend! ascend!

As thus the Genius of the Andes spoke, The trembling mountain heaved with darker smoke; Lightnings, and phantom-forms, by fits appeared; His mighty voice far off Osorno heard; The caverned deeps shook through their vast profound, And Chimborazzo's height rolled back the sound. With lifted arm, and towering stature high, And aspect frowning to the middle sky 40 (Its misty form dilated in the wind), The phantom stood,—till, less and less defined, Into thin air it faded from the sight, Lost in the ambient haze of slow-returning light. Its feathery-seeming crown, its giant spear, Its limbs of huge proportion, disappear; And the bare mountains to the dawn disclose The same long line of solitary snows. The morning shines, the military train Streams far and wide along the tented plain; 50 And plaited cuirasses, and helms of steel, Throw back the sunbeams, as the horsemen wheel: Thus, with arms glancing to the eastern light, Pass, in review, proud steeds and cohorts bright; For all the host, by break of morrow's gray, Wind back their march to Penco's northern bay, Valdivia, fearful lest confederate foes, Ambushed and dark, his progress might oppose, Marshals to-day the whole collected force, File and artillery, cuirassier and horse: 60 Himself yet lingers ere he joins the train, That moves, in ordered march, along the plain, While troops, and Indian slaves beneath his eye, The labours of the rising city ply:[208] Wide glows the general toil; the mole extends, The watch-tower o'er the desert surge ascends; And battlements, and rising ramparts, shine Above the ocean's blue and level line. The sun ascended to meridian height, And all the northern bastions shone in light; 70 With hoarse acclaim, the gong and trumpet rung, The Moorish slaves aloft their cymbals swung, When the proud victor, in triumphant state, Rode forth, in arms, through the portcullis' gate. With neck high-arching as he smote the ground, And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound,— With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders spread, And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,— The coal-black steed, in rich caparison Far trailing to the ground, went proudly on. 80 Proudly he tramped, as conscious of his charge, And turned around his eye-balls, bright and large, And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain; And tossed the flakes, indignant, off his mane; And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressed Proudly against the barb his heaving breast. The fate of empires glowing in his thought, Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought. On the left side his poised shield he bore, With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er; 90 Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone, Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone; Blue in the wind the escutcheoned mantle flowed, O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode. The barred vizor raised, you might discern His clime-changed countenance,[209] though pale, yet stern, And resolute as death,—whilst in his eye Sat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory. Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride, Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side, 100 In Spanish mantle gracefully arrayed; Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played: His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace, Shaded the noonday sunbeams on his face. Though passed in tears the dayspring of his youth, Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth: He, in Valdivia, owned a nobler friend; Kind to protect, and mighty to defend. So, on he rode; upon his youthful mien A mild but sad intelligence was seen; 110 Courage was on his open brow, yet care Seemed like a wandering shade to linger there; And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright, It beamed with humid, melancholy light When now Valdivia saw the embattled line, Helmets, and swords, and shields, and matchlocks, shine; Now the long phalanx still and steady stand, Fixed every eye, and motionless each hand; Then slowly clustering, into columns wheel, Each with the red-cross banners of Castile; 120 While trumps, and drums, and cymbals, to his ear Made music such as soldiers love to hear; While horsemen checked their steeds, or, bending low With levelled lances, o'er the saddle-bow, Rode gallantly at tilt; and thunders broke, Instant involving van and rear in smoke, Till winds the obscuring volume rolled away, And the red file, stretched out in long array, More radiant moved beneath the beams of day; While ensigns, arms, and crosses, glittered bright,— 130 Philip![210] he cried, seest thou the glorious sight? And dost thou deem the tribes of this poor land Can men, and arms, and steeds, like these, withstand? Forgive!—the youth replied, and checked a tear,— The land where my forefathers sleep is dear!— My native land!—this spot of blessed earth, The scene where I, and all I love, had birth! What gratitude fidelity can give Is yours, my lord!—you shielded—bade me live, When, in the circuit of the world so wide, 140 I had but one, one only friend beside. I bowed resigned to fate; I kissed the hand, Red with the best blood of my father's land![211] But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know, Though Cortes' desolating march laid low The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico; With carcases, though proud Pizarro strew The Sun's imperial temple in Peru, Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave, And the last spot they lose will be their grave! 150 A moment's crimson crossed Valdivia's cheek— Then o'er the plain he spurred, nor deigned to speak, Waving the youth, at distance, to retire; None saw the eye that shot terrific fire. As their commander sternly rode along, Troop after troop, halted the martial throng; And all the pennoned trumps a louder blast Blew, as the Southern World's great victor passed. Lautaro turned, scarce heeding, from the view, And from the noise of trumps and drums withdrew; 160 And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell, Seeks the gray Missionary's humble cell. Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken Of public view, and sounds of murmuring men, Of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood, A small and rustic oratory stood; Upon its roof of reeds appeared a cross, The porch within was lined with mantling moss; A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side— One to admonish seemed, and one to guide; 170 This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er; And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more. O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray, The clustering copu weaved its trellis gay; Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove Their aged and fantastic arms above. In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers, A dial counted the departing hours, On which the sweetest light of summer shone,— A rude and brief inscription marked the stone: 180 To count, with passing shade, the hours, I placed the dial 'mid the flowers; That, one by one, came forth, and died, Blooming, and withering, round its side. Mortal, let the sight impart Its pensive moral to thy heart! Just heard to trickle through a covert near, And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, A fount, like rain-drops, filtered through the stone, And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. 190 Intent his fairy pastime to pursue, And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue, The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song Heedlessly murmured, all the summer long; And when the winter came, retired to rest, And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest. No sounds of a conflicting world were near; The noise of ocean faintly met the ear, That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast, But dying sounds of passions that were past; 200 Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire The lessening echoes of the distant choir. Here, every human sorrow hushed to rest, His pale hands meekly crossed upon his breast, Anselmo sat: the sun, with westering ray, Just touched his temples, and his locks of gray. There was no worldly feeling in his eye; The world to him was "as a thing gone by." Now, all his features lit, he raised his look, Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasped the book; 210 And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand, A tame opossum[212] licked his withered hand. That sweetest light of slow-declining day, Which through the trellis poured its slanting ray, Resting a moment on his few gray hairs, Seemed light from heaven sent down to bless his prayers. When the trump echoed to the quiet spot, He thought upon the world, but mourned it not; Enough if his meek wisdom could control, And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul; 220 Enough, if, while these distant scenes he trod, He led one erring Indian to his God. Whence comes my son? with kind complacent look He asked, and closed again the embossed book. I come to thee for peace, the youth replied: Oh, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride, In this sad Christian world! My native land Was happy, ere the soldier, with his band Of fell destroyers, like a vulture, came, And gave its peaceful scenes to blood and flame. 230 When will the turmoil of earth's tempests cease? Father, I come to thee for peace—for peace! Seek peace, the father cried, with God above: In His good time, all will be peace and love. We mourn, indeed, mourn that all sounds of ill, Earth's fairest scenes with one deep murmur fill; That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky, Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery; The course of wide destruction to withstand, We lift our feeble voice—our trembling hand; 240 But still, bowed low, or smitten to the dust, Father of mercy, still in Thee we trust! Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth, In joy or woe, in sickness or in health, Meek Piety thy awful hand surveys, And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise! We know—whatever evils we deplore— Thou hast permitted, and we know no more! Behold, illustrious on the subject plain, Some tow'r-crowned city of imperial Spain! 250 Hark! 'twas the earthquake![213] clouds of dust alone Ascend from earth, where tower and temple shone! Such is the conqueror's dread path: the grave Yawns for its millions where his banners wave; But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh, With sullen acquiescence gaze and die? Alas, how little of the mighty maze Of Providence our mortal ken surveys! Heaven's awful Lord, pavilioned in the clouds, Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds; 260 And, far beyond the tempest and the night, Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless light.

[208] The city Baldivia.

[209] He had served in the wars of Italy.

[210] Lautaro had been baptized by that name.

[211] Valdivia had before been in Chili.

[212] A small and beautiful species, which is domesticated.

[213] No part of the world is so subject to earthquakes as Peru.

CANTO THIRD.

ARGUMENT.

Evening and Night of the same Day.

Anselmo's story—Converted Indians—Confession of the Wandering Minstrel—Night-Scene.

Come,—for the sun yet hangs above the bay,— And whilst our time may brook a brief delay With other thoughts, and, haply with a tear, An old man's tale of sorrow thou shalt hear. I wished not to reveal it;—thoughts that dwell Deep in the lonely bosom's inmost cell Unnoticed, and unknown, too painful wake, And, like a tempest, the dark spirit shake, When, starting from our slumberous apathy, We gaze upon the scenes of days gone by. 10 Yet, if a moment's irritating flush, Darkens thy cheek,[214] as thoughts conflicting rush, When I disclose my hidden griefs, the tale May more than wisdom or reproof prevail. Oh, may it teach thee, till all trials cease, To hold thy course, though sorrowing, yet in peace; Still looking up to Him, the soul's best stay, Who Faith and Hope shall crown, when worlds are swept away! Where fair Seville's Morisco[215] turrets gleam On Guadilquiver's gently-stealing stream; 20 Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide, Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side, My youth was passed. Oh, days for ever gone! How touched with Heaven's own light your mornings shone Even now, when lonely and forlorn I bend, My weary journey hastening to its end, A drooping exile on a distant shore, I mourn the hours of youth that are no more. The tender thought amid my prayers has part, And steals, at times, from Heaven my aged heart. 30 Forgive the cause, O God!—forgive the tear, That flows, even now, o'er Leonora's bier; For, 'midst the innocent and lovely, none More beautiful than Leonora shone. As by her widowed mother's side she knelt, A sad and sacred sympathy I felt. At Easter-tide, when the high mass was sung, And, fuming high, the silver censer swung; When rich-hued windows, from the arches' height, Poured o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light; 40 From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear, When "Adoremus" swelled upon the ear. (Such as to Heaven thy rapt attention drew First in the Christian churches of Peru), She seemed, methought, some spirit of the sky, Descending to that holy harmony. But wherefore tell, when life and hope were new, How by degrees the soul's first passion grew! I loved her, and I won her virgin heart; But fortune whispered, we a while must part. 50 The minster tolled the middle hour of night, When, waked to agony and wild affright, I heard those words, words of appalling dread— "The Holy Inquisition!"—from the bed I started; snatched my dagger, and my cloak— Who dare accuse me!—none, in answer, spoke. The demons seized, in silence, on their prey, And tore me from my dreams of bliss away. How frightful was their silence, and their shade, In torch-light, as their victim they conveyed, 60 By dark-inscribed, and massy-windowed walls, Through the dim twilight of terrific halls; (For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stain Of pure religion, and the rights of Spain;) Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold blast, And echoed to the foot-fall as we passed! They left me, faint and breathless with affright, In a cold cell, to solitude and night; Oh! think, what horror through the heart must thrill When the last bolt was barred, and all at once was still! 70 Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom, Sadder than darkness, wrapped the living tomb. Some bread and water, nature to sustain, Duly was brought when eve returned again; And thus I knew, hoping it were the last, Another day of lingering life was passed. Five years immured in that deep den of night, I never saw the sweet sun's blessed light. Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was barred, And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarred, 80 Methought I heard, as clanged the iron door, A dull and hollow echo from the floor; I stamped; the vault, and winding caves around, Returned a long and melancholy sound. With patient toil I raised a massy stone, And looked into a depth of shade unknown; The murky twilight of the lurid place Helped me, at length, a secret way to trace: I entered; step by step explored the road, In darkness, from my desolate abode; 90 Till, winding through long passages of night, I saw, at distance, a dim streak of light:— It was the sun—the bright, the blessed beam Of day! I knelt—I wept;—the glittering stream Rolled on beneath me, as I left the cave, Concealed in woods above the winding wave. I rested on a verdant bank a while, I saw around the summer landscape smile; I gained a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave, Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve. 100 Remembering still affection's fondest hours, I turned my footsteps to the city towers; In pilgrim's dress, I traced the streets unknown: No light in Leonora's lattice shone. The morning came; the busy tumult swells; Knolling to church, I heard the minster bells; Involuntary to that scene I strayed, Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid. I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand, And yield, half-shrinking, her reluctant hand; 110 She turned her head; she saw my hollow eyes, And knew me, wasted, wan, in my disguise; She shrieked, and fell;—breathless, I left the fane In agony—nor saw her form again; And from that day her voice, her look were given, Her name, her memory, to the winds of heaven. Far off I bent my melancholy way, Heart-sick and faint, and, in this gown of gray, From every human eye my sorrows hid, Unknown, amidst the tumult of Madrid. 120 Grief in my heart, despair upon my look, With no companion save my beads and book, My morsel with Affliction's sons to share, To tend the sick and poor, my only care, Forgotten, thus I lived; till day by day Had worn nigh thirteen years of grief away. One winter's night, when I had closed my cell, And bid the labours of the day farewell, An aged crone approached, with panting breath, And bade me hasten to the house of death. 130 I came. With moving lips intent to pray, A dying woman on a pallet lay; Her lifted hands were wasted to the bone, And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone; Beside the bed a pious daughter stands Silent, and, weeping, kisses her pale hands. Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head, Forgive, forgive!—they told me he was dead!— But in the sunshine of that dreadful day, That gave me to another's arms away, 140 I saw him, like a ghost, with deadly stare; I saw his wasted eye-balls' ghastly glare; I saw his lips (oh, hide them, God of love!) I saw his livid lips, half-muttering, move, To curse the maid—forgetful of her vow:— Perhaps he lives to curse—to curse me now! He lives to bless! I cried; and, drawing nigh, Held up the crucifix; her heavy eye She raised, and scarce pronounced—Does he yet live? Can he his lost, his dying child forgive? 150 Will God forgive—the Lord who bled—will He?— Ah, no, there is no mercy left for me! Words were but vain, and colours all too faint, That awful moment of despair to paint. She knew me; her exhausted breath, with pain, Drawing, she pressed my hand, and spoke again: By a false guardian's cruel wiles deceived, The tale of fraudful falsehood I believed, And thought thee dead; he gave the stern command, And bade me take the rich Antonio's hand. 160 I knelt, implored, embraced my guardian's knees; Ruthless inquisitor, he held the keys Of the dark torture-house.[216] Trembling for life, Yes, I became a sad, heart-broken wife! Yet curse me not; of every human care Already my full heart has had its share: Abandoned, left in youth to want and woe, Oh! let these tears, that agonising flow, Witness how deep ev'n now my heart is rent! Yet one is lovely—one is innocent! 170 Protect, protect, (and faint in death she smiled) When I am dead, protect my orphan child! The dreadful prison, that so long detained My wasting life, her dying words explained. The wretched priest, who wounded me by stealth, Bartered her love, her innocence for wealth! I laid her bones in earth; the chanted hymn Echoed along the hollow cloister dim; I heard, far off, the bell funereal toll, And sorrowing said: Now peace be with her soul! 180 Far o'er the Western Ocean I conveyed, And Indiana called the orphan maid; Beneath my eye she grew, and, day by day, Seemed, grateful, every kindness to repay. Renouncing Spain, her cruelties and crimes, Amid untutored tribes, in distant climes, 'Twas mine to spread the light of truth, or save From stripes and torture the poor Indian slave. I saw thee, young and innocent, alone, Cast on the mercies of a race unknown; 190 I saw, in dark adversity's cold hour, Thy virtues blooming, like a winter's flower; From chains and slavery I redeemed thy youth, Poured on thy mental sight the beams of truth; By thy warm heart and mild demeanour won, Called thee my other child—my age's son. I need not tell the sequel;—not unmoved Poor Indiana heard thy tale, and loved; Some sympathy a kindred fate might claim; Your years, your fortunes, and your friend the same; Both early of a parent's care bereft, 201 Both strangers in a world of sadness left; I marked each slowly-struggling thought; I shed A tear of love paternal on each head; And, while I saw her timid eyes incline, Blessed the affection that had made her thine! Here let the murmurs of despondence cease: There is a God—believe—and part in peace! Rich hues illumed the track of dying day As the great sun sank in the western bay, 210 And only its last light yet lingering shone, Upon the highest palm-tree's feathery cone; When at a distance on the dewy plain, In mingled group appeared an Indian train; Men, women, children, round Anselmo press, Farewell! they cried. He raised his hand to bless, And said: My children, may the God above Still lead you in the paths of peace and love; To-morrow, we must part;—when I am gone, Raise on this spot a cross, and place a stone, 220 That tribes unborn may some memorial have, When I far off am mouldering in the grave, Of that poor messenger, who tidings bore Of Gospel-mercy to your distant shore. The crowd retired; along the twilight gray, The condor kept its solitary way, The fire-flies shone, when to the hermit's cell Who hastens but the minstrel Zarinel! In foreign lands, far from his native home, 'Twas his, a gay, romantic youth, to roam, 230 With a light cittern o'er his shoulders slung, Where'er he passed he played, and loved, and sung; And thus accomplished, late had joined the train Of gallant soldiers on the southern plain. Father, he cried, uncertain of the fate That may to-morrow's toilsome march await, For long will be the road, I would confess Some secret thoughts that on my bosom press. They are of one I left, an Indian maid, Whose trusting love my careless heart betrayed. 240 Say, may I speak? Say on, the father cried, Nor be to penitence all hope denied. Then hear, Anselmo! From a very child I loved all fancies marvellous and wild; I turned from truth, to listen to the lore Of many an old and fabling troubadour. Thus, with impassioned heart, and wayward mind, To dreams and shapes of shadowy things resigned, I left my native vales and village home, 250 Wide o'er the world a minstrel boy to roam. I never shall forget the day, the hour, When, all my soul resigned to Fancy's power, First, from the snowy Pyrenees, I cast My labouring vision o'er the landscape vast, And saw beneath my feet long vapours float, Streams, mountains, woods, and ocean's mist remote. There once I met a soldier, poor and old, Who tales of Cortes and Bilboa told, And this new world; he spoke of Indian maids, 260 Rivers like seas, and forests whose deep shades Had never yet been pierced by morning ray, And how the green bird mocked, and talked all day. Imagination thus, in colours new, This distant world presented to my view; Young, and enchanted with the fancied scene, I crossed the toiling seas that roared between, And with ideal images impressed, Stood on these unknown shores a wondering guest. Still to romantic phantasies resigned, 270 I left Callao's crowded port behind, And climbed the mountains which their shadow threw Upon the lessening summits of Peru. Some sheep the armed peasants drove before, That all our food through the wild passes bore, Had wandered in the frost-smoke of the morn, Far from the track; I blew the signal horn— But echo only answered: 'mid the snows, Wildered and lost, I saw the evening close. The sun was setting in the crimson west; 280 In all the earth I had no home of rest; The last sad light upon the ice-hills shone; I seemed forsaken in a world unknown; How did my cold and sinking heart rejoice, When, hark! methought I heard a human voice! It might be some wild Indian's roving troop, Or the dread echo of their distant whoop; Still it was human, and I seemed to find Again some commerce with remote mankind. The voice comes nearer, rising through the shade— 290 Is it the song of some rude mountain-maid? And now I heard the tread of hastening feet, And, in the western glen, a Llama bleat. I listened—all is still; but hark! again Near and more near is heard the welcome strain; It is a wild maid's carolling, who seeks Her wandering Llama 'midst the snowy peaks: Truant, she cried, thy lurking place is found! With languid touch I waked the cittern's sound, And soon a maid, by the pale light, I saw 300 Gaze breathless with astonishment and awe: What instant terrors to her fancy rose, Ha! is it not the Spirit of the snows! But when she saw me, weary, cold, and weak, Stretch forth my hand (for now I could not speak), She pitied, raised me from the snows, and led My faltering footsteps to her father's shed; The Llama followed with her tinkling bell; The dwelling rose within a craggy dell, O'erhung with icy summits. To be brief, 310 She was the daughter of an aged chief; He, by her gentle voice to pity won, Showed mercy, for himself had lost a son. The father spoke not; by the pine-wood blaze, The daughter stood, and turned a cake of maize; And then, as sudden shone the light, I saw Such features as no artist hand might draw. Her form, her face, her symmetry, her air, Father! thy age must such recital spare:— She saved my life; and kindness, if not love, 320 Might sure in time the coldest bosom move! Mine was not cold; she loved to hear me sing, And sometimes touched with playful hand the string; And when I waked some melancholy strain, She wept, and smiled, and bade me sing again. So many a happy day, in this deep glen, Far from the noise of life, and sounds of men, Was passed! Nay, father, the sad sequel hear: 'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year— Ambition called me: true, I knew to part 330 Would break her generous, warm, and trusting heart; True, I had vowed, but now estranged and cold, She saw my look, and shuddered to behold:— She would go with me, leave the lonely glade Where she grew up, but my stern voice forbade; She hid her face and wept: Go then away, (Father, methinks, ev'n now, I hear her say) Go to thy distant land, forget this tear, Forget these rocks, forget I once was dear; Fly to the world, o'er the wide ocean fly, 340 And leave me unremembered here to die! Yet to my father should I all relate, Death, instant death, would be a traitor's fate! Nor fear, nor pity moved my stubborn mind, I left her sorrows and the scene behind; I sought Valdivia on the southern plain, And joined the careless military train; Oh! ere I sleep, thus, lowly on my knee, Father, I absolution crave from thee! Anselmo spoke, with look and voice severe: 350 Yes, thoughtless youth, my absolution hear. First, by deep penitence the wrong atone, Then absolution ask from God alone! Yet stay, and to my warning voice attend, And hear me as a father, and a friend. Let Truth severe be wayward Fancy's guide, Let stern-eyed Conscience o'er each thought preside; The passions, that on noblest natures prey, Oh! cast them, like corroding bonds, away! Disdain to act mean falsehood's coward part, 360 And let religion dignify thine art. If, by thy bed, thou seest at midnight stand Pale Conscience, pointing, with terrific hand, To deeds of darkness done, whilst, like a corse, To shake thy soul, uprises dire Remorse; Fly to God's mercy, fly, ere yet too late— Perhaps one hour marks thy eternal fate; Let the warm tear of deep contrition flow, The heart obdurate melt, like softening snow, The last vain follies of thy youth deplore, 370 Then go, in secret weep, and sin no more! The stars innumerous in their watches shone— Anselmo knelt before the cross alone. Ten thousand glowing orbs their pomp displayed, Whilst, looking up, thus silently he prayed:— Oh! how oppressive to the aching sense, How fearful were this vast magnificence, This prodigality of glory, spread Above a poor and dying emmet's head, That toiled his transient hour upon the shore 380 Of mortal life, and then was seen no more; If man beheld, on his terrific throne, A dark, cold, distant Deity, alone! Felt no relating, no endearing tie, That Hope might upwards raise her glistening eye, And think, with deep unutterable bliss, In yonder radiant realm my kingdom is! More glorious than those orbs that silent roll, Shines Heaven's redeeming mercy on the soul— Oh, pure effulgence of unbounded love! 390 In Thee, I think—I feel—I live—I move; Yet when, O Thou, whose name is Love and Light, When will thy Dayspring on these realms of night Arise! Oh! when shall severed nations raise One hallelujah of triumphant praise, Tibet on Fars, Andes on Atlas call, And "roll the loud hosannah" round the ball! Soon may Thy kingdom come, that love, and peace, And charity, may bid earth's chidings cease! Meantime, in life or death, through good or ill, 400 Thy poor and feeble servant, I fulfil, As best I may, Thy high and holy will, Till, weary, on the world my eyelids close, And I enjoy my long and last repose!

[214] Indians of Chili are of the lightest class, called by some "white Indians."

[215]—Of Moorish architecture.

[216] Seville was the first place in Spain in which the Inquisition was established, in 1481.

CANTO FOURTH.

ARGUMENT.

Assembly of Indian warriors—Caupolican, Ongolmo, Teucapel, Mountain-chief—Song of the Indian Wizard—White woman and child.

Far in the centre of the deepest wood, The assembled fathers of their country stood. 'Twas midnight now; the pine-wood fire burned red, And to the leaves a shadowy glimmer spread; The struggling smoke, or flame with fitful glance, Obscured, or showed, some dreadful countenance; And every warrior, as his club he reared, With larger shadow, indistinct, appeared; While more terrific, his wild locks and mien, And fierce eye, through the quivering smoke, was seen. 10 In sea-wolf's skin, here Mariantu stood; Gnashed his white teeth, impatient, and cried, blood! His lofty brow, with crimson feathers bound, Here, brooding death, the huge Ongolmo frowned; And, like a giant of no earthly race, To his broad shoulders heaved his ponderous mace. With lifted hatchet, as in act to fell, Here stood the young and ardent Teucapel. Like a lone cypress, stately in decay, When time has worn its summer boughs away, 20 And hung its trunk with moss and lichens sere, The Mountain-warrior rested on his spear. And thus, and at this hour, a hundred chiefs, Chosen avengers of their country's griefs; Chiefs of the scattered tribes that roam the plain, That sweeps from Andes to the western main, Their country-gods, around the coiling smoke, With sacrifice, and silent prayers, invoke. For all, at first, were silent as the dead; The pine was heard to whisper o'er their head, 30 So stood the stern assembly; but apart, Wrapped in the spirit of his fearful art, Alone, to hollow sounds of hideous hum, The wizard-seer struck his prophetic drum. Silent they stood, and watched with anxious eyes, What phantom-shape might from the ground arise; No voices came, no spectre-form appeared; A hollow sound, but not of winds, was heard Among the leaves, and distant thunder low, Which seemed like moans of an expiring foe. 40 His crimson feathers quivering in the smoke, Then, with loud voice, first Mariantu spoke: Hail we the omen! Spirits of the slain, I hear your voices! Mourn, devoted Spain! Pale-visaged tyrants! still, along our coasts, Shall we despairing mark your iron hosts! Spirits of our brave fathers, curse the race Who thus your name, your memory disgrace! No; though yon mountain's everlasting snows In vain Almagro's[217] toilsome march oppose; 50 Though Atacama's long and wasteful plain Be heaped with blackening carcases in vain; Though still fresh hosts those snowy summits scale, And scare the Llamas with their glittering mail; Though sullen castles lour along our shore; Though our polluted soil be drenched with gore; Insolent tyrants! we, prepared to die, Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy! He spoke: the warriors stamped upon the ground, And tore the feathers that their foreheads bound. 60 Insolent tyrants! burst the general cry, We, met for vengeance—we, prepared to die, Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy! Then Teucapel, with warm emotion, cried: This hatchet never yet in blood was dyed; May it be buried deep within my heart, If living from the conflict I depart, Till loud, from shore to shore, is heard one cry, See! in their gore where the last tyrants lie! The Mountain-warrior: Oh, that I could raise 70 The hatchet too, as in my better days, When victor on Maypocha's banks I stood; And while the indignant river rolled in blood, And our swift arrows hissed like rushing rain, I cleft Almagro's iron helm in twain! My strength is well-nigh gone! years marked with woe Have o'er me passed, and bowed my spirit low! Alas, I have no son! Beloved boy, Thy father's last, best hope, his pride, his joy! Oh, hadst thou lived, sole object of my prayers, 80 To guard my waning life, and these gray hairs, How bravely hadst thou now, in manhood's pride, Swung the uplifted war-club by my side! But the Great Spirit willed not! Thou art gone; And, weary, on this earth I walk alone; Thankful if I may yield my latest breath, And bless my country in the pangs of death! With words deliberate, and uplifted hand, Mild to persuade, yet dauntless to command, Raising his hatchet high, Caupolican 90 Surveyed the assembled chiefs, and thus began: Friends, fathers, brothers, dear and sacred names! Your stern resolve each ardent look proclaims; On then to conquest; let one hope inspire, One spirit animate, one vengeance fire! Who doubts the glorious issue! To our foes A tenfold strength and spirit we oppose. In them no god protects his mortal sons, Or speaks, in thunder, from their roaring guns. Nor come they children of the radiant sky; 100 But, like the wounded snake, to writhe and die. Then, rush resistless on their prostrate bands, Snatch the red lightning from their feeble hands, And swear to the great spirits, hovering near, Who now this awful invocation hear, That we shall never see our household hearth, Till, like the dust, we sweep them from the earth. But vain our strength, that idly, in the fight, Tumultuous wastes its ineffectual might, Unless to one the hatchet we confide; 110 Let one our numbers, one our counsels guide. And, lo! for all that in this world is dear, I raise this hatchet, raise it high, and swear, Never again to lay it down, till we, And all who love this injured land, are free! At once the loud acclaim tumultuous ran: Our spears, our life-blood, for Caupolican! With thee, for all that in this world is dear, We lift our hatchets, lift them high, and swear, Never again to lay them down, till we, 120 And all who love this injured land, are free! Then thus the chosen chief: Bring forth the slave, And let the death-dance recreate the brave. Two warriors led a Spanish captive, bound With thongs; his eyes were fixed upon the ground. Dark cypresses the mournful spot inclose: High in the midst an ancient mound arose, Marked on each side with monumental stones, And white beneath with skulls and scattered bones. Four poniards, on the mound, encircling stood, 130 With points erect, dark with forgotten blood. Forthwith, with louder voice, the chief commands: Bring forth the lots, unbind the captive's hands; Then north, towards his country, turn his face, And dig beneath his feet a narrow space.[218] Caupolican uplifts his axe, and cries: Gods, of our land be yours this sacrifice!— Now, listen, warriors!—and forthwith commands To place the billets in the captive's hands— Soldier, cast in the lot! 140 With looks aghast, The captive in the trench a billet cast. Soldier, declare, who leads the arms of Spain, Where Santiago frowns upon the plain?

CAPTIVE.

Villagra!

WARRIOR.

Earth upon the billet heap; So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep! The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim, Accursed be his nation and his name! 150

WARRIOR.

Captive, declare who leads the Spanish bands, Where the proud fortress shades Coquimbo's sands.

CAPTIVE.

Ocampo!

WARRIOR.

Earth upon the billet heap; So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep! The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim, Accursed be his nation and his name!

WARRIOR.

Cast in the lot. Again, with looks aghast, The captive in the trench a billet cast. 160 Pronounce his name who here pollutes the plain, The leader of the mailed hosts of Spain!

CAPTIVE.

Valdivia! At that name a sudden cry Burst forth, and every lance was lifted high.

WARRIOR.

Valdivia! Earth upon the billet heap; So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep! The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim, Accursed be his nation and his name! 170

And now loud yells, and whoops of death resound; The shuddering captive ghastly gazed around, When the huge war-club smote him to the ground. Again deep stillness hushed the listening crowd, While the prophetic wizard sang aloud.

SONG TO THE GOD OF WAR.

By thy habitation dread, In the valley of the dead, Where no sun, nor day, nor night, Breaks the red and dusky light; By the grisly troops, that ride, 180 Of slaughtered Spaniards, at thy side,— Slaughtered by the Indian spear, Mighty Epananum,[219] hear! Hark, the battle! Hark, the din! Now the deeds of Death begin! The Spaniards come, in clouds! above, I hear their hoarse artillery move! Spirits of our fathers slain, Haste, pursue the dogs of Spain! The noise was in the northern sky! 190 Haste, pursue! They fly—they fly! Now from the cavern's secret cell, Where the direst phantoms dwell, See they rush,[220] and, riding high, Break the moonlight as they fly; And, on the shadowed plain beneath, Shoot, unseen, the shafts of Death! O'er the devoted Spanish camp, Like a vapour, dark and damp, May they hover, till the plain 200 Is hid beneath the countless slain; And none but silent women tread From corse to corse, to seek the dead!

The wavering fire flashed with expiring light, When shrill and hollow, through the cope of night, A distant shout was heard; at intervals, Increasing on the listening ear it falls. It ceased; when, bursting from the thickest wood, With lifted axe, two gloomy warriors stood; Wan in the midst, with dark and streaming hair, 210 Blown by the winds upon her bosom bare, A woman, faint from terror's wild alarms, And folding a white infant in her arms, Appeared. Each warrior stooped his lance to gaze On her pale looks, seen ghastlier through the blaze. Save! she exclaimed, with harrowed aspect wild; Oh, save my innocent, my helpless child! Then fainting fell, as from death's instant stroke; Caupolican, with stern inquiry, spoke: Whence come, to interrupt our awful rite, 220 At this dread hour, the warriors of the night? From ocean. Who is she who fainting lies, And now scarce lifts her supplicating eyes? The Spanish ship went down; the seamen bore, In a small boat, this woman to the shore: They fell beneath our hatchets,—and again, We gave them back to the insulted main.[221] The child and woman—of a race we hate— Warriors, 'tis yours, here to decide their fate. 230 Vengeance! aloud fierce Mariantu cried: Let vengeance on the race be satisfied! Let none of hated Spanish blood remain, Woman or child, to violate our plain! Amid that dark and bloody scene, the child Stretched to the mountain-chief his hands and smiled. A starting tear of pity dimmed the eye Of the old warrior, though he knew not why. Oh, think upon your little ones! he cried, Nor be compassion to the weak denied. 240 Caupolican then fixed his aspect mild On the white woman and her shrinking child, Then firmly spoke:— White woman, we were free, When first thy brethren of the distant sea Came to our shores! White woman, theirs the guilt! Theirs, if the blood of innocence be spilt! Yet blood we seek not, though our arms oppose The hate of foreign and remorseless foes; Thou camest here a captive, so abide, 250 Till the Great Spirit shall our cause decide. He spoke: the warriors of the night obey; And, ere the earliest streak of dawning day, They lead her from the scene of blood away.

[217] The first Spaniard who visited Chili. He entered it by the dreadful passage of the snows of the Andes; but afterwards the passage was attempted through the desert of Atacama.

[218] The reader is referred to Molina for a particular description of the war sacrifice, which is very striking and poetical.

[219] Name of the War-deity.

[220] Terrific imaginary beings, called "man-animals," that leave their caves by night, and scatter pestilence and death as they fly.—See Molina.

[221] "Render them back upon the insulted ocean."—Coleridge.

CANTO FIFTH.

ARGUMENT.

Ocean Cave—Spanish Captive—Wild Indian Maid—Genius of Andes, and Spirits.

'Tis dawn:—the distant Andes' rocky spires, One after one, have caught the orient fires. Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight, His wings are touched with momentary light. Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads, A boundless ocean of gray vapour spreads, That o'er the champaign, stretching far below, Moves now, in clustered masses, rising slow, Till all the living landscape is displayed In various pomp of colour, light, and shade, 10 Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain, Lessening in sunshine to the southern main. The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew; The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew; And there, by the wild river's devious side, The tall flamingo, in its crimson pride, Stalks on, in richest plumage bright arrayed, With snowy neck superb,[222] and legs of lengthening shade. Sad maid, for others may the valleys ring, For other ears the birds of morning sing; 20 For other eyes the palms in beauty wave, Dark is thy prison in the ocean-cave! Amid that winding cavern's inmost shade, A dripping rill its ceaseless murmur made: Masses of dim-discovered crags aloof, Hung, threatening, from the vast and vaulted roof: And through a fissure, in its glimmering height, Seen like a star, appeared the distant light; Beneath the opening, where the sunbeams shine, Far down, the rock-weed hung its slender twine. 30 Here, pale and bound, the Spanish captive lay, Till morn on morn, in silence, passed away; When once, as o'er her sleeping child she hung, And sad her evening supplication sung; Like a small gem, amidst the gloom of night, A glow-worm shot its green and trembling light,— And, 'mid the moss and craggy fragments, shed Faint lustre o'er her sleeping infant's head; And hark! a voice—a woman's voice, its sound Dies in faint echoes, 'mid the vault profound: 40 Let us pity the poor white maid![223] She has no mother near! No friend to dry her tear! Upon the cold earth she is laid: Let us pity the poor white maid! It seemed the burden of a song of woe; And see, across the gloom an Indian girl move slow! Her nearer look is sorrowful, yet mild, Her hanging locks are wreathed with rock-weed wild; Gently she spoke, Poor Christian, dry thy tear: 50 Art thou afraid? all are not cruel here. Oh! still more wretched may my portion be, Stranger, if I could injure thine and thee! And, lo! I bring, from banks and thickets wild, Wood-strawberries, and honey for thy child. Whence, who art thou, who, in this fearful place, Does comfort speak to one of Spanish race?

INDIAN.

It is an Indian maid, who chanced to hear Thy tale of sorrow, as she wandered near: I loved a white man once; but he is flown, 60 And now I wander heartless and alone. I traced the dark and winding way beneath: But well I know to lead thee hence were death. Oh, say! what fortunes cast thee o'er the wave, On these sad shores perhaps to find a grave?

SPANISH WOMAN.

Three years have passed since a fond husband left Me and this infant, of his love bereft; Him I have followed; need I tell thee more, Cast helpless, friendless, hopeless, on this shore.

INDIAN.

Oh! did he love thee, then? Let death betide, 70 Yes, from this cavern I will be thy guide. Nay, do not shrink! from Caracalla's bay, Ev'n now, the Spaniards wind their march this way. As late in yester eve I paced the shore I heard their signal-guns at distance roar. Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,— The Christian's God,—through passes dark and wild He will direct thy way! Come, follow me; Oh, yet be loved, be happy, and be free! But I, an outcast on my native plain, 80 The poor Olola ne'er shall smile again! So guiding from the cave, when all was still, And pointing to the furthest glimmering hill, The Indian led, till, on Itata's side, The Spanish camp and night-fires they descried: Then on the stranger's neck that wild maid fell, And said, Thy own gods prosper thee, farewell! The owl[224] is hooting overhead; below, On dusky wing, the vampire-bat sails slow. Ongolmo stood before the cave of night, 90 Where the great wizard sat:—a lurid light Was on his face; twelve giant shadows frowned, His mute and dreadful ministers, around. Each eye-ball, as in life, was seen to roll, Each lip to move; but not a living soul Was there, save bold Ongolmo and the seer. The warrior half advanced his lifted spear, Then spoke: Dread master of the mighty lore! Say, shall the Spaniards welter in their gore? Let these dark ministers the answer tell, 100 Replied the master of the mighty spell. Then every giant-shadow, as it stood, Lifted on high a skull that dropped with blood. Yet more, the impatient warrior cried; yet more! Say, shall I live, and drink the tyrant's gore? 'Twas silence. Speak! he cried: none made reply. At once strange thunder shook the distant sky, And all was o'er; the grisly shapes are flown, And the grim warrior stands in the wild woods alone. St Pedro's church had rung its midnight chimes, 110 And the gray friars were chanting at their primes, When winds, as of a rushing hurricane, Shook the tall windows of the towered fane;— Sounds more than earthly with the storm arose, And a dire troop are passed to Andes' snows, Where mighty spirits in mysterious ring Their dread prophetic incantations sing, Round Chillan's crater-smoke, whose lurid light Streams high against the hollow cope of night. Thy genius, Andes, towering o'er the rest, 120 Rose vast, and thus a phantom-shape addressed: Who comes so swift amid the storm? Ha! I know thy bloodless form, I know thee, angel, who thou art, By the hissing of thy dart! 'Tis Death, the king! the rocks around, Hark! echo back the fearful sound;— 'Tis Death, the king! away, away! The famished vulture scents its prey. Spectre, hence! we cannot die— 130 Thy withering weapons we defy; Dire and potent as thou art! Then spoke the phantom of the uplifted dart: Spirits who in darkness dwell, I heard far off your secret spell! Enough, on yonder fatal shore, My fiends have drank your children's gore; Lo! I come, and doom to fate The murderers, and the foe you hate! Of all who shook their hostile spears, 140 And marked their way through blood and tears, (Now sleeping still on yonder plain) But one—one only shall remain, Ere thrice the morn shall shine again. Then sang the mighty spirits. Thee, they sing, Hail to thee, Death, all hail to Death, the king! The penguin flaps her wings in gore, Devoted Spain, along the shore. Whence that shriek? with ghastly eyes, Thy victor-chief abandoned lies! 150 Victor of the southern world, Whose crimson banners were unfurled O'er the silence of the waves,— O'er a land of bleeding slaves! Victor, where is now thy boast; Thine iron steeds, thy mailed host? Hark! hark! even now I hear his cries!— Spirits, hence!—he dies! he dies!