[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, calledTerra Australis incognita.[187]Drake's ship, in which he sailed round the world; she was laid up at Deptford—hence Ben Johnson, inEvery 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."
[180]The Pharos was not erected by Alexander, but Alexandria is here supposed to be finished.
[180]The Pharos was not erected by Alexander, but Alexandria is here supposed to be finished.
[181]Cape Bojador.
[181]Cape Bojador.
[182]John Gongalez Zarco was employed by Prince Henry to conduct the enterprise of discovery along the Western coast of Africa.
[182]John Gongalez Zarco was employed by Prince Henry to conduct the enterprise of discovery along the Western coast of Africa.
[183]Porto Santo.
[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.
[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.
[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, calledTerra Australis incognita.
[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, calledTerra Australis incognita.
[187]Drake's ship, in which he sailed round the world; she was laid up at Deptford—hence Ben Johnson, inEvery 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."
[187]Drake's ship, in which he sailed round the world; she was laid up at Deptford—hence Ben Johnson, inEvery 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."
Such are thy views,Discovery! The great worldRolls to thine eye revealed; to thee the DeepSubmits its awful empire; IndustryAwakes, and Commerce to the echoing martsFrom 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 heartAsks trembling, is no evil found! Oh, turn,10Meek Charity, and drop a human tearFor the sad fate of Afric's injured sons,And hide, for ever hide, the sight of chains,Anguish, and bondage! Yes, the heart of manIs sick, and Charity turns pale, to thinkHow 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!20The caverned mountains echoed, Gold more Gold!Then see the fell-eyed, prowling buccaneer,Grim as a libbard! He his jealous lookTurns to the dagger at his belt, his handBy instinct grasps a bloody scymitar,And ghastly is his smile, as o'er the woodsHe sees the smoke of burning villagesAscend, and thinks ev'n now he counts his spoil.See thousands destined to the lurid mine,Never to see the sun again; all names30Of husband, sire, all tender charitiesOf love, deep buried with them in that grave,Where life is as a thing long passed; and hopeNo more its sickly ray, to cheer the gloom,Extends.Thou, too, dread Ocean, toss thine arms,Exulting, for the treasures and the gemsThat thy dark oozy realm emblaze; and callThe pale procession of the dead, from cavesWhere late their bodies weltered, to attend40Thy kingly sceptre, and proclaim thy might!Lord of the Hurricane! bid all thy windsSwell, and destruction ride upon the surge,Where, after the red lightning flash that showsThe labouring ship, all is at once deep nightAnd long suspense, till the slow dawn of dayGleams 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,50When 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 seesSun after sun descend, and hopeless hears;At morn the long surge of the troubled main,That beats without his wretched cave; meantimeHe fears to wake the echoes with his voice,So dread the solitude!Let Greenland's snows60Then shine, and mark the melancholy trainThere left to perish, whilst the cold pale dayDeclines along the further ice, that bindsThe ship, and leaves in night the sinking scene.Sad winter closes on the deep; the smokeOf frost, that late amusive to the eyeRose o'er the coast, is passed, and all is nowOne torpid blank; the freezing particlesBlown blistering, and the white bear seeks her cave.Ill-fated outcasts, when the morn again70Shall streak with feeble beam the frozen waste,Your air-bleached and unburied carcasesShall 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 shriekOf all that perish thou shalt hear, as whenThe deep foundations of the guilty earthWere shaken at the voice of God, and manCeased in his habitations; yet the sea80Thy might tempestuous still, and joyless rule,Confesses. Ah! what bloodless shadows throngEv'n now, slow rising from their oozy beds,From Mete,[188]and those gates of burialThat guard the Erythræan; from the vastUnfathomed caverns of the Western mainOr stormy Orcades; whilst the sad shellOf poor Arion,[189]to the hollow blastSlow seems to pour its melancholy tones,And faintly vibrate, as the dead pass by.90I 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 leadThe mournful train. Shade of Perouse! oh, sayWhere, in the tract of unknown seas, thy bonesTh' insulting surge has swept?But who is he,Whose look, though pale and bloody, wears the traceOf pure philanthropy? The pitying sigh100Forbid not; he was dear to Britons, dearTo every beating heart, far as the worldExtends; and my faint faltering touch ev'n nowDies 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 eyesUpon the long seas, and the wider world,Displayed from his research. Smile, glowing Health!For now no more the wasted seaman sinks,110With haggard eye and feeble frame diseased;No more with tortured longings for the sightOf fields and hillocks green, madly he callsOn Nature, when before his swimming eyeThe liquid long expanse of cheerless seasSeems all one flowery plain. Then frantic dreamsArise; his eye's distemper'd flash is seenFrom the sunk socket, as a demon thereSat mocking, till he plunges in the flood,And the dark wave goes o'er him.120Nor wilt thou,O Science! fail to deck the cold morai[190]Of him who wider o'er earth's hemisphereThy views extended. On, from deep to deep,Thou shalt retrace the windings of his track;From the high North to where the field-ice bindsThe still Antarctic. Thence, from isle to isle,Thou shalt pursue his progress; and exploreNew-Holland's eastern shores,[191]where now the sonsOf distant Britain, from her lap cast out,130Water 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 worldApproach: Beyond, 'tis silent boundless ice,Impenetrable barrier, where all thoughtIs lost; where never yet the eagle flew,Nor roamed so far the white bear through the waste.But thou, dreadPower! whose voice from chaos called140The earth, who bad'st the Lord of light go forth,Ev'n as a giant, and the sounding seasRoll 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 raceSpread to that severed continent! Ev'n so,Father, in thy good time, shall all things standRevealed to knowledge.150As the mind revolvesThe change of mighty empires, and the fateOfhimwhom Thou hast made, back through the duskOf ages Contemplation turns her view:We mark, as from its infancy, the worldPeopled again, from that mysterious shrineThat rested on the top of Ararat,Highest of Asian mountains; spreading on,The Cushites from their mountain caves descend;Then beforeGodthe sons of Ammon stood160In their gigantic might, and first the seasVanquished: But still from clime to clime the groanOf sacrifice, and Superstition's cry,Was heard; but when the Dayspring rose of heaven,Greece's hoar forests echoed, The great PanIs dead! From Egypt, and the rugged shoresOf 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 ray170The host of heaven hailed jubilant, and sang,Glory to God on high, and on earth peace,With long eclipse is veiled.Red PapacyUsurped the meek dominion of the LordOf love and charity: vast as a fiendShe 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 stakeStood, his last look uplifted to hisGod!180But she is now cast down, her empire reft.They who in darkness walked, and in the shadeOf death, have seen a new and holy light,As in th' umbrageous forest, through whose boughs,Mossy and damp, for many a league, the mornWith languid beam scarce pierces, here and thereTouching some solitary trunk, the restDark waving in the noxious atmosphere:Through the thick-matted leaves the serpent windsHis way, to find a spot of casual sun;190The gaunt hyæna through the thicket glidesAt eve: then, too, the couched tiger's eyeFlames in the dusk, and oft the gnashing jawsOf the fell crocodile are heard. At length,By man's superior energy and toil,The sunless brakes are cleared; the joyous mornShines through the opening leaves; rich culture smilesAround; and howling to their distant wildsThe savage inmates of the wood retire.Such is the scene of human life, till want200Bids man his strength put forth; then slowly spreadsThe cultured stream of mild humanity,And gentler virtues, and more noble aimsEmploy the active mind, till beauty beamsAround, and Nature wears her richest robe,Adorned with lovelier graces. Then the charmsOf 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 heart210Of her protector. Then the names of sire,Of home, of brother, and of children, growMore sacred, more endearing; whilst the eye,Lifted beyond this earthly scene, beholdsA Father who looks down from heaven on all!O Britain, my loved country! dost thou riseMost high among the nations! Do thy fleetsRide o'er the surge of ocean, that subduedRolls in long sweep beneath them! Dost thou wearThy garb of gentler morals gracefully!220Is widest science thine, and the fair trainOf lovelier arts! While commerce throngs thy portsWith her ten thousand streamers, is the tractOf the undeviating ploughshare whiteThat rips the reeking furrow, followed soonBy plenty, bidding all the scene rejoice,Even like a cultured garden! Do the streamsThat steal along thy peaceful vales, reflectTemples, and Attic domes, and village towers!Is beauty thine, fairest of earthly things,230Woman; and doth she gain that liberal loveAnd homage, which the meekness of her voice,The rapture of her smile, commanding mostWhen she seems weakest, must demand from him,Her master; whose stern strength at once submitsIn manly, but endearing, confidence,Unlike his selfish tyranny who sitsThe sultan of his harem!Oh, then, thinkHow great the blessing, and how high thy rank240Amid the civilised and social world!But hast thou no deep failings, that may turnThy thoughts within thyself! Ask, for the sunThat shines in heaven hath seen it, hath thy powerNe'er scattered sorrow over distant lands!Ask of the East, have never thy proud sailsBorne plunder from dismembered provinces,Leaving the groans of miserable menBehind! And free thyself, and lifting highThe charter of thy freedom, bought with blood,250Hast thou not stood, in patient apathy,A witness of the tortures and the chainsThat Afric's injured sons have known! Stand up;Yes, thou hast visited the caves, and cheeredThe gloomy haunts of sorrow; thou hast shedA beam of comfort and of righteousnessOn isles remote; hast bid the bread-fruit shadeTh' Hesperian regions, and has softened muchWith bland amelioration, and with charmsOf social sweetness, the hard lot of man.260But weighed in truth's firm balance, ask, if allBe even. Do not crimes of ranker growthBatten amid thy cities, whose loud din,From flashing and contending cars, ascends,Till morn! Enchanting, as if aught so sweetNe'er faded, do thy daughters wear the weedsOf calm domestic peace and wedded love;Or turn, with beautiful disdain, to dashGay pleasure's poisoned chalice from their lipsUntasted! Hath not sullen atheism,270Weaving gay flowers of poesy, so soughtTo hide the darkness of his withered browWith faded and fantastic gallantryOf roses, thus to win the thoughtless smileOf youthful ignorance! Hast thou with aweLooked up to Him whose power is in the clouds,Who bids the storm rush, and it sweeps to earthThe nations that offend, and they are gone,Like Tyre and Babylon! Well weigh thyself:Then shalt thou rise undaunted in the might280Of thy Protector, and the gathered hateOf hostile bands shall be but as the sandBlown on the everlasting pyramid.Hasten, O Love and Charity! your work,Ev'n now whilst it is day; far as the worldExtends may your divinest influenceBe felt, and more than felt, to teach mankindThey all are brothers, and to drown the criesOf superstition, anarchy, or blood!Not yet the hour is come: on Ganges' banks290Still superstition hails the flame of death,Behold, gay dressed, as in her bridal tire,The self-devoted beauteous victim slowAscend the pile where her dead husband lies:She kisses his cold cheeks, inclines her breastOn his, and lights herself the fatal pileThat shall consume them both!On Egypt's shore,Where Science rose, now Sloth and IgnoranceSleep like the huge Behemoth in the sun!300The turbaned Moor still stains with strangers' bloodThe inmost sands of Afric. But all theseThe light shall visit, and that vaster tractFrom Fuego to the furthest Labrador,Where roam the outcast Esquimaux, shall hearThe voice of social fellowship; the chiefWhose hatchet flashed amid the forest gloom,Who to his infants bore the bleeding scalpOf his fall'n foe, shall weep unwonted tears!Come, Faith; come, Hope; come, meek-eyed Charity!310Complete the lovely prospect: every landShall lift up one hosannah; every tongueProclaim theeFather,infinite, andwise,Andgood. The shores of palmy Senegal(Sad Afric's injured sons no more enslaved)Shall answerHallelujah, for theLordOf truth and mercy reigns;—reignsKing of kings;—Hosannah—King of kings—andLord of lords!So may His kingdom come, when all the earth,Uniting thus as in one hymn of praise,320Shall wait the end of all things. This great globe,His awful plan accomplished, then shall sinkIn flames, whilst through the clouds, that wrap the placeWhere it had rolled, and the sun shone, the voiceOf theArchangel, and thetrump 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 pastThat shook his feverish frame, amidst the scenes330Of peril and distemper, shall ascendExulting to its destined seat of rest,And "justify His ways" from whom it sprung.
Such are thy views,Discovery! The great worldRolls to thine eye revealed; to thee the DeepSubmits its awful empire; IndustryAwakes, and Commerce to the echoing martsFrom 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 heartAsks trembling, is no evil found! Oh, turn,10Meek Charity, and drop a human tearFor the sad fate of Afric's injured sons,And hide, for ever hide, the sight of chains,Anguish, and bondage! Yes, the heart of manIs sick, and Charity turns pale, to thinkHow 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!20The caverned mountains echoed, Gold more Gold!Then see the fell-eyed, prowling buccaneer,Grim as a libbard! He his jealous lookTurns to the dagger at his belt, his handBy instinct grasps a bloody scymitar,And ghastly is his smile, as o'er the woodsHe sees the smoke of burning villagesAscend, and thinks ev'n now he counts his spoil.See thousands destined to the lurid mine,Never to see the sun again; all names30Of husband, sire, all tender charitiesOf love, deep buried with them in that grave,Where life is as a thing long passed; and hopeNo more its sickly ray, to cheer the gloom,Extends.Thou, too, dread Ocean, toss thine arms,Exulting, for the treasures and the gemsThat thy dark oozy realm emblaze; and callThe pale procession of the dead, from cavesWhere late their bodies weltered, to attend40Thy kingly sceptre, and proclaim thy might!Lord of the Hurricane! bid all thy windsSwell, and destruction ride upon the surge,Where, after the red lightning flash that showsThe labouring ship, all is at once deep nightAnd long suspense, till the slow dawn of dayGleams 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,50When 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 seesSun after sun descend, and hopeless hears;At morn the long surge of the troubled main,That beats without his wretched cave; meantimeHe fears to wake the echoes with his voice,So dread the solitude!Let Greenland's snows60Then shine, and mark the melancholy trainThere left to perish, whilst the cold pale dayDeclines along the further ice, that bindsThe ship, and leaves in night the sinking scene.Sad winter closes on the deep; the smokeOf frost, that late amusive to the eyeRose o'er the coast, is passed, and all is nowOne torpid blank; the freezing particlesBlown blistering, and the white bear seeks her cave.Ill-fated outcasts, when the morn again70Shall streak with feeble beam the frozen waste,Your air-bleached and unburied carcasesShall 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 shriekOf all that perish thou shalt hear, as whenThe deep foundations of the guilty earthWere shaken at the voice of God, and manCeased in his habitations; yet the sea80Thy might tempestuous still, and joyless rule,Confesses. Ah! what bloodless shadows throngEv'n now, slow rising from their oozy beds,From Mete,[188]and those gates of burialThat guard the Erythræan; from the vastUnfathomed caverns of the Western mainOr stormy Orcades; whilst the sad shellOf poor Arion,[189]to the hollow blastSlow seems to pour its melancholy tones,And faintly vibrate, as the dead pass by.90I 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 leadThe mournful train. Shade of Perouse! oh, sayWhere, in the tract of unknown seas, thy bonesTh' insulting surge has swept?But who is he,Whose look, though pale and bloody, wears the traceOf pure philanthropy? The pitying sigh100Forbid not; he was dear to Britons, dearTo every beating heart, far as the worldExtends; and my faint faltering touch ev'n nowDies 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 eyesUpon the long seas, and the wider world,Displayed from his research. Smile, glowing Health!For now no more the wasted seaman sinks,110With haggard eye and feeble frame diseased;No more with tortured longings for the sightOf fields and hillocks green, madly he callsOn Nature, when before his swimming eyeThe liquid long expanse of cheerless seasSeems all one flowery plain. Then frantic dreamsArise; his eye's distemper'd flash is seenFrom the sunk socket, as a demon thereSat mocking, till he plunges in the flood,And the dark wave goes o'er him.120Nor wilt thou,O Science! fail to deck the cold morai[190]Of him who wider o'er earth's hemisphereThy views extended. On, from deep to deep,Thou shalt retrace the windings of his track;From the high North to where the field-ice bindsThe still Antarctic. Thence, from isle to isle,Thou shalt pursue his progress; and exploreNew-Holland's eastern shores,[191]where now the sonsOf distant Britain, from her lap cast out,130Water 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 worldApproach: Beyond, 'tis silent boundless ice,Impenetrable barrier, where all thoughtIs lost; where never yet the eagle flew,Nor roamed so far the white bear through the waste.But thou, dreadPower! whose voice from chaos called140The earth, who bad'st the Lord of light go forth,Ev'n as a giant, and the sounding seasRoll 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 raceSpread to that severed continent! Ev'n so,Father, in thy good time, shall all things standRevealed to knowledge.150As the mind revolvesThe change of mighty empires, and the fateOfhimwhom Thou hast made, back through the duskOf ages Contemplation turns her view:We mark, as from its infancy, the worldPeopled again, from that mysterious shrineThat rested on the top of Ararat,Highest of Asian mountains; spreading on,The Cushites from their mountain caves descend;Then beforeGodthe sons of Ammon stood160In their gigantic might, and first the seasVanquished: But still from clime to clime the groanOf sacrifice, and Superstition's cry,Was heard; but when the Dayspring rose of heaven,Greece's hoar forests echoed, The great PanIs dead! From Egypt, and the rugged shoresOf 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 ray170The host of heaven hailed jubilant, and sang,Glory to God on high, and on earth peace,With long eclipse is veiled.Red PapacyUsurped the meek dominion of the LordOf love and charity: vast as a fiendShe 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 stakeStood, his last look uplifted to hisGod!180But she is now cast down, her empire reft.They who in darkness walked, and in the shadeOf death, have seen a new and holy light,As in th' umbrageous forest, through whose boughs,Mossy and damp, for many a league, the mornWith languid beam scarce pierces, here and thereTouching some solitary trunk, the restDark waving in the noxious atmosphere:Through the thick-matted leaves the serpent windsHis way, to find a spot of casual sun;190The gaunt hyæna through the thicket glidesAt eve: then, too, the couched tiger's eyeFlames in the dusk, and oft the gnashing jawsOf the fell crocodile are heard. At length,By man's superior energy and toil,The sunless brakes are cleared; the joyous mornShines through the opening leaves; rich culture smilesAround; and howling to their distant wildsThe savage inmates of the wood retire.Such is the scene of human life, till want200Bids man his strength put forth; then slowly spreadsThe cultured stream of mild humanity,And gentler virtues, and more noble aimsEmploy the active mind, till beauty beamsAround, and Nature wears her richest robe,Adorned with lovelier graces. Then the charmsOf 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 heart210Of her protector. Then the names of sire,Of home, of brother, and of children, growMore sacred, more endearing; whilst the eye,Lifted beyond this earthly scene, beholdsA Father who looks down from heaven on all!O Britain, my loved country! dost thou riseMost high among the nations! Do thy fleetsRide o'er the surge of ocean, that subduedRolls in long sweep beneath them! Dost thou wearThy garb of gentler morals gracefully!220Is widest science thine, and the fair trainOf lovelier arts! While commerce throngs thy portsWith her ten thousand streamers, is the tractOf the undeviating ploughshare whiteThat rips the reeking furrow, followed soonBy plenty, bidding all the scene rejoice,Even like a cultured garden! Do the streamsThat steal along thy peaceful vales, reflectTemples, and Attic domes, and village towers!Is beauty thine, fairest of earthly things,230Woman; and doth she gain that liberal loveAnd homage, which the meekness of her voice,The rapture of her smile, commanding mostWhen she seems weakest, must demand from him,Her master; whose stern strength at once submitsIn manly, but endearing, confidence,Unlike his selfish tyranny who sitsThe sultan of his harem!Oh, then, thinkHow great the blessing, and how high thy rank240Amid the civilised and social world!But hast thou no deep failings, that may turnThy thoughts within thyself! Ask, for the sunThat shines in heaven hath seen it, hath thy powerNe'er scattered sorrow over distant lands!Ask of the East, have never thy proud sailsBorne plunder from dismembered provinces,Leaving the groans of miserable menBehind! And free thyself, and lifting highThe charter of thy freedom, bought with blood,250Hast thou not stood, in patient apathy,A witness of the tortures and the chainsThat Afric's injured sons have known! Stand up;Yes, thou hast visited the caves, and cheeredThe gloomy haunts of sorrow; thou hast shedA beam of comfort and of righteousnessOn isles remote; hast bid the bread-fruit shadeTh' Hesperian regions, and has softened muchWith bland amelioration, and with charmsOf social sweetness, the hard lot of man.260But weighed in truth's firm balance, ask, if allBe even. Do not crimes of ranker growthBatten amid thy cities, whose loud din,From flashing and contending cars, ascends,Till morn! Enchanting, as if aught so sweetNe'er faded, do thy daughters wear the weedsOf calm domestic peace and wedded love;Or turn, with beautiful disdain, to dashGay pleasure's poisoned chalice from their lipsUntasted! Hath not sullen atheism,270Weaving gay flowers of poesy, so soughtTo hide the darkness of his withered browWith faded and fantastic gallantryOf roses, thus to win the thoughtless smileOf youthful ignorance! Hast thou with aweLooked up to Him whose power is in the clouds,Who bids the storm rush, and it sweeps to earthThe nations that offend, and they are gone,Like Tyre and Babylon! Well weigh thyself:Then shalt thou rise undaunted in the might280Of thy Protector, and the gathered hateOf hostile bands shall be but as the sandBlown on the everlasting pyramid.Hasten, O Love and Charity! your work,Ev'n now whilst it is day; far as the worldExtends may your divinest influenceBe felt, and more than felt, to teach mankindThey all are brothers, and to drown the criesOf superstition, anarchy, or blood!Not yet the hour is come: on Ganges' banks290Still superstition hails the flame of death,Behold, gay dressed, as in her bridal tire,The self-devoted beauteous victim slowAscend the pile where her dead husband lies:She kisses his cold cheeks, inclines her breastOn his, and lights herself the fatal pileThat shall consume them both!On Egypt's shore,Where Science rose, now Sloth and IgnoranceSleep like the huge Behemoth in the sun!300The turbaned Moor still stains with strangers' bloodThe inmost sands of Afric. But all theseThe light shall visit, and that vaster tractFrom Fuego to the furthest Labrador,Where roam the outcast Esquimaux, shall hearThe voice of social fellowship; the chiefWhose hatchet flashed amid the forest gloom,Who to his infants bore the bleeding scalpOf his fall'n foe, shall weep unwonted tears!Come, Faith; come, Hope; come, meek-eyed Charity!310Complete the lovely prospect: every landShall lift up one hosannah; every tongueProclaim theeFather,infinite, andwise,Andgood. The shores of palmy Senegal(Sad Afric's injured sons no more enslaved)Shall answerHallelujah, for theLordOf truth and mercy reigns;—reignsKing of kings;—Hosannah—King of kings—andLord of lords!So may His kingdom come, when all the earth,Uniting thus as in one hymn of praise,320Shall wait the end of all things. This great globe,His awful plan accomplished, then shall sinkIn flames, whilst through the clouds, that wrap the placeWhere it had rolled, and the sun shone, the voiceOf theArchangel, and thetrump 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 pastThat shook his feverish frame, amidst the scenes330Of peril and distemper, shall ascendExulting 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 theShipwreck, 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.
[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.
[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 theShipwreck, whose author, Falconer, described himself under the name of Arion, and who was afterwards lost in the "Aurora."
[189]Alluding to the pathetic poem of theShipwreck, whose author, Falconer, described himself under the name of Arion, and who was afterwards lost in the "Aurora."
[190]"Morai" is a grave.
[190]"Morai" is a grave.
[191]Botany Bay.
[191]Botany Bay.
Amor patriæ ratione potentior omni.
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 aërial 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.
[192]Dedicated to the Marquis of Lansdowne.
[192]Dedicated to the Marquis of Lansdowne.
When o'er the Atlantic wild, rocked by the blast,Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign passed,Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throneCast 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;10And the huge Cordilleras to the skiesWith all their burning summits seemed to rise.Then the stern spirit spoke, and to his voiceThe waves and woods replied:—Mountains, rejoice!Thou solitary sea, whose billows sweepThe 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;20Now Fate, vindictive, rolls, with refluent flood,Back on thy shores the tide of human blood,Think of my murdered millions! of the criesThat 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
When o'er the Atlantic wild, rocked by the blast,Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign passed,Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throneCast 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;10And the huge Cordilleras to the skiesWith all their burning summits seemed to rise.Then the stern spirit spoke, and to his voiceThe waves and woods replied:—Mountains, rejoice!Thou solitary sea, whose billows sweepThe 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;20Now Fate, vindictive, rolls, with refluent flood,Back on thy shores the tide of human blood,Think of my murdered millions! of the criesThat 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
One Day and Part of Night.
Valley in the Andes—Old Indian warrior—Loss of his son and daughter.
Valley in the Andes—Old Indian warrior—Loss of his son and daughter.
Beneath aërial 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-flocksDarkened the passing sunshine on the rocks;10The 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;20Through 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,30And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes.So smiles the scene;—but can its smiles impartAught 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 piled40To the volcano's cone, that shoots so highGray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky,He cries, Oh! if thy spirit yet be fledTo 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 beamOf evening, light the desert mountain stream!50Or 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 sustainA weary life of servitude and pain,With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,And think of these white rocks and torrent stream,60Never 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,70That echoed to the pipe of yester-tide,Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolongThe last deep echoes of his parting gong;Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spotWhere 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 relateThat bowed the warrior to the storms of fate,And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate.80In other days, when, in his manly pride,Two children for a father's fondness vied,—Oft they essayed, in mimic strife, to wieldHis 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 hairFell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare;90Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made,That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade.Light was her form; a clasp of silver bracedThe azure-dyed ichella[198]round her waist;Her ancles rung with shells, as unconfinedShe 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;100She brought him gathered moss, and loved to deckWith 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;110And 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 standsTiptoe, 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 rayOf noon unblenching as he sails away;120A 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,130Lessening 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,140Oh, 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 menBurst 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 hillEchoed the shrieks of death, till all again was still.The warrior, ere he sank in slumber deep,150Had 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,Aërial 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 thegreat spiritwill, in future days,O'er the fall'n foe his hatchet he shall raise,And, 'mid a grateful nation's high applause,160Avenge his violated country's cause!Now, nearer points of spears, and many a coneOf moving helmets, in the moonlight shone,As, clanking through the pass, the band of bloodSprang, like hyænas, 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,170But 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 head180Drew 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 smiledBeneath 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, pine190In 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 throwA 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,200My 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 flungHis 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.210Tidings 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 sacrifice220In Encol's wood, where the great wizard dwells,Who wakes the dead man by his thrilling spells;Thee,[205]Ulmen of the Mountains, they commandTo 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.230Then the stern warrior sang his song of death—And blew his conch, that all the glens beneathEchoed, 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.240Then spoke:—O Thou! that with thy lingering lightDost 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,250The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the trainOf 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 seeThe 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!260Stern Guecubu,[206]angel of the dead,Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire;Whose dwelling is beneath the central fireOf yonder burning mountain; who hast passedO'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blastScattered 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,270Angel[207]of hope and peace, at my right hand,(When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guideMy 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 close280The 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 trampFrom line to line, whilst the fixed sentinelProclaimed the watch of midnight—All is well!Valdivia dreamed of millions yet untold,290Villrica'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,300And 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 standA 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,310That 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!
Beneath aërial 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-flocksDarkened the passing sunshine on the rocks;10The 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;20Through 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,30And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes.So smiles the scene;—but can its smiles impartAught 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 piled40To the volcano's cone, that shoots so highGray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky,He cries, Oh! if thy spirit yet be fledTo 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 beamOf evening, light the desert mountain stream!50Or 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 sustainA weary life of servitude and pain,With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,And think of these white rocks and torrent stream,60Never 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,70That echoed to the pipe of yester-tide,Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolongThe last deep echoes of his parting gong;Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spotWhere 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 relateThat bowed the warrior to the storms of fate,And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate.80In other days, when, in his manly pride,Two children for a father's fondness vied,—Oft they essayed, in mimic strife, to wieldHis 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 hairFell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare;90Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made,That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade.Light was her form; a clasp of silver bracedThe azure-dyed ichella[198]round her waist;Her ancles rung with shells, as unconfinedShe 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;100She brought him gathered moss, and loved to deckWith 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;110And 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 standsTiptoe, 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 rayOf noon unblenching as he sails away;120A 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,130Lessening 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,140Oh, 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 menBurst 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 hillEchoed the shrieks of death, till all again was still.The warrior, ere he sank in slumber deep,150Had 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,Aërial 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 thegreat spiritwill, in future days,O'er the fall'n foe his hatchet he shall raise,And, 'mid a grateful nation's high applause,160Avenge his violated country's cause!Now, nearer points of spears, and many a coneOf moving helmets, in the moonlight shone,As, clanking through the pass, the band of bloodSprang, like hyænas, 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,170But 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 head180Drew 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 smiledBeneath 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, pine190In 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 throwA 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,200My 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 flungHis 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.210Tidings 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 sacrifice220In Encol's wood, where the great wizard dwells,Who wakes the dead man by his thrilling spells;Thee,[205]Ulmen of the Mountains, they commandTo 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.230Then the stern warrior sang his song of death—And blew his conch, that all the glens beneathEchoed, 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.240Then spoke:—
O Thou! that with thy lingering lightDost 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,250The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the trainOf 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 seeThe 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!260Stern Guecubu,[206]angel of the dead,Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire;Whose dwelling is beneath the central fireOf yonder burning mountain; who hast passedO'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blastScattered 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,270Angel[207]of hope and peace, at my right hand,(When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guideMy 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 close280The 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 trampFrom line to line, whilst the fixed sentinelProclaimed the watch of midnight—All is well!Valdivia dreamed of millions yet untold,290Villrica'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,300And 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 standA 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,310That 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!