[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.
[214]Indians of Chili are of the lightest class, called by some "white Indians."
[214]Indians of Chili are of the lightest class, called by some "white Indians."
[215]—Of Moorish architecture.
[215]—Of Moorish architecture.
[216]Seville was the first place in Spain in which the Inquisition was established, in 1481.
[216]Seville was the first place in Spain in which the Inquisition was established, in 1481.
Assembly of Indian warriors—Caupolican, Ongolmo, Teucapel, Mountain-chief—Song of the Indian Wizard—White woman and child.
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.10In 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,20And 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,30So 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 heardAmong the leaves, and distant thunder low,Which seemed like moans of an expiring foe.40His 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 raceWho thus your name, your memory disgrace!No; though yon mountain's everlasting snowsIn vain Almagro's[217]toilsome march oppose;50Though Atacama's long and wasteful plainBe 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.60Insolent 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 raise70The 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 woeHave 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,80To 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, Caupolican90Surveyed 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 foesA 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;100But, 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;110Let 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,120And 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, boundWith 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,130With 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 commandsTo place the billets in the captive's hands—Soldier, cast in the lot!140With 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!150WARRIOR.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.160Pronounce his name who here pollutes the plain,The leader of the mailed hosts of Spain!CAPTIVE.Valdivia!At that name a sudden cryBurst 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!170And 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.
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.10In 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,20And 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,30So 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 heardAmong the leaves, and distant thunder low,Which seemed like moans of an expiring foe.40His 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 raceWho thus your name, your memory disgrace!No; though yon mountain's everlasting snowsIn vain Almagro's[217]toilsome march oppose;50Though Atacama's long and wasteful plainBe 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.60Insolent 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 raise70The 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 woeHave 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,80To 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, Caupolican90Surveyed 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 foesA 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;100But, 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;110Let 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,120And 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, boundWith 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,130With 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 commandsTo place the billets in the captive's hands—Soldier, cast in the lot!140With 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.160Pronounce his name who here pollutes the plain,The leader of the mailed hosts of Spain!
CAPTIVE.
Valdivia!At that name a sudden cryBurst 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,180Of 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!190Haste, 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 plain200Is hid beneath the countless slain;And none but silent women treadFrom 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,210Blown 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 gazeOn 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,220At 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.230Vengeance! 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 childStretched to the mountain-chief his hands and smiled.A starting tear of pity dimmed the eyeOf the old warrior, though he knew not why.Oh, think upon your little ones! he cried,Nor be compassion to the weak denied.240Caupolican then fixed his aspect mildOn the white woman and her shrinking child,Then firmly spoke:—White woman, we were free,When first thy brethren of the distant seaCame to our shores! White woman, theirs the guilt!Theirs, if the blood of innocence be spilt!Yet blood we seek not, though our arms opposeThe hate of foreign and remorseless foes;Thou camest here a captive, so abide,250Till 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.
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,180Of 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!190Haste, 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 plain200Is hid beneath the countless slain;And none but silent women treadFrom 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,210Blown 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 gazeOn 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,220At 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.230Vengeance! 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 childStretched to the mountain-chief his hands and smiled.A starting tear of pity dimmed the eyeOf the old warrior, though he knew not why.Oh, think upon your little ones! he cried,Nor be compassion to the weak denied.240Caupolican then fixed his aspect mildOn the white woman and her shrinking child,Then firmly spoke:—White woman, we were free,When first thy brethren of the distant seaCame to our shores! White woman, theirs the guilt!Theirs, if the blood of innocence be spilt!Yet blood we seek not, though our arms opposeThe hate of foreign and remorseless foes;Thou camest here a captive, so abide,250Till 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.—SeeMolina.[221]"Render them back upon the insulted ocean."—Coleridge.
[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.
[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.
[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.
[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.—SeeMolina.
[220]Terrific imaginary beings, called "man-animals," that leave their caves by night, and scatter pestilence and death as they fly.—SeeMolina.
[221]"Render them back upon the insulted ocean."—Coleridge.
[221]"Render them back upon the insulted ocean."—Coleridge.
Ocean Cave—Spanish Captive—Wild Indian Maid—Genius of Andes, and Spirits.
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 displayedIn various pomp of colour, light, and shade,10Hills, 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;20For 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.30Here, 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, shedFaint lustre o'er her sleeping infant's head;And hark! a voice—a woman's voice, its soundDies in faint echoes, 'mid the vault profound:40Let 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:50Art 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 hearThy tale of sorrow, as she wandered near:I loved a white man once; but he is flown,60And 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 leftMe 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,70Yes, 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 shoreI heard their signal-guns at distance roar.Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,—The Christian's God,—through passes dark and wildHe will direct thy way! Come, follow me;Oh, yet be loved, be happy, and be free!But I, an outcast on my native plain,80The 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,90Where the great wizard sat:—a lurid lightWas 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 soulWas 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,100Replied 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,110And 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 ringTheir dread prophetic incantations sing,Round Chillan's crater-smoke, whose lurid lightStreams high against the hollow cope of night.Thy genius, Andes, towering o'er the rest,120Rose 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—130Thy 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 fateThe murderers, and the foe you hate!Of all who shook their hostile spears,140And 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!150Victor of the southern world,Whose crimson banners were unfurledO'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!
'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 displayedIn various pomp of colour, light, and shade,10Hills, 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;20For 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.30Here, 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, shedFaint lustre o'er her sleeping infant's head;And hark! a voice—a woman's voice, its soundDies in faint echoes, 'mid the vault profound:40Let 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:50Art 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 hearThy tale of sorrow, as she wandered near:I loved a white man once; but he is flown,60And 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 leftMe 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,70Yes, 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 shoreI heard their signal-guns at distance roar.Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,—The Christian's God,—through passes dark and wildHe will direct thy way! Come, follow me;Oh, yet be loved, be happy, and be free!But I, an outcast on my native plain,80The 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,90Where the great wizard sat:—a lurid lightWas 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 soulWas 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,100Replied 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,110And 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 ringTheir dread prophetic incantations sing,Round Chillan's crater-smoke, whose lurid lightStreams high against the hollow cope of night.Thy genius, Andes, towering o'er the rest,120Rose 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—130Thy 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 fateThe murderers, and the foe you hate!Of all who shook their hostile spears,140And 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!150Victor of the southern world,Whose crimson banners were unfurledO'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!
[222]The neck of the flamingo is white, and its wings of rich and beautiful crimson.[223]From Mungo Park.[224]The owl is an object of peculiar dread to the Indian of Chili.
[222]The neck of the flamingo is white, and its wings of rich and beautiful crimson.
[222]The neck of the flamingo is white, and its wings of rich and beautiful crimson.
[223]From Mungo Park.
[223]From Mungo Park.
[224]The owl is an object of peculiar dread to the Indian of Chili.
[224]The owl is an object of peculiar dread to the Indian of Chili.
The City of Conception—The City of Penco—Castle—Lautaro—Wild Indian Maid—Zarinel—Missionary.
The City of Conception—The City of Penco—Castle—Lautaro—Wild Indian Maid—Zarinel—Missionary.
The second moon had now begun to wane,Since bold Valdivia left the southern plain;Goal of his labours, Penco's port and bay,Far gleaming to the summer sunset lay.The wayworn veteran, who had slowly passedThrough trackless woods, or o'er savannahs vast,With hope impatient sees the city spiresGild the horizon, like ascending fires.Now well-known sounds salute him, as more nearThe citadel and battlements appear;10The approaching trumpets ring at intervals;The trumpet answers from the rampart walls,Where many a maiden casts an anxious eye,Some long-lost object of her love to espy,Or watches, as the evening light illumesThe points of lances, or the passing plumes.The grating drawbridge and the portal-arch,Now echo to the long battalion's march;Whilst every eye some friend remembered greets,Amid the gazing crowd that throngs the streets.20As bending o'er his mule, amid the throng,Pensive and pale, Anselmo rode along,How sacred, 'mid the noise of arms, appearedHis venerable mien and snowy beard!Whilst every heart a silent prayer bestowed,Slow to the convent's massy gate he rode:Around, the brothers, gratulating, stand,And ask for tidings of the southern land.As from the turret tolls the vesper bell,He seeks, a weary man, his evening cell,30No sounds of social cheer, no beds of state,Nor gorgeous canopies his coming wait;But o'er a little bread, with folded hands,Thanking the God that gave, a while he stands;Then, while all thoughts of earthly sorrow cease,Upon his pallet lays him down in peace.The scene how different, where the castle-hallRings to the loud triumphant festival:A hundred torches blaze, and flame aloof,Long quivering shadows streak the vaulted roof,—40Whilst, seen far off, the illumined windows throwA splendour on the shore and seas below.Amid his captains, in imperial state,Beneath a crimson canopy, elate,Valdivia sits—and, striking loud the strings,The wandering ministrel of Valentia sings.For Chili conquered, fill the bowl again!For Chili conquered, raise the heroic strain!Lautaro left the hall of jubileeUnmarked, and wandered by the moonlit sea:50He heard far off, in dissonant acclaim,The song, the shout, and his loved country's name.As swelled at times the trump's insulting sound,He raised his eyes impatient from the ground;Then smote his breast indignantly, and cried,Chili! my country; would that I had diedOn the sad night of that eventful dayWhen on the ground my murdered father lay!I should not then, dejected and alone,Have thought I heard his injured spirit groan.60Ha! was it not his form—his face—his hair?Hold, soldier! stern, inhuman soldier, spare!Ha! is it not his blood? Avenge, he cries,Avenge, my son, these wounds! He faints—he dies!Leave me, dread shadow! Can I then forgetMy father's look—his voice? He beckons yet!Now on that glimmering rock I see him stand:Avenge! he cries, and waves his dim-seen hand!Thus mused the youth, distempered and forlorn,When, hark! the sound as of a distant horn70Swells o'er the surge! he turned his look around,And still, with many a pause, he heard the sound:It came from yonder rocks; and, list! what strainBreaks on the silence of the sleeping main?I heard the song of gladness;It seemed but yesterday,But it turned my thoughts to madness,So soon it died away:I sound my sea-shell; but in vain I tryTo bring back that enchanting harmony!80Hark! heard ye not the surges say,Oh! heartless maid, what canst thou do?O'er the moon-gleaming ocean, I'll wander away,And paddle to Spain in my light canoe!The youth drew near, by the strange accents led,Where in a cave, wild sea-weeds round her head,And holding a large sea-conch in her hand,He saw, with wildering air, an Indian maiden stand.100A tattered poncho o'er her shoulders hung;On either side her long black locks were flung;And now by the moon's glimmer, he espiesHer high cheek-bones, and bright but hollow eyes.Lautaro spoke: Oh! say what cruel wrongWeighs on thy heart, maiden, what bodes thy song?She answered not, but blew her shell again;Then thus renewed the desultory strain:Yes, yes, we must forget! the world is wide;My music now shall be the dashing tide:100In the calm of the deep I will frolic and swim—With the breath of the South o'er the sea-blossom[225]skim.If ever, stranger, on thy way,Sounds, more than earthly sweet, thy soul should move,It is the youth! Oh! do not say—That poor Olola died for love.Lautaro stretched his hand; she said, Adieu!And o'er the glimmering rocks like lightning flew.He followed, and still heard at distance swellThe lessening echoes of that mournful shell.110It ceased at once; and now he heard no moreThan the sea's murmur dying on the shore.Olola!—ha! his sister had that name!Oh, horrid fancies! shake not thus his frame!All night he wandered by the desert main,To catch the melancholy sounds again.No torches blaze in Penco's castled hallThat echoed to the midnight festival.The weary soldiers by their toils oppressed,Had now retired to silence and to rest.120The minstrel only, who the song had sungOf noble Cid, as o'er the strings he hung,Upon the instrument had fall'n asleep,Weary, and now was hushed in slumbers deep.Tracing the scenes long past, in busy dreamsAgain he wanders by his native streams;Or sits, his evening saraband to singTo the clear Garonne's gentle murmuring.Cold o'er the fleckered clouds the morning brokeAslant ere from his slumbers he awoke;130Still as he sat, nor yet had left the place,The first dim light fell on his pallid face.He wakes—he gazes round—the dawning dayComes from the deep, in garb of cloudy gray.The woods with crow of early turkeys ring,The glancing birds beneath the castle sing,And the sole sun his rising orb displays,Radiant and reddening, through the scattered haze.To recreate the languid sense a while,When earth and ocean wore their sweetest smile,140He wandered to the beach: the early airBlew soft, and lifted, as it blew, his hair;Flushed was his cheek; his faded eye, more bright,Shone with a faint but animated light,While the soft morning ray seemed to bestowOn his tired mind a transient kindred glow.As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand,He mused and wandered on the winding strand,At distance tossed upon the tumbling tide,A dark and floating substance he espied.150He stood, and where the eddying surges beat,An Indian corse was rolled beneath his feet:The hollow wave retired with sullen sound;The face of that sad corse was to the ground;It seemed a female, by the slender form;He touched the hand—it was no longer warm;He turned its face—O God! that eye, though dim,Seemed with its deadly glare as fixed on him!How sunk his shuddering sense, how changed his hue,When poor Olola in that corse he knew!160Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanced;His keen eye, like a startled eagle's glanced:'Tis she!—he knew her by a mark impressedFrom earliest infancy beneath her breast.Oh, my poor sister! when all hopes were pastOf meeting, do we meet—thus meet—at last!Then full on Zarinel, as one amazed,With rising wrath and stern suspicion gazed;For Zarinel still knelt upon the sand,And to his forehead pressed the dead maid's hand.170Speak! whence art thou?Pale Zarinel, his headUpraising answered,Peace is with the dead!Him dost thou seek who injured thine and thee?Here—strike the fell assassin—I am he!Die! he exclaimed, and with convulsive startInstant had plunged the dagger in his heart,When the meek father, with his holy book,And placid aspect, met his frenzied look.180He trembled—struck his brow—and, turning round,Flung the uplifted dagger to the ground.Then murmured: Father, Heaven has heard thy prayer—But oh! the sister of my soul lies there!The Christian's God has triumphed! father, heapSome earth upon her bones, whilst I go weep!Anselmo with calm brow approached the place,And hastened with his staff his faltering pace:Ho! child of guilt and wretchedness, he cried,Speak!—Holy father, the sad youth replied,190God bade the seas the accusing victim rollDead at my feet, to teach my shuddering soulIts guilt: Oh! father, holy father, prayThat heaven may take the deep, dire curse away!Oh! yet, Anselmo cried, live and repent,For not in vain was this dread warning sent;The deep reproaches of thy soul I spare,Go! seek Heaven's peace by penitence and prayer.The youth arose, yet trembling from the shock,And severed from the dead maid's hair a lock;200This to his heart with trembling hand he pressed,And dried the salt-sea moisture on his breast.They laid her limbs within the sea-beat grave,And prayed: Her soul, O blessed Mary, save!
The second moon had now begun to wane,Since bold Valdivia left the southern plain;Goal of his labours, Penco's port and bay,Far gleaming to the summer sunset lay.The wayworn veteran, who had slowly passedThrough trackless woods, or o'er savannahs vast,With hope impatient sees the city spiresGild the horizon, like ascending fires.Now well-known sounds salute him, as more nearThe citadel and battlements appear;10The approaching trumpets ring at intervals;The trumpet answers from the rampart walls,Where many a maiden casts an anxious eye,Some long-lost object of her love to espy,Or watches, as the evening light illumesThe points of lances, or the passing plumes.The grating drawbridge and the portal-arch,Now echo to the long battalion's march;Whilst every eye some friend remembered greets,Amid the gazing crowd that throngs the streets.20As bending o'er his mule, amid the throng,Pensive and pale, Anselmo rode along,How sacred, 'mid the noise of arms, appearedHis venerable mien and snowy beard!Whilst every heart a silent prayer bestowed,Slow to the convent's massy gate he rode:Around, the brothers, gratulating, stand,And ask for tidings of the southern land.As from the turret tolls the vesper bell,He seeks, a weary man, his evening cell,30No sounds of social cheer, no beds of state,Nor gorgeous canopies his coming wait;But o'er a little bread, with folded hands,Thanking the God that gave, a while he stands;Then, while all thoughts of earthly sorrow cease,Upon his pallet lays him down in peace.The scene how different, where the castle-hallRings to the loud triumphant festival:A hundred torches blaze, and flame aloof,Long quivering shadows streak the vaulted roof,—40Whilst, seen far off, the illumined windows throwA splendour on the shore and seas below.Amid his captains, in imperial state,Beneath a crimson canopy, elate,Valdivia sits—and, striking loud the strings,The wandering ministrel of Valentia sings.For Chili conquered, fill the bowl again!For Chili conquered, raise the heroic strain!Lautaro left the hall of jubileeUnmarked, and wandered by the moonlit sea:50He heard far off, in dissonant acclaim,The song, the shout, and his loved country's name.As swelled at times the trump's insulting sound,He raised his eyes impatient from the ground;Then smote his breast indignantly, and cried,Chili! my country; would that I had diedOn the sad night of that eventful dayWhen on the ground my murdered father lay!I should not then, dejected and alone,Have thought I heard his injured spirit groan.60Ha! was it not his form—his face—his hair?Hold, soldier! stern, inhuman soldier, spare!Ha! is it not his blood? Avenge, he cries,Avenge, my son, these wounds! He faints—he dies!Leave me, dread shadow! Can I then forgetMy father's look—his voice? He beckons yet!Now on that glimmering rock I see him stand:Avenge! he cries, and waves his dim-seen hand!Thus mused the youth, distempered and forlorn,When, hark! the sound as of a distant horn70Swells o'er the surge! he turned his look around,And still, with many a pause, he heard the sound:It came from yonder rocks; and, list! what strainBreaks on the silence of the sleeping main?I heard the song of gladness;It seemed but yesterday,But it turned my thoughts to madness,So soon it died away:I sound my sea-shell; but in vain I tryTo bring back that enchanting harmony!80Hark! heard ye not the surges say,Oh! heartless maid, what canst thou do?O'er the moon-gleaming ocean, I'll wander away,And paddle to Spain in my light canoe!The youth drew near, by the strange accents led,Where in a cave, wild sea-weeds round her head,And holding a large sea-conch in her hand,He saw, with wildering air, an Indian maiden stand.100A tattered poncho o'er her shoulders hung;On either side her long black locks were flung;And now by the moon's glimmer, he espiesHer high cheek-bones, and bright but hollow eyes.Lautaro spoke: Oh! say what cruel wrongWeighs on thy heart, maiden, what bodes thy song?She answered not, but blew her shell again;Then thus renewed the desultory strain:Yes, yes, we must forget! the world is wide;My music now shall be the dashing tide:100In the calm of the deep I will frolic and swim—With the breath of the South o'er the sea-blossom[225]skim.If ever, stranger, on thy way,Sounds, more than earthly sweet, thy soul should move,It is the youth! Oh! do not say—That poor Olola died for love.Lautaro stretched his hand; she said, Adieu!And o'er the glimmering rocks like lightning flew.He followed, and still heard at distance swellThe lessening echoes of that mournful shell.110It ceased at once; and now he heard no moreThan the sea's murmur dying on the shore.Olola!—ha! his sister had that name!Oh, horrid fancies! shake not thus his frame!All night he wandered by the desert main,To catch the melancholy sounds again.No torches blaze in Penco's castled hallThat echoed to the midnight festival.The weary soldiers by their toils oppressed,Had now retired to silence and to rest.120The minstrel only, who the song had sungOf noble Cid, as o'er the strings he hung,Upon the instrument had fall'n asleep,Weary, and now was hushed in slumbers deep.Tracing the scenes long past, in busy dreamsAgain he wanders by his native streams;Or sits, his evening saraband to singTo the clear Garonne's gentle murmuring.Cold o'er the fleckered clouds the morning brokeAslant ere from his slumbers he awoke;130Still as he sat, nor yet had left the place,The first dim light fell on his pallid face.He wakes—he gazes round—the dawning dayComes from the deep, in garb of cloudy gray.The woods with crow of early turkeys ring,The glancing birds beneath the castle sing,And the sole sun his rising orb displays,Radiant and reddening, through the scattered haze.To recreate the languid sense a while,When earth and ocean wore their sweetest smile,140He wandered to the beach: the early airBlew soft, and lifted, as it blew, his hair;Flushed was his cheek; his faded eye, more bright,Shone with a faint but animated light,While the soft morning ray seemed to bestowOn his tired mind a transient kindred glow.As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand,He mused and wandered on the winding strand,At distance tossed upon the tumbling tide,A dark and floating substance he espied.150He stood, and where the eddying surges beat,An Indian corse was rolled beneath his feet:The hollow wave retired with sullen sound;The face of that sad corse was to the ground;It seemed a female, by the slender form;He touched the hand—it was no longer warm;He turned its face—O God! that eye, though dim,Seemed with its deadly glare as fixed on him!How sunk his shuddering sense, how changed his hue,When poor Olola in that corse he knew!160Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanced;His keen eye, like a startled eagle's glanced:'Tis she!—he knew her by a mark impressedFrom earliest infancy beneath her breast.Oh, my poor sister! when all hopes were pastOf meeting, do we meet—thus meet—at last!Then full on Zarinel, as one amazed,With rising wrath and stern suspicion gazed;For Zarinel still knelt upon the sand,And to his forehead pressed the dead maid's hand.170Speak! whence art thou?Pale Zarinel, his headUpraising answered,Peace is with the dead!Him dost thou seek who injured thine and thee?Here—strike the fell assassin—I am he!Die! he exclaimed, and with convulsive startInstant had plunged the dagger in his heart,When the meek father, with his holy book,And placid aspect, met his frenzied look.180He trembled—struck his brow—and, turning round,Flung the uplifted dagger to the ground.Then murmured: Father, Heaven has heard thy prayer—But oh! the sister of my soul lies there!The Christian's God has triumphed! father, heapSome earth upon her bones, whilst I go weep!Anselmo with calm brow approached the place,And hastened with his staff his faltering pace:Ho! child of guilt and wretchedness, he cried,Speak!—Holy father, the sad youth replied,190God bade the seas the accusing victim rollDead at my feet, to teach my shuddering soulIts guilt: Oh! father, holy father, prayThat heaven may take the deep, dire curse away!Oh! yet, Anselmo cried, live and repent,For not in vain was this dread warning sent;The deep reproaches of thy soul I spare,Go! seek Heaven's peace by penitence and prayer.The youth arose, yet trembling from the shock,And severed from the dead maid's hair a lock;200This to his heart with trembling hand he pressed,And dried the salt-sea moisture on his breast.They laid her limbs within the sea-beat grave,And prayed: Her soul, O blessed Mary, save!