CANTO SECOND.

[193]A volcano in Chili.[194]The chrysomela is a beautiful insect of which the young women of Chili make necklaces.[195]The parrot butterfly, peculiar to this part of America, the largest and most brilliant of its kind.—Papilio psittacus.[196]A most beautiful climbing plant. The vine is of the size of packthread: it climbs on the trees without attaching itself to them: when it reaches the top, it descends perpendicularly; and as it continues to grow, it extends itself from tree to tree, until it offers to the eye a confused tissue, exhibiting some resemblance to the rigging of a ship.—Molina.[197]I chanced once to lodge in a village named Upec by the Frenchmen: there, in the night, I heardthose birds, not singing, but making a lamentable noise. I saw the barbarians most attentive, and, being ignorant of the whole matter, reproved their folly. But when I smiled a little upon a Frenchman standing by me, a certain old man, severely enough, restrained me with these words: "Hold your peace, lest you hinder us who attentively hearkento the happy tidings of our ancestors; for as often as we hear these birds, so often also are we cheered, and our strength receiveth increase."—Callender's Voyage.[198]The ichella is a short cloak, of a greenish-blue colour, of wool, fastened before with a silver buckle.—Molina.[199]The alpaca is perhaps the most beautiful, gentle, and interesting of living animals: one was to be seen in London in 1812.[200]Ardea cristata.[201]Every warrior of Chili, according to Molina, has his attendant "nymph" or fairy—the belief in which is nearly similar to the popular and poetical idea of those beings in Europe. Meulen is the benevolent spirit.[202]I have taken this line from the conclusion of the celebrated speech of the old North American warrior, Logan, "Who is there to mourn for Logan?—not one!"[203]Their pipes of war are made of the bones of their enemies, who have been sacrificed.[204]The way in which the warriors are summoned, is something like the "running the cross" in Scotland, which is so beautifully described by Walter Scott. The scouts on this occasion bear an arrow bound with red fillets.[205]Ulmen is the same as Casique, or chief.[206]Guecubuis the evil spirit of the Chilians.[207]They have their evil and good spirits.

[193]A volcano in Chili.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[200]Ardea cristata.

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

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

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

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

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

[206]Guecubuis the evil spirit of the Chilians.

[207]They have their evil and good spirits.

The Second Day.

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

The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows,Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,—A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone,Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone;And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke,Thus to the spirits of the fire he spoke:—Ye, who tread the hidden deeps,Where the silent earthquake sleeps;Ye, who track the sulphurous tide,Or on hissing vapours ride,—10Spirits, come!From worlds of subterraneous night;From fiery realms of lurid light;From the ore's unfathomed bed;From the lava's whirlpools red,—Spirits, come!On Chili's foes rush with vindictive sway,And sweep them from the light of living day!Heard ye not the ravenous brood,That flap their wings, and scream for blood?20On Peru's devoted shoreTheir murderous beaks are red with gore;Yet here, impatient for new prey,The insatiate vultures track their way.Let them perish! they, whose bandsSwept remote and peaceful lands!Let them perish!—on their head,Descend the darkness of the dead!Spirits, now your caves forsake:Hark! ten thousand warriors wake!—30Spirits, their high cause defend!—From your caves ascend! ascend!As thus the Genius of the Andes spoke,The trembling mountain heaved with darker smoke;Lightnings, and phantom-forms, by fits appeared;His mighty voice far off Osorno heard;The caverned deeps shook through their vast profound,And Chimborazzo's height rolled back the sound.With lifted arm, and towering stature high,And aspect frowning to the middle sky40(Its misty form dilated in the wind),The phantom stood,—till, less and less defined,Into thin air it faded from the sight,Lost in the ambient haze of slow-returning light.Its feathery-seeming crown, its giant spear,Its limbs of huge proportion, disappear;And the bare mountains to the dawn discloseThe same long line of solitary snows.The morning shines, the military trainStreams far and wide along the tented plain;50And plaited cuirasses, and helms of steel,Throw back the sunbeams, as the horsemen wheel:Thus, with arms glancing to the eastern light,Pass, in review, proud steeds and cohorts bright;For all the host, by break of morrow's gray,Wind back their march to Penco's northern bay,Valdivia, fearful lest confederate foes,Ambushed and dark, his progress might oppose,Marshals to-day the whole collected force,File and artillery, cuirassier and horse:60Himself yet lingers ere he joins the train,That moves, in ordered march, along the plain,While troops, and Indian slaves beneath his eye,The labours of the rising city ply:[208]Wide glows the general toil; the mole extends,The watch-tower o'er the desert surge ascends;And battlements, and rising ramparts, shineAbove the ocean's blue and level line.The sun ascended to meridian height,And all the northern bastions shone in light;70With hoarse acclaim, the gong and trumpet rung,The Moorish slaves aloft their cymbals swung,When the proud victor, in triumphant state,Rode forth, in arms, through the portcullis' gate.With neck high-arching as he smote the ground,And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound,—With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders spread,And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,—The coal-black steed, in rich caparisonFar trailing to the ground, went proudly on.80Proudly he tramped, as conscious of his charge,And turned around his eye-balls, bright and large,And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain;And tossed the flakes, indignant, off his mane;And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressedProudly against the barb his heaving breast.The fate of empires glowing in his thought,Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought.On the left side his poised shield he bore,With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er;90Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone;Blue in the wind the escutcheoned mantle flowed,O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode.The barred vizor raised, you might discernHis clime-changed countenance,[209]though pale, yet stern,And resolute as death,—whilst in his eyeSat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory.Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride,Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side,100In Spanish mantle gracefully arrayed;Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played:His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace,Shaded the noonday sunbeams on his face.Though passed in tears the dayspring of his youth,Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth:He, in Valdivia, owned a nobler friend;Kind to protect, and mighty to defend.So, on he rode; upon his youthful mienA mild but sad intelligence was seen;110Courage was on his open brow, yet careSeemed like a wandering shade to linger there;And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright,It beamed with humid, melancholy lightWhen now Valdivia saw the embattled line,Helmets, and swords, and shields, and matchlocks, shine;Now the long phalanx still and steady stand,Fixed every eye, and motionless each hand;Then slowly clustering, into columns wheel,Each with the red-cross banners of Castile;120While trumps, and drums, and cymbals, to his earMade music such as soldiers love to hear;While horsemen checked their steeds, or, bending lowWith levelled lances, o'er the saddle-bow,Rode gallantly at tilt; and thunders broke,Instant involving van and rear in smoke,Till winds the obscuring volume rolled away,And the red file, stretched out in long array,More radiant moved beneath the beams of day;While ensigns, arms, and crosses, glittered bright,—130Philip![210]he cried, seest thou the glorious sight?And dost thou deem the tribes of this poor landCan men, and arms, and steeds, like these, withstand?Forgive!—the youth replied, and checked a tear,—The land where my forefathers sleep is dear!—My native land!—this spot of blessed earth,The scene where I, and all I love, had birth!What gratitude fidelity can giveIs yours, my lord!—you shielded—bade me live,When, in the circuit of the world so wide,140I had but one, one only friend beside.I bowed resigned to fate; I kissed the hand,Red with the best blood of my father's land![211]But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,Though Cortes' desolating march laid lowThe shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico;With carcases, though proud Pizarro strewThe Sun's imperial temple in Peru,Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave,And the last spot they lose will be their grave!150A moment's crimson crossed Valdivia's cheek—Then o'er the plain he spurred, nor deigned to speak,Waving the youth, at distance, to retire;None saw the eye that shot terrific fire.As their commander sternly rode along,Troop after troop, halted the martial throng;And all the pennoned trumps a louder blastBlew, as the Southern World's great victor passed.Lautaro turned, scarce heeding, from the view,And from the noise of trumps and drums withdrew;160And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell,Seeks the gray Missionary's humble cell.Fronting the ocean, but beyond the kenOf public view, and sounds of murmuring men,Of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood,A small and rustic oratory stood;Upon its roof of reeds appeared a cross,The porch within was lined with mantling moss;A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side—One to admonish seemed, and one to guide;170This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er;And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more.O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray,The clustering copu weaved its trellis gay;Two mossy pines, high bending, interwoveTheir aged and fantastic arms above.In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers,A dial counted the departing hours,On which the sweetest light of summer shone,—A rude and brief inscription marked the stone:180To count, with passing shade, the hours,I placed the dial 'mid the flowers;That, one by one, came forth, and died,Blooming, and withering, round its side.Mortal, let the sight impartIts pensive moral to thy heart!Just heard to trickle through a covert near,And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,A fount, like rain-drops, filtered through the stone,And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone.190Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,The humming-bird, here, its unceasing songHeedlessly murmured, all the summer long;And when the winter came, retired to rest,And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.No sounds of a conflicting world were near;The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast,But dying sounds of passions that were past;200Or closing anthems, when, far off, expireThe lessening echoes of the distant choir.Here, every human sorrow hushed to rest,His pale hands meekly crossed upon his breast,Anselmo sat: the sun, with westering ray,Just touched his temples, and his locks of gray.There was no worldly feeling in his eye;The world to him was "as a thing gone by."Now, all his features lit, he raised his look,Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasped the book;210And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand,A tame opossum[212]licked his withered hand.That sweetest light of slow-declining day,Which through the trellis poured its slanting ray,Resting a moment on his few gray hairs,Seemed light from heaven sent down to bless his prayers.When the trump echoed to the quiet spot,He thought upon the world, but mourned it not;Enough if his meek wisdom could control,And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul;220Enough, if, while these distant scenes he trod,He led one erring Indian to his God.Whence comes my son? with kind complacent lookHe asked, and closed again the embossed book.I come to thee for peace, the youth replied:Oh, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride,In this sad Christian world! My native landWas happy, ere the soldier, with his bandOf fell destroyers, like a vulture, came,And gave its peaceful scenes to blood and flame.230When will the turmoil of earth's tempests cease?Father, I come to thee for peace—for peace!Seek peace, the father cried, with God above:In His good time, all will be peace and love.We mourn, indeed, mourn that all sounds of ill,Earth's fairest scenes with one deep murmur fill;That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky,Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery;The course of wide destruction to withstand,We lift our feeble voice—our trembling hand;240But still, bowed low, or smitten to the dust,Father of mercy, still in Thee we trust!Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth,In joy or woe, in sickness or in health,Meek Piety thy awful hand surveys,And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise!We know—whatever evils we deplore—Thou hast permitted, and we know no more!Behold, illustrious on the subject plain,Some tow'r-crowned city of imperial Spain!250Hark! 'twas the earthquake![213]clouds of dust aloneAscend from earth, where tower and temple shone!Such is the conqueror's dread path: the graveYawns for its millions where his banners wave;But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh,With sullen acquiescence gaze and die?Alas, how little of the mighty mazeOf Providence our mortal ken surveys!Heaven's awful Lord, pavilioned in the clouds,Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds;260And, far beyond the tempest and the night,Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless light.

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

As thus the Genius of the Andes spoke,The trembling mountain heaved with darker smoke;Lightnings, and phantom-forms, by fits appeared;His mighty voice far off Osorno heard;The caverned deeps shook through their vast profound,And Chimborazzo's height rolled back the sound.With lifted arm, and towering stature high,And aspect frowning to the middle sky40(Its misty form dilated in the wind),The phantom stood,—till, less and less defined,Into thin air it faded from the sight,Lost in the ambient haze of slow-returning light.Its feathery-seeming crown, its giant spear,Its limbs of huge proportion, disappear;And the bare mountains to the dawn discloseThe same long line of solitary snows.The morning shines, the military trainStreams far and wide along the tented plain;50And plaited cuirasses, and helms of steel,Throw back the sunbeams, as the horsemen wheel:Thus, with arms glancing to the eastern light,Pass, in review, proud steeds and cohorts bright;For all the host, by break of morrow's gray,Wind back their march to Penco's northern bay,Valdivia, fearful lest confederate foes,Ambushed and dark, his progress might oppose,Marshals to-day the whole collected force,File and artillery, cuirassier and horse:60Himself yet lingers ere he joins the train,That moves, in ordered march, along the plain,While troops, and Indian slaves beneath his eye,The labours of the rising city ply:[208]Wide glows the general toil; the mole extends,The watch-tower o'er the desert surge ascends;And battlements, and rising ramparts, shineAbove the ocean's blue and level line.The sun ascended to meridian height,And all the northern bastions shone in light;70With hoarse acclaim, the gong and trumpet rung,The Moorish slaves aloft their cymbals swung,When the proud victor, in triumphant state,Rode forth, in arms, through the portcullis' gate.With neck high-arching as he smote the ground,And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound,—With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders spread,And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,—The coal-black steed, in rich caparisonFar trailing to the ground, went proudly on.80Proudly he tramped, as conscious of his charge,And turned around his eye-balls, bright and large,And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain;And tossed the flakes, indignant, off his mane;And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressedProudly against the barb his heaving breast.The fate of empires glowing in his thought,Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought.On the left side his poised shield he bore,With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er;90Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone;Blue in the wind the escutcheoned mantle flowed,O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode.The barred vizor raised, you might discernHis clime-changed countenance,[209]though pale, yet stern,And resolute as death,—whilst in his eyeSat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory.Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride,Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side,100In Spanish mantle gracefully arrayed;Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played:His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace,Shaded the noonday sunbeams on his face.Though passed in tears the dayspring of his youth,Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth:He, in Valdivia, owned a nobler friend;Kind to protect, and mighty to defend.So, on he rode; upon his youthful mienA mild but sad intelligence was seen;110Courage was on his open brow, yet careSeemed like a wandering shade to linger there;And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright,It beamed with humid, melancholy lightWhen now Valdivia saw the embattled line,Helmets, and swords, and shields, and matchlocks, shine;Now the long phalanx still and steady stand,Fixed every eye, and motionless each hand;Then slowly clustering, into columns wheel,Each with the red-cross banners of Castile;120While trumps, and drums, and cymbals, to his earMade music such as soldiers love to hear;While horsemen checked their steeds, or, bending lowWith levelled lances, o'er the saddle-bow,Rode gallantly at tilt; and thunders broke,Instant involving van and rear in smoke,Till winds the obscuring volume rolled away,And the red file, stretched out in long array,More radiant moved beneath the beams of day;While ensigns, arms, and crosses, glittered bright,—130Philip![210]he cried, seest thou the glorious sight?And dost thou deem the tribes of this poor landCan men, and arms, and steeds, like these, withstand?Forgive!—the youth replied, and checked a tear,—The land where my forefathers sleep is dear!—My native land!—this spot of blessed earth,The scene where I, and all I love, had birth!What gratitude fidelity can giveIs yours, my lord!—you shielded—bade me live,When, in the circuit of the world so wide,140I had but one, one only friend beside.I bowed resigned to fate; I kissed the hand,Red with the best blood of my father's land![211]But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,Though Cortes' desolating march laid lowThe shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico;With carcases, though proud Pizarro strewThe Sun's imperial temple in Peru,Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave,And the last spot they lose will be their grave!150A moment's crimson crossed Valdivia's cheek—Then o'er the plain he spurred, nor deigned to speak,Waving the youth, at distance, to retire;None saw the eye that shot terrific fire.As their commander sternly rode along,Troop after troop, halted the martial throng;And all the pennoned trumps a louder blastBlew, as the Southern World's great victor passed.Lautaro turned, scarce heeding, from the view,And from the noise of trumps and drums withdrew;160And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell,Seeks the gray Missionary's humble cell.Fronting the ocean, but beyond the kenOf public view, and sounds of murmuring men,Of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood,A small and rustic oratory stood;Upon its roof of reeds appeared a cross,The porch within was lined with mantling moss;A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side—One to admonish seemed, and one to guide;170This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er;And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more.O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray,The clustering copu weaved its trellis gay;Two mossy pines, high bending, interwoveTheir aged and fantastic arms above.In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers,A dial counted the departing hours,On which the sweetest light of summer shone,—A rude and brief inscription marked the stone:180To count, with passing shade, the hours,I placed the dial 'mid the flowers;That, one by one, came forth, and died,Blooming, and withering, round its side.Mortal, let the sight impartIts pensive moral to thy heart!Just heard to trickle through a covert near,And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,A fount, like rain-drops, filtered through the stone,And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone.190Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,The humming-bird, here, its unceasing songHeedlessly murmured, all the summer long;And when the winter came, retired to rest,And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.No sounds of a conflicting world were near;The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast,But dying sounds of passions that were past;200Or closing anthems, when, far off, expireThe lessening echoes of the distant choir.Here, every human sorrow hushed to rest,His pale hands meekly crossed upon his breast,Anselmo sat: the sun, with westering ray,Just touched his temples, and his locks of gray.There was no worldly feeling in his eye;The world to him was "as a thing gone by."Now, all his features lit, he raised his look,Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasped the book;210And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand,A tame opossum[212]licked his withered hand.That sweetest light of slow-declining day,Which through the trellis poured its slanting ray,Resting a moment on his few gray hairs,Seemed light from heaven sent down to bless his prayers.When the trump echoed to the quiet spot,He thought upon the world, but mourned it not;Enough if his meek wisdom could control,And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul;220Enough, if, while these distant scenes he trod,He led one erring Indian to his God.Whence comes my son? with kind complacent lookHe asked, and closed again the embossed book.I come to thee for peace, the youth replied:Oh, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride,In this sad Christian world! My native landWas happy, ere the soldier, with his bandOf fell destroyers, like a vulture, came,And gave its peaceful scenes to blood and flame.230When will the turmoil of earth's tempests cease?Father, I come to thee for peace—for peace!Seek peace, the father cried, with God above:In His good time, all will be peace and love.We mourn, indeed, mourn that all sounds of ill,Earth's fairest scenes with one deep murmur fill;That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky,Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery;The course of wide destruction to withstand,We lift our feeble voice—our trembling hand;240But still, bowed low, or smitten to the dust,Father of mercy, still in Thee we trust!Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth,In joy or woe, in sickness or in health,Meek Piety thy awful hand surveys,And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise!We know—whatever evils we deplore—Thou hast permitted, and we know no more!Behold, illustrious on the subject plain,Some tow'r-crowned city of imperial Spain!250Hark! 'twas the earthquake![213]clouds of dust aloneAscend from earth, where tower and temple shone!Such is the conqueror's dread path: the graveYawns for its millions where his banners wave;But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh,With sullen acquiescence gaze and die?Alas, how little of the mighty mazeOf Providence our mortal ken surveys!Heaven's awful Lord, pavilioned in the clouds,Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds;260And, far beyond the tempest and the night,Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless light.

[208]The city Baldivia.[209]He had served in the wars of Italy.[210]Lautaro had been baptized by that name.[211]Valdivia had before been in Chili.[212]A small and beautiful species, which is domesticated.[213]No part of the world is so subject to earthquakes as Peru.

[208]The city Baldivia.

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

[210]Lautaro had been baptized by that name.

[211]Valdivia had before been in Chili.

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

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

Evening and Night of the same Day.

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

Come,—for the sun yet hangs above the bay,—And whilst our time may brook a brief delayWith other thoughts, and, haply with a tear,An old man's tale of sorrow thou shalt hear.I wished not to reveal it;—thoughts that dwellDeep in the lonely bosom's inmost cellUnnoticed, and unknown, too painful wake,And, like a tempest, the dark spirit shake,When, starting from our slumberous apathy,We gaze upon the scenes of days gone by.10Yet, if a moment's irritating flush,Darkens thy cheek,[214]as thoughts conflicting rush,When I disclose my hidden griefs, the taleMay more than wisdom or reproof prevail.Oh, may it teach thee, till all trials cease,To hold thy course, though sorrowing, yet in peace;Still looking up to Him, the soul's best stay,Who Faith and Hope shall crown, when worlds are swept away!Where fair Seville's Morisco[215]turrets gleamOn Guadilquiver's gently-stealing stream;20Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide,Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side,My youth was passed. Oh, days for ever gone!How touched with Heaven's own light your mornings shoneEven now, when lonely and forlorn I bend,My weary journey hastening to its end,A drooping exile on a distant shore,I mourn the hours of youth that are no more.The tender thought amid my prayers has part,And steals, at times, from Heaven my aged heart.30Forgive the cause, O God!—forgive the tear,That flows, even now, o'er Leonora's bier;For, 'midst the innocent and lovely, noneMore beautiful than Leonora shone.As by her widowed mother's side she knelt,A sad and sacred sympathy I felt.At Easter-tide, when the high mass was sung,And, fuming high, the silver censer swung;When rich-hued windows, from the arches' height,Poured o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light;40From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear,When "Adoremus" swelled upon the ear.(Such as to Heaven thy rapt attention drewFirst in the Christian churches of Peru),She seemed, methought, some spirit of the sky,Descending to that holy harmony.But wherefore tell, when life and hope were new,How by degrees the soul's first passion grew!I loved her, and I won her virgin heart;But fortune whispered, we a while must part.50The minster tolled the middle hour of night,When, waked to agony and wild affright,I heard those words, words of appalling dread—"The Holy Inquisition!"—from the bedI started; snatched my dagger, and my cloak—Who dare accuse me!—none, in answer, spoke.The demons seized, in silence, on their prey,And tore me from my dreams of bliss away.How frightful was their silence, and their shade,In torch-light, as their victim they conveyed,60By dark-inscribed, and massy-windowed walls,Through the dim twilight of terrific halls;(For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stainOf pure religion, and the rights of Spain;)Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold blast,And echoed to the foot-fall as we passed!They left me, faint and breathless with affright,In a cold cell, to solitude and night;Oh! think, what horror through the heart must thrillWhen the last bolt was barred, and all at once was still!70Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom,Sadder than darkness, wrapped the living tomb.Some bread and water, nature to sustain,Duly was brought when eve returned again;And thus I knew, hoping it were the last,Another day of lingering life was passed.Five years immured in that deep den of night,I never saw the sweet sun's blessed light.Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was barred,And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarred,80Methought I heard, as clanged the iron door,A dull and hollow echo from the floor;I stamped; the vault, and winding caves around,Returned a long and melancholy sound.With patient toil I raised a massy stone,And looked into a depth of shade unknown;The murky twilight of the lurid placeHelped me, at length, a secret way to trace:I entered; step by step explored the road,In darkness, from my desolate abode;90Till, winding through long passages of night,I saw, at distance, a dim streak of light:—It was the sun—the bright, the blessed beamOf day! I knelt—I wept;—the glittering streamRolled on beneath me, as I left the cave,Concealed in woods above the winding wave.I rested on a verdant bank a while,I saw around the summer landscape smile;I gained a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave,Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve.100Remembering still affection's fondest hours,I turned my footsteps to the city towers;In pilgrim's dress, I traced the streets unknown:No light in Leonora's lattice shone.The morning came; the busy tumult swells;Knolling to church, I heard the minster bells;Involuntary to that scene I strayed,Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid.I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand,And yield, half-shrinking, her reluctant hand;110She turned her head; she saw my hollow eyes,And knew me, wasted, wan, in my disguise;She shrieked, and fell;—breathless, I left the faneIn agony—nor saw her form again;And from that day her voice, her look were given,Her name, her memory, to the winds of heaven.Far off I bent my melancholy way,Heart-sick and faint, and, in this gown of gray,From every human eye my sorrows hid,Unknown, amidst the tumult of Madrid.120Grief in my heart, despair upon my look,With no companion save my beads and book,My morsel with Affliction's sons to share,To tend the sick and poor, my only care,Forgotten, thus I lived; till day by dayHad worn nigh thirteen years of grief away.One winter's night, when I had closed my cell,And bid the labours of the day farewell,An aged crone approached, with panting breath,And bade me hasten to the house of death.130I came. With moving lips intent to pray,A dying woman on a pallet lay;Her lifted hands were wasted to the bone,And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone;Beside the bed a pious daughter standsSilent, and, weeping, kisses her pale hands.Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head,Forgive, forgive!—they told me he was dead!—But in the sunshine of that dreadful day,That gave me to another's arms away,140I saw him, like a ghost, with deadly stare;I saw his wasted eye-balls' ghastly glare;I saw his lips (oh, hide them, God of love!)I saw his livid lips, half-muttering, move,To curse the maid—forgetful of her vow:—Perhaps he lives to curse—to curse me now!He lives to bless! I cried; and, drawing nigh,Held up the crucifix; her heavy eyeShe raised, and scarce pronounced—Does he yet live?Can he his lost, his dying child forgive?150Will God forgive—the Lord who bled—will He?—Ah, no, there is no mercy left for me!Words were but vain, and colours all too faint,That awful moment of despair to paint.She knew me; her exhausted breath, with pain,Drawing, she pressed my hand, and spoke again:By a false guardian's cruel wiles deceived,The tale of fraudful falsehood I believed,And thought thee dead; he gave the stern command,And bade me take the rich Antonio's hand.160I knelt, implored, embraced my guardian's knees;Ruthless inquisitor, he held the keysOf the dark torture-house.[216]Trembling for life,Yes, I became a sad, heart-broken wife!Yet curse me not; of every human careAlready my full heart has had its share:Abandoned, left in youth to want and woe,Oh! let these tears, that agonising flow,Witness how deep ev'n now my heart is rent!Yet one is lovely—one is innocent!170Protect, protect, (and faint in death she smiled)When I am dead, protect my orphan child!The dreadful prison, that so long detainedMy wasting life, her dying words explained.The wretched priest, who wounded me by stealth,Bartered her love, her innocence for wealth!I laid her bones in earth; the chanted hymnEchoed along the hollow cloister dim;I heard, far off, the bell funereal toll,And sorrowing said: Now peace be with her soul!180Far o'er the Western Ocean I conveyed,And Indiana called the orphan maid;Beneath my eye she grew, and, day by day,Seemed, grateful, every kindness to repay.Renouncing Spain, her cruelties and crimes,Amid untutored tribes, in distant climes,'Twas mine to spread the light of truth, or saveFrom stripes and torture the poor Indian slave.I saw thee, young and innocent, alone,Cast on the mercies of a race unknown;190I saw, in dark adversity's cold hour,Thy virtues blooming, like a winter's flower;From chains and slavery I redeemed thy youth,Poured on thy mental sight the beams of truth;By thy warm heart and mild demeanour won,Called thee my other child—my age's son.I need not tell the sequel;—not unmovedPoor Indiana heard thy tale, and loved;Some sympathy a kindred fate might claim;Your years, your fortunes, and your friend the same;200Both early of a parent's care bereft,Both strangers in a world of sadness left;I marked each slowly-struggling thought; I shedA tear of love paternal on each head;And, while I saw her timid eyes incline,Blessed the affection that had made her thine!Here let the murmurs of despondence cease:There is a God—believe—and part in peace!Rich hues illumed the track of dying dayAs the great sun sank in the western bay,210And only its last light yet lingering shone,Upon the highest palm-tree's feathery cone;When at a distance on the dewy plain,In mingled group appeared an Indian train;Men, women, children, round Anselmo press,Farewell! they cried. He raised his hand to bless,And said: My children, may the God aboveStill lead you in the paths of peace and love;To-morrow, we must part;—when I am gone,Raise on this spot a cross, and place a stone,220That tribes unborn may some memorial have,When I far off am mouldering in the grave,Of that poor messenger, who tidings boreOf Gospel-mercy to your distant shore.The crowd retired; along the twilight gray,The condor kept its solitary way,The fire-flies shone, when to the hermit's cellWho hastens but the minstrel Zarinel!In foreign lands, far from his native home,'Twas his, a gay, romantic youth, to roam,230With a light cittern o'er his shoulders slung,Where'er he passed he played, and loved, and sung;And thus accomplished, late had joined the trainOf gallant soldiers on the southern plain.Father, he cried, uncertain of the fateThat may to-morrow's toilsome march await,For long will be the road, I would confessSome secret thoughts that on my bosom press.They are of one I left, an Indian maid,Whose trusting love my careless heart betrayed.240Say, may I speak?Say on, the father cried,Nor be to penitence all hope denied.Then hear, Anselmo! From a very childI loved all fancies marvellous and wild;I turned from truth, to listen to the loreOf many an old and fabling troubadour.Thus, with impassioned heart, and wayward mind,To dreams and shapes of shadowy things resigned,I left my native vales and village home,250Wide o'er the world a minstrel boy to roam.I never shall forget the day, the hour,When, all my soul resigned to Fancy's power,First, from the snowy Pyrenees, I castMy labouring vision o'er the landscape vast,And saw beneath my feet long vapours float,Streams, mountains, woods, and ocean's mist remote.There once I met a soldier, poor and old,Who tales of Cortes and Bilboa told,And this new world; he spoke of Indian maids,260Rivers like seas, and forests whose deep shadesHad never yet been pierced by morning ray,And how the green bird mocked, and talked all day.Imagination thus, in colours new,This distant world presented to my view;Young, and enchanted with the fancied scene,I crossed the toiling seas that roared between,And with ideal images impressed,Stood on these unknown shores a wondering guest.Still to romantic phantasies resigned,270I left Callao's crowded port behind,And climbed the mountains which their shadow threwUpon the lessening summits of Peru.Some sheep the armed peasants drove before,That all our food through the wild passes bore,Had wandered in the frost-smoke of the morn,Far from the track; I blew the signal horn—But echo only answered: 'mid the snows,Wildered and lost, I saw the evening close.The sun was setting in the crimson west;280In all the earth I had no home of rest;The last sad light upon the ice-hills shone;I seemed forsaken in a world unknown;How did my cold and sinking heart rejoice,When, hark! methought I heard a human voice!It might be some wild Indian's roving troop,Or the dread echo of their distant whoop;Still it was human, and I seemed to findAgain some commerce with remote mankind.The voice comes nearer, rising through the shade—290Is it the song of some rude mountain-maid?And now I heard the tread of hastening feet,And, in the western glen, a Llama bleat.I listened—all is still; but hark! againNear and more near is heard the welcome strain;It is a wild maid's carolling, who seeksHer wandering Llama 'midst the snowy peaks:Truant, she cried, thy lurking place is found!With languid touch I waked the cittern's sound,And soon a maid, by the pale light, I saw300Gaze breathless with astonishment and awe:What instant terrors to her fancy rose,Ha! is it not the Spirit of the snows!But when she saw me, weary, cold, and weak,Stretch forth my hand (for now I could not speak),She pitied, raised me from the snows, and ledMy faltering footsteps to her father's shed;The Llama followed with her tinkling bell;The dwelling rose within a craggy dell,O'erhung with icy summits. To be brief,310She was the daughter of an aged chief;He, by her gentle voice to pity won,Showed mercy, for himself had lost a son.The father spoke not; by the pine-wood blaze,The daughter stood, and turned a cake of maize;And then, as sudden shone the light, I sawSuch features as no artist hand might draw.Her form, her face, her symmetry, her air,Father! thy age must such recital spare:—She saved my life; and kindness, if not love,320Might sure in time the coldest bosom move!Mine was not cold; she loved to hear me sing,And sometimes touched with playful hand the string;And when I waked some melancholy strain,She wept, and smiled, and bade me sing again.So many a happy day, in this deep glen,Far from the noise of life, and sounds of men,Was passed! Nay, father, the sad sequel hear:'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year—Ambition called me: true, I knew to partWould break her generous, warm, and trusting heart;True, I had vowed, but now estranged and cold,She saw my look, and shuddered to behold:—She would go with me, leave the lonely gladeWhere she grew up, but my stern voice forbade;She hid her face and wept: Go then away,(Father, methinks, ev'n now, I hear her say)Go to thy distant land, forget this tear,Forget these rocks, forget I once was dear;Fly to the world, o'er the wide ocean fly,240And leave me unremembered here to die!Yet to my father should I all relate,Death, instant death, would be a traitor's fate!Nor fear, nor pity moved my stubborn mind,I left her sorrows and the scene behind;I sought Valdivia on the southern plain,And joined the careless military train;Oh! ere I sleep, thus, lowly on my knee,Father, I absolution crave from thee!Anselmo spoke, with look and voice severe:250Yes, thoughtless youth, my absolution hear.First, by deep penitence the wrong atone,Then absolution ask from God alone!Yet stay, and to my warning voice attend,And hear me as a father, and a friend.Let Truth severe be wayward Fancy's guide,Let stern-eyed Conscience o'er each thought preside;The passions, that on noblest natures prey,Oh! cast them, like corroding bonds, away!Disdain to act mean falsehood's coward part,360And let religion dignify thine art.If, by thy bed, thou seest at midnight standPale Conscience, pointing, with terrific hand,To deeds of darkness done, whilst, like a corse,To shake thy soul, uprises dire Remorse;Fly to God's mercy, fly, ere yet too late—Perhaps one hour marks thy eternal fate;Let the warm tear of deep contrition flow,The heart obdurate melt, like softening snow,The last vain follies of thy youth deplore,370Then go, in secret weep, and sin no more!The stars innumerous in their watches shone—Anselmo knelt before the cross alone.Ten thousand glowing orbs their pomp displayed,Whilst, looking up, thus silently he prayed:—Oh! how oppressive to the aching sense,How fearful were this vast magnificence,This prodigality of glory, spreadAbove a poor and dying emmet's head,That toiled his transient hour upon the shore380Of mortal life, and then was seen no more;If man beheld, on his terrific throne,A dark, cold, distant Deity, alone!Felt no relating, no endearing tie,That Hope might upwards raise her glistening eye,And think, with deep unutterable bliss,In yonder radiant realm my kingdom is!More glorious than those orbs that silent roll,Shines Heaven's redeeming mercy on the soul—Oh, pure effulgence of unbounded love!390In Thee, I think—I feel—I live—I move;Yet when, O Thou, whose name is Love and Light,When will thy Dayspring on these realms of nightArise! Oh! when shall severed nations raiseOne hallelujah of triumphant praise,Tibet on Fars, Andes on Atlas call,And "roll the loud hosannah" round the ball!Soon may Thy kingdom come, that love, and peace,And charity, may bid earth's chidings cease!Meantime, in life or death, through good or ill,400Thy poor and feeble servant, I fulfil,As best I may, Thy high and holy will,Till, weary, on the world my eyelids close,And I enjoy my long and last repose!

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