[225]The "sea-blossom," Holothuria, known to seamen by the name of "Portuguese man of war," is among the most striking and beautiful objects in the calms of the Southern ocean.
[225]The "sea-blossom," Holothuria, known to seamen by the name of "Portuguese man of war," is among the most striking and beautiful objects in the calms of the Southern ocean.
[225]The "sea-blossom," Holothuria, known to seamen by the name of "Portuguese man of war," is among the most striking and beautiful objects in the calms of the Southern ocean.
Midnight—Valdivia's tent—Missionary—March to the Valley Arauco—First sight of assembled Indians.
Midnight—Valdivia's tent—Missionary—March to the Valley Arauco—First sight of assembled Indians.
The watchman on the tower his bugle blew,And swelling to the morn the streamers flew;The rampart-guns a dread alarum gave,Smoke rolled, and thunder echoed o'er the wave;When, starting from his couch, Valdivia cried,What tidings? Of the tribes! a scout replied;Ev'n now, prepared thy bulwarks to assail,Their gathering numbers darken all the vale!Valdivia called to the attendant youth,Philip, he cried, belike thy words have truth;10The formidable host, by holy James,Might well appal our priests and city dames!Dost thou not fear? Nay—dost thou not reply?Now by the rood, and all the saints on high,I hold it sin that thou shouldst lift thy handAgainst thy brothers in thy native land!But, as thou saidst, those mighty enemiesMe and my feeble legions would despise.Yes, by our holy lady, thou shalt ride,Spectator of their prowess, by my side!20Come life, come death, our battle shall displayIts ensigns to the earliest beam of day!With louder summons ring the rampart-bell,And haste the shriving father from his cell;A soldier's heart rejoices in alarms:And let the trump at midnight sound to arms!And now, obedient to the chief's commands,The gray-haired priest before the soldier stands.Father, Valdivia cried, fierce are our foes,—The last event of warGodonly knows;—30Let mass be sung; father, this very nightI would attend the high and holy rite.Yet deem not that I doubt of victory,Or place defeat or death before mine eye;It blenches not! But, whatsoe'er befall,Good father, I would part in peace with all.So, tell Lautaro—his ingenuous mindPerhaps may grieve, if late I seemed unkind:—Hear my heart speak, though far from virtue's wayAmbition's lure hath led my steps astray,40No wanton exercise of barbarous powerHarrows my shrinking conscience at this hour.If hasty passions oft my spirit fire,They flash a moment and the next expire;Lautaro knows it. There is somewhat more:I would not, here—here, on this distant shore(Should they, the Indian multitudes, prevail,And this good sword and these firm sinews fail)Amid my deadly enemies be found,"Unhouseled, ananealed," upon the ground,50A dying man;—thy look, thy reverend age,Might save my poor remains from barb'rous rage;And thou may'st pay the last sad obsequies,O'er the heaped earth where a brave soldier lies:—SoGodbe with thee!By the torches' light,The slow procession moves; the solemn riteIs chanted: through the aisles and arches dim,At intervals, is heard the imploring hymn.[226]Now all is still, that only you might hear—60(The tall and slender tapers burning clear,Whose light Anselmo's palid brow illumes,Now glances on the mailed soldier's plumes)Hear, sounding far, only the iron tread,That echoed through the cloisters of the dead.Dark clouds are wandering o'er the heaven's wide way;Now from the camp, at times, a horse's neighBreaks on the ear; and on the rampart heightThe sentinel proclaims the middle watch of night.By the dim taper's solitary ray,70Tired, in his tent, the sovereign soldier lay.Meantime, as shadowy dreams arise, he roams'Mid bright pavilions and imperial domes,Where terraces, and battlements, and towers,Glisten in air o'er rich romantic bowers.Sudden the visionary pomp is past;The vacant court sounds to the moaning blast;A dismal vault appears, where, with swoll'n eyes,As starting from their orbs, a dead man lies.It is Almagro's[227]corse!—roll on, ye drums,80Lo! where the great, the proud Pizarro comes!Her gold, her richest gems, let Fortune strewBefore the mighty conqueror of Peru!Ah, turn, and see a dagger in his hand—With ghastly look—see the assassin stand!Pizarro falls;[228]—he welters in his gore!Lord of the western world, art thou no more!Valdivia, hark!—it was another groan!Another shadow comes, it is thy own!Ah, bind not thus his arms!—give, give him breath!90Wipe from his bleeding brow those damps of death!Valdivia, starting, woke. He is alone:The taper in his tent yet dimly shone.Lautaro, haste! he cried; Lautaro, saveThy dying master! Ah! is this the brave,The haughty victor? Hush, the dream is past!The early trumpets ring the second blast!Arm, arm! Ev'n now, the impatient charger neighs!Again, from tent to tent the trumpet brays!By torch-light, then, Valdivia gave command,100Haste, let Del Oro take a chosen band,With watchful caution, on his fleetest steed,A troop observant on the heights to lead.Now beautiful, beneath the heaven's gray arch,Appeared the main battalion's moving march;The banner of the cross was borne before,And next, with aspect sad, and tresses hoar,The holy man went thoughtfully and pressedA crucifix, in silence, to his breast.Valdivia, all in burnished steel arrayed,110Upon whose crest the morn's effulgence played,Majestic reined his steed, and seemed alone,Worthy the southern world's imperial throne.His features through the barred casque that glow,His pole-axe pendent from the saddle-bow;His dazzling armour, and the glitter brightOf his drawn sabre, in the orient light,Speak him not, now, for knightly tournamentArrayed, but on emprise of prowess bent,And deeds of deadly strife. In blooming pride,120The attendant youth rode, pensive, by his side.Their pennoned lances, waving in the wind,Two hundred clanking horsemen tramped behind,In iron harness clad. The bugles blew,And high in air the sanguine ensigns flew.Thearbalastersnext, with cross-bows slung,Marched, whilst the plumed Moors their cymbals swung.Auxiliar-Indians here, a various train.With spears and bows, darkened the distant plain;Drums rolled, and fifes re-echoed shrill and clear,130At intervals, as near and yet more near,While flags and intermingled halberds shine,The long battalion drew its passing line.Last rolled the heavy guns, a sable tier,By Indians drawn, with matchmen in the rear;And many a straggling mule and sumpter-trainClosed the embattled order on the plain,Till nought beneath the azure sky appearsBut the projecting points of scarce-discovered spears,Slow up the hill, with floating vapours hoar,140Or by the blue lake's long retiring shore,Now seen distinct, through the disparting haze,The glittering file its bannered length displays;Now winding from the woods, again appearsThe moving line of matchlocks and of spears.Part seen, part lost; the long illustrious marchCircling the swamp, now draws its various arch;And seems, as on it moves, meandering slow,A radiant segment of a living bow.Five days the Spaniards, trooping in array,150O'er plains and headlands, held their eastern way.On the sixth early dawn, with shuddering aweAnd horror, in the last defile they sawTen pendent heads, from which the gore still run,All gashed, and grim, and blackening in the sun.These were the gallant troop that passed before,The Indians' vast encampment to explore,Led by Del Oro, now with many a woundPierced, and a headless trunk upon the ground.The horses startled, as they tramped in blood;160The troops a moment half-recoiling stood.But boots not now to pause, or to retire;Valdivia's eye flashed with indignant fire:Follow! he cried, brave comrades, to the hill!And instant shouts the pealing valley fill.And now, up to the hill's ascending crest,With animated look and beating breast,He urged his steed; when, wide beneath his eye,He saw, in long expanse, Arauco's valley lie.Far as the labouring sight could stretch its glance,170One undulating mass of club and lance,One animated surface seemed to fillThe many-stirring scene from hill to hill:To the deep mass he pointed with his sword,Banner, advance! give out "Castile!" the word.Instant the files advance, the trumpets bray,And now the host in terrible array,Ranged on the heights that overlook the plain,Has halted!But the task were long and vain180To tell what nations, from the seas that roarRound Patagonia's melancholy shore;From forests, brown with everlasting shades;From rocks of sunshine, white with prone cascades;From snowy summits, where the Llama roams,Oft bending o'er the cataract as it foams;From streams whose bridges[229]tremble from the steep;From lakes, in summer's sweetest light asleep;Indians, of sullen brow and giant limb,With clubs terrific, and with aspects grim,190Flocked fearless.When they saw the Spanish lineArrayed, and front to front, descending shine,Burst, instant burst, the universal cry,(Ten thousand spears uplifted to the sky)—Tyrants, we come to conquer or to die!Grim Mariantu led the Indian forceA-left; and, rushing to the foremost horse,Hurled with unerring aim the involving thong,Then fearless sprang amidst the mailed throng.200Valdivia saw the horse, entangled, reel,And shouting, as he rode, Castile! Castile!Led on the charge: like a descending flood,It swept, till every spur was black with blood.His force a-right, where Harratomac led,A thousand spears went hissing overhead,And feathered arrows, of each varying hue,In glancing arch, beneath the sunbeams flew.Dire was the strife, when ardent TeucapelAdvancing in the front of carnage fell.210At once, Ongolmo, Elicura, rushed,And swaying their huge clubs together, crushedHorseman and horse; then bathed their hands in gore,And limb from limb the panting carcase tore.Caupolican, where the main battle bleeds,Hosts and succeeding hosts undaunted leads,Till, torn and shattered by the ceaseless fire,Thousands, with gnashing teeth, and clenched spears, expire.Pierced by a hundred wounds, Ongolmo lies,And grasps his club terrific as he dies.220With breathless expectation, on the height,Lautaro watched the long and dubious fight:Pale and resigned the meek man stood, and pressedMore close the holy image to his breast.Now nearer to the fight Lautaro drew,When on the ground a warrior met his view,Upon whose features memory seemed to traceA faint resemblance of his father's face;O'er him a horseman, with collected might,Raised his uplifted sword, in act to smite,230When the youth springing on, without a word,Snatched from a soldier's wearied grasp his sword,And smote the horseman through the crest: a yellOf triumph burst, as to the ground he fell.Lautaroshouted, On! brave brothers, on!Scatter them like the snow!—the day is won!Lo, I!Lautaro,—Attacapac's son!The Indians turn: again the battle bleeds,Cleft are the helms and crushed the struggling steeds.The bugle sounds, and faint with toil and heat,240Some straggling horsemen to the hills retreat.Stand, brave companions! bold Valdivia cried,And shook his sword, in recent carnage dyed;Oh! droop not—droop not yet—all is not o'er—Brave, faithful friends, one glorious sally more.Where is Lautaro! leaps his willing swordNow to avenge his long-indulgent lord!He waited not for answer, but againSpurred to the centre of the horrid plain.Clubs, arrows, spears, the spot of death inclose,250And fainter now the Spanish shouts arose.'Mid ghastly heaps of many a bleeding corse,Lies the caparisoned and dying horse.While still the rushing multitudes assail,Vain is the fiery tube, the twisted mail!The Spanish horsemen faint; long yells resound,As the dragged ensign trails the gory ground:Shout, for the chief is seized!—a thousand criesBurst forth—Valdivia! for the sacrifice!And lo, in silent dignity resigned,260The meek Anselmo, led in bonds, behind!His hand upon his breast, young ZarinelAmidst a group of mangled Indians fell;The spear that to his heart a passage foundLeft poor Olola's hair within the wound.Now all is hushed, save where, at times, alone,Deep midnight listens to a distant moan;Save where the condors clamour, overhead,And strike with sounding beaks the helmets of the dead.
The watchman on the tower his bugle blew,And swelling to the morn the streamers flew;The rampart-guns a dread alarum gave,Smoke rolled, and thunder echoed o'er the wave;When, starting from his couch, Valdivia cried,What tidings? Of the tribes! a scout replied;Ev'n now, prepared thy bulwarks to assail,Their gathering numbers darken all the vale!Valdivia called to the attendant youth,Philip, he cried, belike thy words have truth;10The formidable host, by holy James,Might well appal our priests and city dames!Dost thou not fear? Nay—dost thou not reply?Now by the rood, and all the saints on high,I hold it sin that thou shouldst lift thy handAgainst thy brothers in thy native land!But, as thou saidst, those mighty enemiesMe and my feeble legions would despise.Yes, by our holy lady, thou shalt ride,Spectator of their prowess, by my side!20Come life, come death, our battle shall displayIts ensigns to the earliest beam of day!With louder summons ring the rampart-bell,And haste the shriving father from his cell;A soldier's heart rejoices in alarms:And let the trump at midnight sound to arms!And now, obedient to the chief's commands,The gray-haired priest before the soldier stands.Father, Valdivia cried, fierce are our foes,—The last event of warGodonly knows;—30Let mass be sung; father, this very nightI would attend the high and holy rite.Yet deem not that I doubt of victory,Or place defeat or death before mine eye;It blenches not! But, whatsoe'er befall,Good father, I would part in peace with all.So, tell Lautaro—his ingenuous mindPerhaps may grieve, if late I seemed unkind:—Hear my heart speak, though far from virtue's wayAmbition's lure hath led my steps astray,40No wanton exercise of barbarous powerHarrows my shrinking conscience at this hour.If hasty passions oft my spirit fire,They flash a moment and the next expire;Lautaro knows it. There is somewhat more:I would not, here—here, on this distant shore(Should they, the Indian multitudes, prevail,And this good sword and these firm sinews fail)Amid my deadly enemies be found,"Unhouseled, ananealed," upon the ground,50A dying man;—thy look, thy reverend age,Might save my poor remains from barb'rous rage;And thou may'st pay the last sad obsequies,O'er the heaped earth where a brave soldier lies:—SoGodbe with thee!By the torches' light,The slow procession moves; the solemn riteIs chanted: through the aisles and arches dim,At intervals, is heard the imploring hymn.[226]Now all is still, that only you might hear—60(The tall and slender tapers burning clear,Whose light Anselmo's palid brow illumes,Now glances on the mailed soldier's plumes)Hear, sounding far, only the iron tread,That echoed through the cloisters of the dead.Dark clouds are wandering o'er the heaven's wide way;Now from the camp, at times, a horse's neighBreaks on the ear; and on the rampart heightThe sentinel proclaims the middle watch of night.By the dim taper's solitary ray,70Tired, in his tent, the sovereign soldier lay.Meantime, as shadowy dreams arise, he roams'Mid bright pavilions and imperial domes,Where terraces, and battlements, and towers,Glisten in air o'er rich romantic bowers.Sudden the visionary pomp is past;The vacant court sounds to the moaning blast;A dismal vault appears, where, with swoll'n eyes,As starting from their orbs, a dead man lies.It is Almagro's[227]corse!—roll on, ye drums,80Lo! where the great, the proud Pizarro comes!Her gold, her richest gems, let Fortune strewBefore the mighty conqueror of Peru!Ah, turn, and see a dagger in his hand—With ghastly look—see the assassin stand!Pizarro falls;[228]—he welters in his gore!Lord of the western world, art thou no more!Valdivia, hark!—it was another groan!Another shadow comes, it is thy own!Ah, bind not thus his arms!—give, give him breath!90Wipe from his bleeding brow those damps of death!Valdivia, starting, woke. He is alone:The taper in his tent yet dimly shone.Lautaro, haste! he cried; Lautaro, saveThy dying master! Ah! is this the brave,The haughty victor? Hush, the dream is past!The early trumpets ring the second blast!Arm, arm! Ev'n now, the impatient charger neighs!Again, from tent to tent the trumpet brays!By torch-light, then, Valdivia gave command,100Haste, let Del Oro take a chosen band,With watchful caution, on his fleetest steed,A troop observant on the heights to lead.Now beautiful, beneath the heaven's gray arch,Appeared the main battalion's moving march;The banner of the cross was borne before,And next, with aspect sad, and tresses hoar,The holy man went thoughtfully and pressedA crucifix, in silence, to his breast.Valdivia, all in burnished steel arrayed,110Upon whose crest the morn's effulgence played,Majestic reined his steed, and seemed alone,Worthy the southern world's imperial throne.His features through the barred casque that glow,His pole-axe pendent from the saddle-bow;His dazzling armour, and the glitter brightOf his drawn sabre, in the orient light,Speak him not, now, for knightly tournamentArrayed, but on emprise of prowess bent,And deeds of deadly strife. In blooming pride,120The attendant youth rode, pensive, by his side.Their pennoned lances, waving in the wind,Two hundred clanking horsemen tramped behind,In iron harness clad. The bugles blew,And high in air the sanguine ensigns flew.Thearbalastersnext, with cross-bows slung,Marched, whilst the plumed Moors their cymbals swung.Auxiliar-Indians here, a various train.With spears and bows, darkened the distant plain;Drums rolled, and fifes re-echoed shrill and clear,130At intervals, as near and yet more near,While flags and intermingled halberds shine,The long battalion drew its passing line.Last rolled the heavy guns, a sable tier,By Indians drawn, with matchmen in the rear;And many a straggling mule and sumpter-trainClosed the embattled order on the plain,Till nought beneath the azure sky appearsBut the projecting points of scarce-discovered spears,Slow up the hill, with floating vapours hoar,140Or by the blue lake's long retiring shore,Now seen distinct, through the disparting haze,The glittering file its bannered length displays;Now winding from the woods, again appearsThe moving line of matchlocks and of spears.Part seen, part lost; the long illustrious marchCircling the swamp, now draws its various arch;And seems, as on it moves, meandering slow,A radiant segment of a living bow.Five days the Spaniards, trooping in array,150O'er plains and headlands, held their eastern way.On the sixth early dawn, with shuddering aweAnd horror, in the last defile they sawTen pendent heads, from which the gore still run,All gashed, and grim, and blackening in the sun.These were the gallant troop that passed before,The Indians' vast encampment to explore,Led by Del Oro, now with many a woundPierced, and a headless trunk upon the ground.The horses startled, as they tramped in blood;160The troops a moment half-recoiling stood.But boots not now to pause, or to retire;Valdivia's eye flashed with indignant fire:Follow! he cried, brave comrades, to the hill!And instant shouts the pealing valley fill.And now, up to the hill's ascending crest,With animated look and beating breast,He urged his steed; when, wide beneath his eye,He saw, in long expanse, Arauco's valley lie.Far as the labouring sight could stretch its glance,170One undulating mass of club and lance,One animated surface seemed to fillThe many-stirring scene from hill to hill:To the deep mass he pointed with his sword,Banner, advance! give out "Castile!" the word.Instant the files advance, the trumpets bray,And now the host in terrible array,Ranged on the heights that overlook the plain,Has halted!But the task were long and vain180To tell what nations, from the seas that roarRound Patagonia's melancholy shore;From forests, brown with everlasting shades;From rocks of sunshine, white with prone cascades;From snowy summits, where the Llama roams,Oft bending o'er the cataract as it foams;From streams whose bridges[229]tremble from the steep;From lakes, in summer's sweetest light asleep;Indians, of sullen brow and giant limb,With clubs terrific, and with aspects grim,190Flocked fearless.When they saw the Spanish lineArrayed, and front to front, descending shine,Burst, instant burst, the universal cry,(Ten thousand spears uplifted to the sky)—Tyrants, we come to conquer or to die!Grim Mariantu led the Indian forceA-left; and, rushing to the foremost horse,Hurled with unerring aim the involving thong,Then fearless sprang amidst the mailed throng.200Valdivia saw the horse, entangled, reel,And shouting, as he rode, Castile! Castile!Led on the charge: like a descending flood,It swept, till every spur was black with blood.His force a-right, where Harratomac led,A thousand spears went hissing overhead,And feathered arrows, of each varying hue,In glancing arch, beneath the sunbeams flew.Dire was the strife, when ardent TeucapelAdvancing in the front of carnage fell.210At once, Ongolmo, Elicura, rushed,And swaying their huge clubs together, crushedHorseman and horse; then bathed their hands in gore,And limb from limb the panting carcase tore.Caupolican, where the main battle bleeds,Hosts and succeeding hosts undaunted leads,Till, torn and shattered by the ceaseless fire,Thousands, with gnashing teeth, and clenched spears, expire.Pierced by a hundred wounds, Ongolmo lies,And grasps his club terrific as he dies.220With breathless expectation, on the height,Lautaro watched the long and dubious fight:Pale and resigned the meek man stood, and pressedMore close the holy image to his breast.Now nearer to the fight Lautaro drew,When on the ground a warrior met his view,Upon whose features memory seemed to traceA faint resemblance of his father's face;O'er him a horseman, with collected might,Raised his uplifted sword, in act to smite,230When the youth springing on, without a word,Snatched from a soldier's wearied grasp his sword,And smote the horseman through the crest: a yellOf triumph burst, as to the ground he fell.Lautaroshouted, On! brave brothers, on!Scatter them like the snow!—the day is won!Lo, I!Lautaro,—Attacapac's son!The Indians turn: again the battle bleeds,Cleft are the helms and crushed the struggling steeds.The bugle sounds, and faint with toil and heat,240Some straggling horsemen to the hills retreat.Stand, brave companions! bold Valdivia cried,And shook his sword, in recent carnage dyed;Oh! droop not—droop not yet—all is not o'er—Brave, faithful friends, one glorious sally more.Where is Lautaro! leaps his willing swordNow to avenge his long-indulgent lord!He waited not for answer, but againSpurred to the centre of the horrid plain.Clubs, arrows, spears, the spot of death inclose,250And fainter now the Spanish shouts arose.'Mid ghastly heaps of many a bleeding corse,Lies the caparisoned and dying horse.While still the rushing multitudes assail,Vain is the fiery tube, the twisted mail!The Spanish horsemen faint; long yells resound,As the dragged ensign trails the gory ground:Shout, for the chief is seized!—a thousand criesBurst forth—Valdivia! for the sacrifice!And lo, in silent dignity resigned,260The meek Anselmo, led in bonds, behind!His hand upon his breast, young ZarinelAmidst a group of mangled Indians fell;The spear that to his heart a passage foundLeft poor Olola's hair within the wound.Now all is hushed, save where, at times, alone,Deep midnight listens to a distant moan;Save where the condors clamour, overhead,And strike with sounding beaks the helmets of the dead.
[226]It may be necessary here to say, that whenever the Spaniards founded a city, after the immediate walls of defence, their first object was to build a church, and to have, with as much pomp as possible, the ecclesiastical services performed. Hence the cathedrals founded by them in America were of transcendent beauty and magnificence.[227]Almagro, who first penetrated into Chili, was afterwards strangled.[228]Pizarro was assassinated.[229]Rude hanging bridges, constructed by the natives.
[226]It may be necessary here to say, that whenever the Spaniards founded a city, after the immediate walls of defence, their first object was to build a church, and to have, with as much pomp as possible, the ecclesiastical services performed. Hence the cathedrals founded by them in America were of transcendent beauty and magnificence.
[226]It may be necessary here to say, that whenever the Spaniards founded a city, after the immediate walls of defence, their first object was to build a church, and to have, with as much pomp as possible, the ecclesiastical services performed. Hence the cathedrals founded by them in America were of transcendent beauty and magnificence.
[227]Almagro, who first penetrated into Chili, was afterwards strangled.
[227]Almagro, who first penetrated into Chili, was afterwards strangled.
[228]Pizarro was assassinated.
[228]Pizarro was assassinated.
[229]Rude hanging bridges, constructed by the natives.
[229]Rude hanging bridges, constructed by the natives.
Indian festival for victory—Old Warrior brought in wounded—Recognises his long-lost son, and dies—Discovery—Conclusion with the Old Warrior's funeral, and prophetic oration by the Missionary.
Indian festival for victory—Old Warrior brought in wounded—Recognises his long-lost son, and dies—Discovery—Conclusion with the Old Warrior's funeral, and prophetic oration by the Missionary.
The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shedOne ray of glory on the patriot-dead.Round the dark stone, the victor-chiefs behold!Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold!There stands the brave Caupolican, the prideOf Chili, young Lautaro, by his side!Near the grim circle, pendent from the wood,Twelve hundred Spanish heads are dripping blood.Shrill sound the notes of death: in festive dance,The Indian maids with myrtle boughs advance;10The tinkling sea-shells on their ancles ring,As, hailing thus the victor-youth, they sing:—SONG OF INDIAN MAIDS.Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave!The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save,When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain,And the ghosts of our fathers looked down on the slain!'Twas eve, and the noise of the battle was o'er,Five thousand brave warriors were cold in their gore;When, in front, young Lautaro invincible stood,And the horses and iron-men rolled in their blood!As the snows of the mountain are swept by the blast,The earthquake of death o'er the white men has passed;Shout, Chili, in triumph! the battle is won,And we dance round the heads that are black in the sun!Lautaro, as if wrapt in thought profound,Oft turned an anxious look inquiring round.He is not here!—Say, does my father live?Ere eager voices could an answer give,With faltering footsteps and declining head,And slowly by an aged Indian led,Wounded and weak the mountain chief appears:Live, live! Lautaro cried, with bursting tears,20And fell upon his neck, and, kissing, pressed,With folding arms, his gray hairs to his breast.Oh, live! I am thy son—thy long-lost child!The warrior raised his look, and faintly smiled;Chili, my country, is avenged! he cried:My son!—then sunk upon a shield—and died.Lautaro knelt beside him, as he bowed,And kissed his bleeding breast, and wept aloud.The sounds of sadness through the circle ran,When thus, with lifted axe, Caupolican:30What, for our fathers, brothers, children, slain,Canst thou repay, ruthless, inhuman Spain?Here, on the scene with recent slaughter red,To sooth the spirits of the brave who bled,Raise we, to-day, the war-feast of the dead.Bring forth the chief in bonds! Fathers, to-dayDevote we to our gods the noblest prey!Lautaro turned his eyes, and, gazing round,Beheld Valdivia and Anselmo bound!One stood in arms, as with a stern despair,40His helmet cleft in twain, his temples bare,Where streaks of blood that dropped upon his mail,Served but to show his face more deadly pale:His eyebrows, dark and resolute, he bent,And stood, composed, to wait the dire event.Still on the cross his looks Anselmo cast,As if all thought of this vain world was passed,And in a world of light, without a shade,Ev'n now his meek and guileless spirit strayed.Where stood the Spanish chief, a muttering sound50Rose, and each club was lifted from the ground;When, starting from his father's corse, his swordWaving before his once-triumphant lord,Lautaro cried, My breast shall meet the blow:But save—save him, to whom my life I owe!Valdivia marked him with unmoving eye,Then looked upon his bonds, nor deigned reply;When Harratomac, stealing with slow pace,And lifting high his iron-jagged mace,Smote him to earth; a thousand voices rose,60Mingled with shouts and yells, So fall our foes!Lautaro gave to tears a moment's space,As black in death he marked Valdivia's face,Then cried—Chiefs, friends, and thou, Caupolican,Oh, spare this innocent and holy man!He never sailed, rapacious, o'er the deep,The gold of blood-polluted lands to heap;He never gave the armed hosts his aid,But meekly to the Mighty Spirit prayed,That in all lands the sounds of woe might cease,70And brothers of the wide world dwell in peace!The victor-youth saw generous sympathyAlready steal to every warrior's eye;Then thus again: Oh, if this filial tearBear witness my own father was most dear;If this uplifted arm, this bleeding steelSpeak for my country what I felt and feel;If, at this hour, I meet her high applause,While my heart beats still ardent in her cause;—Hear, and forgive these tears that grateful flow,80Oh! hear, how much to this poor man I owe!I was a child—when to my sire's abode,In Chillan's vale, the armed horsemen rode:Me, whilst my father cold and breathless lay,Far off the crested soldiers bore away,And for a captive sold. No friend was near,To mark a young and orphan stranger's tear!This humble man, with kind parental care,Snatched me from slavery—saved from dark despair;And as my years increased, protected, fed,90And breathed a father's blessings on my head.A Spanish maid was with him: need I speak?Behold, affection's tear still wets my cheek!Years, as they passed, matured in ripening graceHer form unfolding, and her beauteous face:She heard my orphan tale; she loved to hear,And sometimes for my fortunes dropped a tear.I could have bowed to direst ills resigned,But wept at looks so sweet, at words so kind.Valdivia saw me, now in blooming age,100And claimed me from the father as his page;The chief too cherished me, yea, saved my life,When in Peru arose the civil strife.Yet still remembering her I loved so well,Oft I returned to the gray father's cell:His voice instructed me; recalled my youthFrom rude idolatry to heavenly truth:Of this hereafter; he my darkling mindCleared, and from low and sensual thoughts refined.Then first, with feelings new impressed, I strove110To hide the tear of tenderness and love:Amid the fairest maidens of Peru,My eyes, my heart, one only object knew:I lived that object's love and faith to share;He saw, and blessed us with a father's prayer.Here, at Valdivia's last and stern command,I came, a stranger in my native land!Anselmo (so him call—now most in need—And standing here in bonds, for whom I plead)Came, by our chief so summoned, and for aid120To the Great Spirit of the Christians prayed:Here as a son I loved him, but I leftA wife, a child, of my fond cares bereft,Never to see again; for death awaitsMy entrance now in Lima's jealous gates.Caupolican, didst thou thy father love?Did his last dying look affection move?Pity this aged man; unbend thy brow:He was my father—is my father, now!Consenting mercy marks each warrior's mien.130But who is this, what pallid form is seen,As crushed already by the fatal blow,Bound, and with looks white as a wreath of snow,Her hands upon her breast, scarce drawn her breath,A Spanish woman knelt, expecting death,Whilst, borne by a dark warrior at her side,An infant shrunk from the red plumes, and cried!Lautaro started:Injured maid of Spain!Me!—me! oh, take me to thine arms again!140She heard his voice, and, by the scene oppressed,With one faint sigh fell senseless on his breast.Caupolican, with warm emotion, cried,Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!Live, aged father!—and forthwith commandsA warrior to unbind Anselmo's hands.She raised her head: his eyes first met her view,As round Lautaro's neck her arms she threw,Ah, no! she feebly spoke; it is not true!It is some form of the distempered brain!150Then hid her face upon his breast again.Dark flashing eyes, terrific, glared around:Here, his brains scattered by the deadly wound,The Spanish chief lay on the gory ground.With lowering brows, and mace yet drooping blood,And clotted hair, there Mariantu stood.Anselmo here, sad, yet in sorrow mild,Appeared: she cried, A blessing on your child,And knelt, as slow revived her waking sense,And then, with looks aghast, Oh bear us hence!160Now all the assembled chiefs, assenting, cried,Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!With eager arms Lautaro snatched his boy,And kissed him in an agony of joy;Then to Anselmo gave, who strove to speak,And felt the tear first burning on his cheek:The infant held his neck with strict embrace,And kissed his pale emaciated face.From the dread scene, wet with Valdivia's gore,His wan and trembling charge Lautaro bore.170There was a bank, where slept the summer-light,A small stream whispering went in mazes bright,And stealing from the sea, the western windWaved the magnolias on the slope inclined:The woodpecker, in glittering plumage green,And echoing bill, beneath the boughs was seen;And, arched with gay and pendent flowers above,The floripondio[230]its rich trellis wove.Lautaro bent, with looks of love and joy,O'er his yet trembling wife and beauteous boy:180Oh, by what miracle, beloved! say,Hast thou escaped the perils of the wayFrom Lima, where our humble dwelling stood,To these tumultuous scenes, this vale of blood?Roused by his voice, as from the sleep of death,Faint she replied, with slow-recovering breath,Who shall express, when thou, best friend! wert gone,How sunk my heart!—deserted and alone!Would I were with thee! oft I sat and sighed,When the pale moon shone on the silent tide—190At length resolved, I sought thee o'er the seas:The brave bark cheer'ly went before the breeze,That arms and soldiers to Valdivia bore,From Lima bound to Chili's southern shore:I seized the fair occasion—ocean smiled,As to the sire I bore his lisping child.The storm arose: with loud and sudden shockThe vessel sunk, disparting on a rock.Some mariners, amidst the billows wild,Scarce saved, in one small boat, me and my child.200What I have borne, a captive since that day—Forgive these tears—I scarce have heart to say!None pitied, save one gentle Indian maid—A wild maid—of her looks I was afraid;Her long black hair upon her shoulders fell,And in her hand she bore a wreathed shell.Lautaro for a moment turned aside,And, Oh, my sister! with faint voice he cried.Already free from sorrow and alarms,I clasped in thought a husband in my arms,210When a dark warrior, stationed on the height,Who held his solitary watch by night,Before me stood, and lifting high his lance,Exclaimed: No further, on thy life, advance!Faint, wearied, sinking to the earth with dread,Back to the dismal cave my steps he led.Only at eve, within the craggy cleft,Some water, and a cake of maize, were left.The thirteenth sun unseen went down the sky;When morning came, they brought me forth to die;220But hushed be every sigh, each boding fear,Since all I sought on earth, and all I love, is here!Her infant raised his hands, with glistening eye,To reach a large and radiant butterfly,That fluttered near his face; with looks of love,And truth and tenderness, Lautaro stroveTo calm her wounded heart; the holy sire,His eyes faint-lighted with a transient fire,Hung o'er them, and to Heaven his prayer addressed,While, with uplifted hands, he wept and blest.230An aged Indian came, with feathers crowned,And knelt before Lautaro on the ground.What tidings, Indian?INDIAN.When I led thy sire,Whom late thou saw'st upon his shield expire,Son of our Ulmen, didst thou mark no trace,In these sad looks, of a remembered face?Dost thou remember Izdabel? Look here!It is thy father's hatchet and his spear.Friend of my infant days, how I rejoice,240Lautaro cried, once more to hear that voice!Life like a dream, since last we met, has fled—Oh, my beloved sister, thou art dead!INDIAN.I come to guide thee through untrodden ways,To the lone valley, where thy father's daysWere passed; where every cave and every tree,From morn to morn, reminded him of thee!Lautaro cried: Here, faithful Indian, stay;I have a last sad duty yet to pay.A little while we part:—thou here remain.250He spake, and passed like lightning o'er the plain.Ah, cease, Castilian maid, thy vain alarms!See where he comes—his father in his arms!Now lead, he cried. The Indian, sad and still,Paced on from wood to vale, from vale to hill;Her infant tired, and hushed a while to rest,Smiled, in a dream, upon its mother's breast;The pensive mother gray Anselmo led;Behind, Lautaro bore his father dead.Beneath the branching palms they slept at night;260The small birds waked them ere the morning light.Before their path, in distant view, appearedThe mountain-smoke, that its dark column rearedO'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky,Lifting their icy pinnacles so high.Four days they onward held their eastern way;On the fifth rising morn, before them layChillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green,The Warrior's loved and last abode was seen.No smoke went up, a stillness reigned around,270Save where the waters fell with soothing sound,Save where the Thenca sang so loud and clear,And the bright humming-bird was spinning near.Yet here all human tumults seemed to cease,And sunshine rested on the spot of peace;The myrtles bloomed as fragrant and as greenAs if Lautaro scarce had left the scene;And in his ear the falling waters' spraySeemed swelling with the sounds of yesterday.Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade,280There shall my father's bones in peace be laid.Beneath the cedar's shade they dug the ground;The small and sad communion gathered round.Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel,And broke the spear, and cried: Farewell, farewell!Lautaro hid his face, and sighed Adieu!As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw.The little child that to its mother clung,Stretched out its arm, then on her garment hung,With sidelong looks, half-shrinking, half-amazed,290And dropped its flowers, unconscious, as it gazed.And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclined,The honoured relics, dust to dust, consignedWith Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee,"Eternam pacem dona, Domine."Then rising up he closed the holy book;And lifting in the beam his lighted look,(The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast),Here, too, he cried, my bones in peace shall rest!Few years remain to me, and never more300Shall I behold, O Spain! thy distant shore!Here lay my bones, that the same tree may waveO'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave.Oh, may it (when the sons of future daysShall hear our tale and on the hillock gaze),Oh, may it teach, that charity should bind,Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind!The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hearThy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaughtering spear.Yet we condemn not him who bravely stood,310To seal his country's freedom with his blood;And if, in after-times, a ruthless bandOf fell invaders sweep my native land,May she, by Chili's stern example led,Hurl back his thunder on the assailant's head;Sustained by Freedom, strike the avenging blow,And learn one virtue from her ancient foe!
The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shedOne ray of glory on the patriot-dead.Round the dark stone, the victor-chiefs behold!Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold!There stands the brave Caupolican, the prideOf Chili, young Lautaro, by his side!Near the grim circle, pendent from the wood,Twelve hundred Spanish heads are dripping blood.Shrill sound the notes of death: in festive dance,The Indian maids with myrtle boughs advance;10The tinkling sea-shells on their ancles ring,As, hailing thus the victor-youth, they sing:—
SONG OF INDIAN MAIDS.
Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave!The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save,When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain,And the ghosts of our fathers looked down on the slain!
'Twas eve, and the noise of the battle was o'er,Five thousand brave warriors were cold in their gore;When, in front, young Lautaro invincible stood,And the horses and iron-men rolled in their blood!
As the snows of the mountain are swept by the blast,The earthquake of death o'er the white men has passed;Shout, Chili, in triumph! the battle is won,And we dance round the heads that are black in the sun!
Lautaro, as if wrapt in thought profound,Oft turned an anxious look inquiring round.He is not here!—Say, does my father live?Ere eager voices could an answer give,With faltering footsteps and declining head,And slowly by an aged Indian led,Wounded and weak the mountain chief appears:Live, live! Lautaro cried, with bursting tears,20And fell upon his neck, and, kissing, pressed,With folding arms, his gray hairs to his breast.Oh, live! I am thy son—thy long-lost child!The warrior raised his look, and faintly smiled;Chili, my country, is avenged! he cried:My son!—then sunk upon a shield—and died.Lautaro knelt beside him, as he bowed,And kissed his bleeding breast, and wept aloud.The sounds of sadness through the circle ran,When thus, with lifted axe, Caupolican:30What, for our fathers, brothers, children, slain,Canst thou repay, ruthless, inhuman Spain?Here, on the scene with recent slaughter red,To sooth the spirits of the brave who bled,Raise we, to-day, the war-feast of the dead.Bring forth the chief in bonds! Fathers, to-dayDevote we to our gods the noblest prey!Lautaro turned his eyes, and, gazing round,Beheld Valdivia and Anselmo bound!One stood in arms, as with a stern despair,40His helmet cleft in twain, his temples bare,Where streaks of blood that dropped upon his mail,Served but to show his face more deadly pale:His eyebrows, dark and resolute, he bent,And stood, composed, to wait the dire event.Still on the cross his looks Anselmo cast,As if all thought of this vain world was passed,And in a world of light, without a shade,Ev'n now his meek and guileless spirit strayed.Where stood the Spanish chief, a muttering sound50Rose, and each club was lifted from the ground;When, starting from his father's corse, his swordWaving before his once-triumphant lord,Lautaro cried, My breast shall meet the blow:But save—save him, to whom my life I owe!Valdivia marked him with unmoving eye,Then looked upon his bonds, nor deigned reply;When Harratomac, stealing with slow pace,And lifting high his iron-jagged mace,Smote him to earth; a thousand voices rose,60Mingled with shouts and yells, So fall our foes!Lautaro gave to tears a moment's space,As black in death he marked Valdivia's face,Then cried—Chiefs, friends, and thou, Caupolican,Oh, spare this innocent and holy man!He never sailed, rapacious, o'er the deep,The gold of blood-polluted lands to heap;He never gave the armed hosts his aid,But meekly to the Mighty Spirit prayed,That in all lands the sounds of woe might cease,70And brothers of the wide world dwell in peace!The victor-youth saw generous sympathyAlready steal to every warrior's eye;Then thus again: Oh, if this filial tearBear witness my own father was most dear;If this uplifted arm, this bleeding steelSpeak for my country what I felt and feel;If, at this hour, I meet her high applause,While my heart beats still ardent in her cause;—Hear, and forgive these tears that grateful flow,80Oh! hear, how much to this poor man I owe!I was a child—when to my sire's abode,In Chillan's vale, the armed horsemen rode:Me, whilst my father cold and breathless lay,Far off the crested soldiers bore away,And for a captive sold. No friend was near,To mark a young and orphan stranger's tear!This humble man, with kind parental care,Snatched me from slavery—saved from dark despair;And as my years increased, protected, fed,90And breathed a father's blessings on my head.A Spanish maid was with him: need I speak?Behold, affection's tear still wets my cheek!Years, as they passed, matured in ripening graceHer form unfolding, and her beauteous face:She heard my orphan tale; she loved to hear,And sometimes for my fortunes dropped a tear.I could have bowed to direst ills resigned,But wept at looks so sweet, at words so kind.Valdivia saw me, now in blooming age,100And claimed me from the father as his page;The chief too cherished me, yea, saved my life,When in Peru arose the civil strife.Yet still remembering her I loved so well,Oft I returned to the gray father's cell:His voice instructed me; recalled my youthFrom rude idolatry to heavenly truth:Of this hereafter; he my darkling mindCleared, and from low and sensual thoughts refined.Then first, with feelings new impressed, I strove110To hide the tear of tenderness and love:Amid the fairest maidens of Peru,My eyes, my heart, one only object knew:I lived that object's love and faith to share;He saw, and blessed us with a father's prayer.Here, at Valdivia's last and stern command,I came, a stranger in my native land!Anselmo (so him call—now most in need—And standing here in bonds, for whom I plead)Came, by our chief so summoned, and for aid120To the Great Spirit of the Christians prayed:Here as a son I loved him, but I leftA wife, a child, of my fond cares bereft,Never to see again; for death awaitsMy entrance now in Lima's jealous gates.Caupolican, didst thou thy father love?Did his last dying look affection move?Pity this aged man; unbend thy brow:He was my father—is my father, now!Consenting mercy marks each warrior's mien.130But who is this, what pallid form is seen,As crushed already by the fatal blow,Bound, and with looks white as a wreath of snow,Her hands upon her breast, scarce drawn her breath,A Spanish woman knelt, expecting death,Whilst, borne by a dark warrior at her side,An infant shrunk from the red plumes, and cried!Lautaro started:Injured maid of Spain!Me!—me! oh, take me to thine arms again!140She heard his voice, and, by the scene oppressed,With one faint sigh fell senseless on his breast.Caupolican, with warm emotion, cried,Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!Live, aged father!—and forthwith commandsA warrior to unbind Anselmo's hands.She raised her head: his eyes first met her view,As round Lautaro's neck her arms she threw,Ah, no! she feebly spoke; it is not true!It is some form of the distempered brain!150Then hid her face upon his breast again.Dark flashing eyes, terrific, glared around:Here, his brains scattered by the deadly wound,The Spanish chief lay on the gory ground.With lowering brows, and mace yet drooping blood,And clotted hair, there Mariantu stood.Anselmo here, sad, yet in sorrow mild,Appeared: she cried, A blessing on your child,And knelt, as slow revived her waking sense,And then, with looks aghast, Oh bear us hence!160Now all the assembled chiefs, assenting, cried,Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!With eager arms Lautaro snatched his boy,And kissed him in an agony of joy;Then to Anselmo gave, who strove to speak,And felt the tear first burning on his cheek:The infant held his neck with strict embrace,And kissed his pale emaciated face.From the dread scene, wet with Valdivia's gore,His wan and trembling charge Lautaro bore.170There was a bank, where slept the summer-light,A small stream whispering went in mazes bright,And stealing from the sea, the western windWaved the magnolias on the slope inclined:The woodpecker, in glittering plumage green,And echoing bill, beneath the boughs was seen;And, arched with gay and pendent flowers above,The floripondio[230]its rich trellis wove.Lautaro bent, with looks of love and joy,O'er his yet trembling wife and beauteous boy:180Oh, by what miracle, beloved! say,Hast thou escaped the perils of the wayFrom Lima, where our humble dwelling stood,To these tumultuous scenes, this vale of blood?Roused by his voice, as from the sleep of death,Faint she replied, with slow-recovering breath,Who shall express, when thou, best friend! wert gone,How sunk my heart!—deserted and alone!Would I were with thee! oft I sat and sighed,When the pale moon shone on the silent tide—190At length resolved, I sought thee o'er the seas:The brave bark cheer'ly went before the breeze,That arms and soldiers to Valdivia bore,From Lima bound to Chili's southern shore:I seized the fair occasion—ocean smiled,As to the sire I bore his lisping child.The storm arose: with loud and sudden shockThe vessel sunk, disparting on a rock.Some mariners, amidst the billows wild,Scarce saved, in one small boat, me and my child.200What I have borne, a captive since that day—Forgive these tears—I scarce have heart to say!None pitied, save one gentle Indian maid—A wild maid—of her looks I was afraid;Her long black hair upon her shoulders fell,And in her hand she bore a wreathed shell.Lautaro for a moment turned aside,And, Oh, my sister! with faint voice he cried.Already free from sorrow and alarms,I clasped in thought a husband in my arms,210When a dark warrior, stationed on the height,Who held his solitary watch by night,Before me stood, and lifting high his lance,Exclaimed: No further, on thy life, advance!Faint, wearied, sinking to the earth with dread,Back to the dismal cave my steps he led.Only at eve, within the craggy cleft,Some water, and a cake of maize, were left.The thirteenth sun unseen went down the sky;When morning came, they brought me forth to die;220But hushed be every sigh, each boding fear,Since all I sought on earth, and all I love, is here!Her infant raised his hands, with glistening eye,To reach a large and radiant butterfly,That fluttered near his face; with looks of love,And truth and tenderness, Lautaro stroveTo calm her wounded heart; the holy sire,His eyes faint-lighted with a transient fire,Hung o'er them, and to Heaven his prayer addressed,While, with uplifted hands, he wept and blest.230An aged Indian came, with feathers crowned,And knelt before Lautaro on the ground.What tidings, Indian?
INDIAN.
When I led thy sire,Whom late thou saw'st upon his shield expire,Son of our Ulmen, didst thou mark no trace,In these sad looks, of a remembered face?Dost thou remember Izdabel? Look here!It is thy father's hatchet and his spear.Friend of my infant days, how I rejoice,240Lautaro cried, once more to hear that voice!Life like a dream, since last we met, has fled—Oh, my beloved sister, thou art dead!
INDIAN.
I come to guide thee through untrodden ways,To the lone valley, where thy father's daysWere passed; where every cave and every tree,From morn to morn, reminded him of thee!Lautaro cried: Here, faithful Indian, stay;I have a last sad duty yet to pay.A little while we part:—thou here remain.250He spake, and passed like lightning o'er the plain.Ah, cease, Castilian maid, thy vain alarms!See where he comes—his father in his arms!Now lead, he cried. The Indian, sad and still,Paced on from wood to vale, from vale to hill;Her infant tired, and hushed a while to rest,Smiled, in a dream, upon its mother's breast;The pensive mother gray Anselmo led;Behind, Lautaro bore his father dead.Beneath the branching palms they slept at night;260The small birds waked them ere the morning light.Before their path, in distant view, appearedThe mountain-smoke, that its dark column rearedO'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky,Lifting their icy pinnacles so high.Four days they onward held their eastern way;On the fifth rising morn, before them layChillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green,The Warrior's loved and last abode was seen.No smoke went up, a stillness reigned around,270Save where the waters fell with soothing sound,Save where the Thenca sang so loud and clear,And the bright humming-bird was spinning near.Yet here all human tumults seemed to cease,And sunshine rested on the spot of peace;The myrtles bloomed as fragrant and as greenAs if Lautaro scarce had left the scene;And in his ear the falling waters' spraySeemed swelling with the sounds of yesterday.Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade,280There shall my father's bones in peace be laid.Beneath the cedar's shade they dug the ground;The small and sad communion gathered round.Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel,And broke the spear, and cried: Farewell, farewell!Lautaro hid his face, and sighed Adieu!As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw.The little child that to its mother clung,Stretched out its arm, then on her garment hung,With sidelong looks, half-shrinking, half-amazed,290And dropped its flowers, unconscious, as it gazed.And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclined,The honoured relics, dust to dust, consignedWith Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee,"Eternam pacem dona, Domine."Then rising up he closed the holy book;And lifting in the beam his lighted look,(The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast),Here, too, he cried, my bones in peace shall rest!Few years remain to me, and never more300Shall I behold, O Spain! thy distant shore!Here lay my bones, that the same tree may waveO'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave.Oh, may it (when the sons of future daysShall hear our tale and on the hillock gaze),Oh, may it teach, that charity should bind,Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind!The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hearThy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaughtering spear.Yet we condemn not him who bravely stood,310To seal his country's freedom with his blood;And if, in after-times, a ruthless bandOf fell invaders sweep my native land,May she, by Chili's stern example led,Hurl back his thunder on the assailant's head;Sustained by Freedom, strike the avenging blow,And learn one virtue from her ancient foe!