The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 28

He waked from the dark trance to life and pain, 170 But never saw his darling child again.

Seven snows had fallen, and seven green summers pa.s.sed, Since here he heard that son's loved accents last.

Still his beloved daughter soothed his cares, Whilst time began to strew with white his hairs.

Oft as his painted feathers he unbound, Or gazed upon his hatchet on the ground, Musing with deep despair, nor strove to speak, Light she approached, and climbed to reach his cheek, Held with both hands his forehead, then her head 180 Drew smiling back, and kissed the tear he shed.

But late, to grief and hopeless love a prey, She left his side, and wandered far away.

Now in this still and shelter'd glen, that smiled Beneath the crags of precipices wild, Wrapt in a stern yet sorrowful repose, The warrior half forgot his country's woes; Forgot how many, impotent to save, Shed their best blood upon a father's grave; How many, torn from wife and children, pine 190 In the dark caverns of the hopeless mine, Never to see again the blessed morn;-- Slaves in the lovely land where they were born; How many at sad sunset, with a tear, The distant roar of sullen cannons hear, Whilst evening seems, as dies the sound, to throw A deadlier stillness on a nation's woe!

So the dark warrior, day succeeding day, Wore in distempered thought the noons away; And still, when weary evening came, he sighed, 200 My son, my son! or, with emotion, cried, When I descend to the cold grave alone, Who shall be there to mourn for me?--Not one![202]

The crimson orb of day now westering flung His beams, and o'er the vast Pacific hung; When from afar a shrilling sound was heard, And, hurrying o'er the dews, a scout appeared.

The watchful warrior knew the piercing tones, The signal-call of war, from human bones,-- What tidings? with impatient look, he cried. 210 Tidings of war, the hurrying scout replied; Then the sharp pipe[203] with shriller summons blew, And held the blood-red arrow high in view.[204]

CHIEF.

Where speed the foes?

INDIAN.

Along the southern main, Have pa.s.sed the vultures of accursed Spain.

CHIEF.

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

INDIAN.

When, round and red, the moon shall next arise, The chiefs attend the midnight sacrifice 220 In Encol's wood, where the great wizard dwells, Who wakes the dead man by his thrilling spells; Thee,[205] Ulmen of the Mountains, they command To lift the hatchet for thy native land; Whilst in dread circle, round the sere-wood smoke, The mighty G.o.ds of vengeance they invoke; And call the spirits of their fathers slain, To nerve their lifted arm, and curse devoted Spain.

So spoke the scout of war;--and o'er the dew, Onward along the craggy valley, flew. 230 Then the stern warrior sang his song of death-- And blew his conch, that all the glens beneath Echoed, and rus.h.i.+ng from the hollow wood, Soon at his side three hundred warriors stood.

WARRIOR.

Children, who for his country dares to die?

Three hundred brandished spears shone to the sky: We perish, or we leave our country free; Father, our blood for Chili and for thee!

The mountain-chief essayed his club to wield, And shook the dust indignant from the s.h.i.+eld. 240 Then spoke:--

O Thou! that with thy lingering light Dost warm the world, till all is hushed in night; I look upon thy parting beams, O sun!

And say, ev'n thus my course is almost run.

When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave, And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave, Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire, Below the deep, to unknown worlds of fire!

Yet though thou sinkest, awful, in the main, 250 The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train Of stars, that s.h.i.+ne with soft and silent light, Making so beautiful the brow of night.

Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed, The light of after-fame around shall spread; The sons of distant Ocean, when they see The gra.s.s-green heap beneath the mountain tree, And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave, Shall pause and say, There sleep in dust the brave!

All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled! 260 Stern Guecubu,[206] angel of the dead, Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire; Whose dwelling is beneath the central fire Of yonder burning mountain; who hast pa.s.sed O'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blast Scattered my summer-leaves that cl.u.s.tered round, And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground; Angel of dire despair, oh! come not nigh, Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie; But thou, O mild and gentle spirit! stand, 270 Angel[207] of hope and peace, at my right hand, (When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guide My pathless voyage o'er the unknown tide, To scenes of endless joy, to that fair isle, Where bowers of bliss, and soft savannahs smile: Where my forefathers oft the fight renew, And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue; Where, ceased the struggles of all human pain, I may behold thee--thee, my son, again!

He spoke, and whilst at evening's glimmering close 280 The distant mist, like the gray ocean, rose, With patriot sorrows swelling at his breast, He sank upon a jagguar's hide to rest.

'Twas night: remote on Caracalla's bay, Valdivia's army, hushed in slumber, lay.

Around the limits of the silent camp, Alone was heard the steed's patroling tramp From line to line, whilst the fixed sentinel Proclaimed the watch of midnight--All is well!

Valdivia dreamed of millions yet untold, 290 Villrica's gems, and El Dorado's gold!

What different feelings, by the scene impressed, Rose in sad tumult o'er Lautaro's breast!

On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept, Thoughtful he turned his waking eyes, and wept, And whilst the thronging forms of memory start, Thus holds communion with his lonely heart: Land of my fathers, still I tread your sh.o.r.e, And mourn the shade of hours that are no more; Whilst night-airs, like remembered voices, sweep, 300 And murmur from the undulating deep.

Was it thy voice, my father! Thou art dead, The green rush waves on thy forsaken bed.

Was it thy voice, my sister! Gentle maid, Thou too, perhaps, in the dark cave art laid; Perhaps, even now, thy spirit sees me stand A homeless stranger in my native land; Perhaps, even now, along the moonlight sea, It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me!

Land of my fathers! yet, oh yet forgive, 310 That with thy deadly enemies I live: The tenderest ties (it boots not to relate) Have bound me to their service, and their fate; Yet, whether on Peru's war-wasted plain, Or visiting these sacred sh.o.r.es again, Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be, Land of my fathers, it shall beat for thee!

[193] A volcano in Chili.

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

[195] The parrot b.u.t.terfly, 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 s.h.i.+p.--_Molina._

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

[198] The ich.e.l.la is a short cloak, of a greenish-blue colour, of wool, fastened before with a silver buckle.--_Molina._

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

[200] _Ardea cristata._

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

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

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

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

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

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

[207] They have their evil and good spirits.

CANTO SECOND.

ARGUMENT.

_The Second Day._

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

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

Ye, who tread the hidden deeps, Where the silent earthquake sleeps; Ye, who track the sulphurous tide, Or on hissing vapours ride,-- 10 Spirits, come!

From worlds of subterraneous night; From fiery realms of lurid light; From the ore's unfathomed bed; From the lava's whirlpools red,-- Spirits, come!

On Chili's foes rush with vindictive sway, And sweep them from the light of living day!

Heard ye not the ravenous brood, That flap their wings, and scream for blood? 20 On Peru's devoted sh.o.r.e Their murderous beaks are red with gore; Yet here, impatient for new prey, The insatiate vultures track their way.

Let them peris.h.!.+ they, whose bands Swept remote and peaceful lands!

Let them peris.h.!.+--on their head, Descend the darkness of the dead!

Spirits, now your caves forsake: Hark! ten thousand warriors wake!-- 30 Spirits, their high cause defend!-- From your caves ascend! ascend!

As thus the Genius of the Andes spoke, The trembling mountain heaved with darker smoke; Lightnings, and phantom-forms, by fits appeared; His mighty voice far off Osorno heard; The caverned deeps shook through their vast profound, And Chimborazzo's height rolled back the sound.