"Aërial nymphs !* that in the moonlight stray.
O, gentle spirits! here a while delay;
Bless, as ye pass unseen, my sleeping boy,
Till blithe he wakes to daylight and to joy.
If the Great Spirit will, in future days
O'er the fall'n foe his hatchet he shall raise,
And, 'mid a grateful nation's high applause,
Avenge his violated country's cause 135

Now, nearer points of spears, and many a cone
Of moving helmets, in the moonlight shone,
As, clanking through the pass, the band of blood
Sprung, like hyenas, from the secret wood.
'They rush-they seize their unresisting prey-
Ruthless they tear the shrieking boy away;
But not till, gash'd by many a sabre wound,
The father sunk, expiring, on the ground.
He waked, from the dark trance, to life and pain,
But never saw his darling child again.

Seven snows had fall'n, and seven green summers
pass'd,

Since here he heard that son's loved accents last.
Still his beloved daughter soothed his cares,
While 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 approach'd, and climb'd to reach his
cheek,

Held with both hands his forehead, then her head
Drew smiling back, and kiss'd the tear he shed.

But late, to grief and hopeless love a prey,
She left his side, and wander'd 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 had 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
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 wo!

So the dark warrior, day succeeding day,
Wore in distemper'd thought the noons away;
And still, when weary evening came, he sigh'd,
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!"

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 appear'd. The starting warrior knew the piercing tones, The signal call of war, from human bones.

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

+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!"

"When, round and red, the moon shall next arise,
The chiefs attend the midnight sacrifice
In Encol's wood, where the great wizard dwells,
Who wakes the dead man with his thrilling spells;
Thee, 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 gods of vengeance they invoke;
And call the spirits of their father's slain,
So spoke the scout of war;—and o'er the dew
To nerve their lifted arm, and curse devoted Spain."
Onward, along the craggy valley, flew.

Then the stern warrior sung his song of death-
And blew his conch, that all the glens beneath
Echoed, and rushing from the hollow wood,
Soon at his side three hundred warriors stood.

WARRIOR.

"Children, who for his country dares to die?" Three hundred brandish'd spears shone to the

sky.

"We perish, or we leave our country free;
Father, our blood for Chili and for thee !"
Their long lank hair hung wild: with clashing
sound,

They smote their shields, and stamp'd upon the
ground!

The eagle, from his unapproach'd retreat,
Scared at their cries, has left his craggy seat.

Enough!" the warrior cried, "retire to-
night:-

Let the same spirit fire us in the fight,
That the proud Spaniard, 'mid his guards, may know
How dire it is to have one race his foe,

Which all his glittering hosts shall ne'er subdue!"
One poor, brave race, to their loved country true,

The mountain chief essay'd his club to wield,
And shook the dust indignant from the shield.
Then spoke :-

"O Thou! that with thy lingering light
Dost warm the world, till all is hush'd in night;
I look upon thy parting beams, O sun!
And say, 'E'en thus my course is almost run.'

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

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 Ulmen is the same as casique, or chief.

"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,
The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train
Of stars, that shine with soft and silent light,
Making so beautiful the brow of night.
Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed,
The light of after-fame around shall spread;
The sons of distant ocean, when they see
The grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree,
And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave,
Shall pause and say, 'There sleep in dust the
brave!'

"All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled! Stern Guecubu, 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 pass'd
O'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blast
Scatter'd my summer leaves that cluster'd round,
And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground;
Angel of dire despair, O come not nigh,

Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie;
But thou, O mild and gentle spirit, stand,
Angel 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

The distant mist, like the gray ocean, rose,
With patriot sorrows swelling at his breast,
He sunk upon a jaguar's hide to rest.

'Twas night. Remote on Caracalla's bay,
Valdivia's army, hush'd in slumber, lay.
Around the limits of the silent camp,
Alone was heard the steed's patrolling tramp
From line to line, whilst the fix'd centinel
Proclaim'd the watch of midnight-" All is well!"
Valdivia dreamt of millions yet untold,
Villrica's gems, and El Dorado's gold!—
What different feelings, by the scene impress'd,
Rose, in sad tumult, o'er Lautaro's breast!

On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept,
Thoughtful he turn'd his waking eyes, and wept,
And whilst the thronging forms of memory start,
Thus holds communion with his lonely heart:-
"Land of my fathers, still I tread your shore,
And mourn the shade of hours that are no more;
Whilst night-airs, like remember'd voices, sweep,
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, c'en now thy spirit sees me stand
A homeless stranger in my native land;
Perhaps, e'en now, along the moonlight sea,
It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me.
"Land of my fathers, yet-O yet forgive,
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 shores again,
Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be,
Land of my fathers, it shall beat for thee!"

CANTO II.

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,-
Spirits, come!

From worlds of subterraneous night;

From fiery realms of lurid light;

From the ore's unfathom'd 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!
Hark! heard ye not the ravenous brood?
They flap their wings; they scream for blood:-
On Peru's devoted shore

Their murderous beaks are red with gore:

Hither, impatient for new prey,

Th' insatiate vultures track their way!
Rise, Chili, rise! scatter the bands
That swept remote and peaceful lands!—
Let them perish! Vengeance cries-
Let them perish! Death replies.
Spirits, now your caves forsake!-
Hark! ten thousand warriors wake!-
Spirits, their high cause defend!--
From your caves ascend! ascend !"-
As thus the vast, terrific phantom spoke,
The trembling mountain heaved with darker smoke;
Flashes of red and angry light appear'd,
And moans and momentary shrieks were heard;
The cavern'd deeps shook through their vast pro-
found,

And Chimborazo's height roll'd back the sound.
With lifted arm, and towering stature high,
And aspect frowning to the middle sky,
(Its misty form dilated in the wind,)
The phantom stood,-till, less and less defined,

*They have their evil and good spirits. Guecubu is the Into thin air it faded from the sight,

evil spirit of the Chilians,

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, disclose
The same long line of solitary snows.

The morning shines,-the military train,
In warlike muster on the tented plain,
Glitter, and 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 gray,
Wind back their march to Penco's northern bay.
Valdivia, fearful lest confederate foes,
Ambush'd and dark, his progress might oppose,
Marshals, to-day, the whole collected force,-
File and artillery, cuirassier and horse:
Himself yet lingers ere he joins the train,
That move, in order'd march, along the plain,
While troops, and Indian slaves beneath his eye
The labours of the rising city ply:
Wide glows the general toil-the mole extends,
The watch-tower o'er the desert surge ascends;
And battlements, and rising ramparts, shine
Above the ocean's blue and level line.

The sun ascended to meridian height,
And all the northern bastions shone in light;
With 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 trumpets' sound,-
With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders
spread,-

And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,—
The coal-black steed, in rich caparison
Far trailing to the ground, went proudly on:
Proudly he tramp'd as conscious of his charge,
And turn'd around his eyeballs, bright and large,
And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain ;
And toss'd the flakes, indignant, of his mane;
And, with high swelling veins, exulting press'd
Proudly against the barb, his heaving breast.

Though pass'd in tears the dayspring of his youth,
Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth:
He, in Valdivia, own'd a nobler friend;
Kind to protect, and mighty to defend.
So, on he rode: upon his youthful mien
A mild but sad intelligence was seen:
Courage was on his open brow, yet care
Seem'd, like a wandering shade, to linger there;
And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright,
It beam'd with humid, melancholy light.

When now Valdivia saw th' embattled line, Helmets, and swords, and shields, and matchlocks, shine,

Now the long phalanx still and steady stand,
Fix'd every eye, and motionless each hand,—
Then slowly clustering, into columns wheel,
Each with the red-cross banners of Castile ;-
While trumps, and drums, and cymbals, to his ear,
Made music such as soldiers love to hear,
While horsemen check'd their steeds,-or, bending
low,

With levell'd lances, o'er the saddle-bow,
Rode gallantly at tilt,-and thunders broke,
Instant involving van and rear in smoke,
Till winds th' obscuring volume roll'd away,
And the red file, stretch'd out in long array,
More radiant moved beneath the beams of day,
While ensigns, arms, and crosses, glitter'd bright,--
"Philip!" he cried, "seest thou the glorious
sight,

And dost thou deem the tribes of this poor land
Can men, and arms, and steeds, like these, with-
stand?"

"Forgive!" the youth replied, and check'd 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 give,

Is yours, my lord! You shielded--bade me live,
When, in the circuit of the world so wide
I had but one, one only friend beside.
I bow'd--resign'd to fate; I kiss'd the hand,
Red with the best blood of my father's land!†
But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,
Though Cortez' desolating march laid low
The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico,-
With carcasses, though proud Pizarro strew
The 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!"

The fate of empires glowing in his thought,-
Thus arm'd, the tented field Valdivia sought.
On the left side his poised shield he bore,
With quaint devices richly blazon'd o'er;
Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,
Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone;
Blue in the wind th' escutcheon'd mantle flow'd,
O'er the chain'd mail, which tinkled as he rode.
The barred visor raised, you might discern
Hist clime-changed countenance, though pale, yet Waving the youth, at distance, to retire:

stern,

And resolute as death,-whilst in his eye
Sat proud assurance, fame, and victory.

Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride,
Rode, with a lance, attendant, at his side,
In Spanish mantle gracefully array'd:
Upon his brow a tuft of feathers play'd:
His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace,
Shaded the noonday sunbeams on his face.

*The city Baldivia.

↑ He had served in the wars of Italy.

A moment's crimson cross'd Valdivia's cheekThen o'er the plain he spurr'd, nor deign'd to speak,

None saw the eye that shot terrific fire:
As their commander sternly rode along,
Troop after troop, halted the martial throng;
And all the pennon'd trumps a louder blast
Blew, as the southern world's great victor pass'd.
Lautaro turn'd, scarce heeding, from the view,
And from the noise of trumps and drums withdrew
And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell,
Seeks the gray Missionary's humble cell.

* Lautaro had been baptized by that name.
+ Valdivia had before been in Chili.

Seem'd light from heaven sent down to bless his Unnoticed, and unknown-too painful wake,

* A small and beautiful species, which is domesticated.

498

When I disclose my hidden griefs, the tale
May more than wisdom or reproof prevail.
O, 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,

Some bread and water, nature to sustaina,
Duly was brought when eve return'd again;
And thus I knew, hoping it were the last,
Another day of lingering life was pass'd.

"Five years immured in the deep den of night,

Who faith and hope shall crown, when worlds are I never saw the sweet sun's blessed light.

swept away!

"Where fair Seville's Morisco turrets* gleam On Guadilquiver's genuiy-stealing stream, Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide, Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side, My youth was pass'd. O, days for ever gone! How touch'd with heaven's own light your mornings shone!

"E'en now, when lonely and forlorn I bend,My weary journey hastening to its end, A drooping exile on a distant shore,

66

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.
Forgive the cause, O God!--forgive the tear,
That flows, e'en now, o'er Leonora's bier;
For, midst the innocent and lovely, none
More beautiful than Leonora shone.

As by her widow'd 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,
Pour'd o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light,
From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear,
When Adoremus' swell'd upon the ear,
(Such as to heaven thy rapt attention drew
First in the Christian churches of Peru)
She seem'd, methought, some spirit of the sky,
Descending to that holy harmony.

" Boots not to say, 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 whisper'd, We, a while, must part.
"The minster toll'd the middle hour of night,
When waked to agony and wild affright,
I heard the words, words of appalling dread-
'The holy Inquisition !'-from the bed

I started; snatch'd 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 convey'd,
By dark-inscribed and massy-window'd walls,
Through the dim twilight of terrific halls;
(For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stain
Of pure religion, and the rites of Spain)--
Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold
blast,

And echoed to the foot-fall as we pass'd!

"They left me, faint and breathless with affright,
In a cold cell, to solitude and night;

O! think, what horror through the heart must thrill
When the last bolt was barr'd, and all at once was
still.

"Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom,
Sadder than darkness, wrapt the living tomb.

* Of Moorish architecture.

Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was barr'd,
And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarr'd,
Methought I heard, as clang'd the iron door,

A dull and hollow echo from the floor:

I stamp'd: the vault and winding caves around
Return'd a long and melancholy sound.
With patient toil, I raised a massy stone,
And look'd into a depth of shade unknown;
The murky twilight of the lurid place
Served me, at length, a secret way to trace.
I enter'd, step by step; explored the road,
In darkness, from my desolate abode;
Till, winding through long passages of night,
I saw, at distance, a dim streak of light :-
It was the sun-the bright, the blessed beam
Of day! I knelt-I wept-the glittering stream
Roll'd soft beneath me, as I left the cave,
Conceal'd in woods above the winding wave.

"I rested on a verdant bank a while,

I saw around the summer landscape smile.
I gain'd a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave,
Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve,
I turn'd my footsteps to the city towers;
Remembering still affection's fondest hours,
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 stray'd,

Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid.
I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand,

And yield, half shrinking, her reluctant hand:
She turn'd her look-she saw my hollow eyes,
And knew me,-wasted, wan, and in disguise ;
She shriek'd, and fell-breathless, I left the fane
In agony-nor saw her form again;

And from that day, her voice, her look, was 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.
Grief 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 day
Had 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 approach'd, with panting breath-
She bade me hasten to the house of death.

"I came with moving lips intent to pray,
Her lifted hands were wasted to the bone,
A dying woman on a pallet lay;
And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone;
Beside the bed a pious daughter stands
Silent, and weeping, kisses her pale hands.

"Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head
'Forgive, forgive! they told me he was dead!