The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 30

Rich hues illumed the track of dying day As the great sun sank in the western bay, 210 And 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 G.o.d above Still 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, 220 That tribes unborn may some memorial have, When I far off am mouldering in the grave, Of that poor messenger, who tidings bore Of Gospel-mercy to your distant sh.o.r.e.

The crowd retired; along the twilight gray, The condor kept its solitary way, The fire-flies shone, when to the hermit's cell Who hastens but the minstrel Zarinel!

In foreign lands, far from his native home, 'Twas his, a gay, romantic youth, to roam, 230 With a light cittern o'er his shoulders slung, Where'er he pa.s.sed he played, and loved, and sung; And thus accomplished, late had joined the train Of gallant soldiers on the southern plain.

Father, he cried, uncertain of the fate That may to-morrow's toilsome march await, For long will be the road, I would confess Some secret thoughts that on my bosom press.

They are of one I left, an Indian maid, Whose trusting love my careless heart betrayed. 240 Say, may I speak?

Say on, the father cried, Nor be to penitence all hope denied.

Then hear, Anselmo! From a very child I loved all fancies marvellous and wild; I turned from truth, to listen to the lore Of many an old and fabling troubadour.

Thus, with impa.s.sioned heart, and wayward mind, To dreams and shapes of shadowy things resigned, I left my native vales and village home, 250 Wide 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 cast My 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, 260 Rivers like seas, and forests whose deep shades Had 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 sh.o.r.es a wondering guest.

Still to romantic phantasies resigned, 270 I left Callao's crowded port behind, And climbed the mountains which their shadow threw Upon the lessening summits of Peru.

Some sheep the armed peasants drove before, That all our food through the wild pa.s.ses 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; 280 In 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 find Again some commerce with remote mankind.

The voice comes nearer, rising through the shade-- 290 Is 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! again Near and more near is heard the welcome strain; It is a wild maid's carolling, who seeks Her 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 saw 300 Gaze 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 led My 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, 310 She 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 saw Such 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, 320 Might 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 pa.s.sed! Nay, father, the sad sequel hear: 'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year-- Ambition called me: true, I knew to part 330 Would 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 glade Where 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, 340 And 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: 350 Yes, thoughtless youth, my absolution hear.

First, by deep penitence the wrong atone, Then absolution ask from G.o.d 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 pa.s.sions, that on n.o.blest natures prey, Oh! cast them, like corroding bonds, away!

Disdain to act mean falsehood's coward part, 360 And let religion dignify thine art.

If, by thy bed, thou seest at midnight stand Pale Conscience, pointing, with terrific hand, To deeds of darkness done, whilst, like a corse, To shake thy soul, uprises dire Remorse; Fly to G.o.d'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, 370 Then 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, spread Above a poor and dying emmet's head, That toiled his transient hour upon the sh.o.r.e 380 Of 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! 390 In 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 night Arise! Oh! when shall severed nations raise One 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, 400 Thy 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!

[214] Indians of Chili are of the lightest cla.s.s, called by some "white Indians."

[215]--Of Moorish architecture.

[216] Seville was the first place in Spain in which the Inquisition was established, in 1481.

CANTO FOURTH.

ARGUMENT.

a.s.sembly of Indian warriors--Caupolican, Ongolmo, Teucapel, Mountain-chief--Song of the Indian Wizard--White woman and child.

Far in the centre of the deepest wood, The a.s.sembled fathers of their country stood.

'Twas midnight now; the pine-wood fire burned red, And to the leaves a shadowy glimmer spread; The struggling smoke, or flame with fitful glance, Obscured, or showed, some dreadful countenance; And every warrior, as his club he reared, With larger shadow, indistinct, appeared; While more terrific, his wild locks and mien, And fierce eye, through the quivering smoke, was seen. 10 In sea-wolf's skin, here Mariantu stood; Gnashed his white teeth, impatient, and cried, blood!

His lofty brow, with crimson feathers bound, Here, brooding death, the huge Ongolmo frowned; And, like a giant of no earthly race, To his broad shoulders heaved his ponderous mace.

With lifted hatchet, as in act to fell, Here stood the young and ardent Teucapel.

Like a lone cypress, stately in decay, When time has worn its summer boughs away, 20 And hung its trunk with moss and lichens sere, The Mountain-warrior rested on his spear.

And thus, and at this hour, a hundred chiefs, Chosen avengers of their country's griefs; Chiefs of the scattered tribes that roam the plain, That sweeps from Andes to the western main, Their country-G.o.ds, around the coiling smoke, With sacrifice, and silent prayers, invoke.

For all, at first, were silent as the dead; The pine was heard to whisper o'er their head, 30 So stood the stern a.s.sembly; but apart, Wrapped in the spirit of his fearful art, Alone, to hollow sounds of hideous hum, The wizard-seer struck his prophetic drum.

Silent they stood, and watched with anxious eyes, What phantom-shape might from the ground arise; No voices came, no spectre-form appeared; A hollow sound, but not of winds, was heard Among the leaves, and distant thunder low, Which seemed like moans of an expiring foe. 40 His crimson feathers quivering in the smoke, Then, with loud voice, first Mariantu spoke: Hail we the omen! Spirits of the slain, I hear your voices! Mourn, devoted Spain!

Pale-visaged tyrants! still, along our coasts, Shall we despairing mark your iron hosts!

Spirits of our brave fathers, curse the race Who thus your name, your memory disgrace!

No; though yon mountain's everlasting snows In vain Almagro's[217] toilsome march oppose; 50 Though Atacama's long and wasteful plain Be heaped with blackening carcases in vain; Though still fresh hosts those snowy summits scale, And scare the Llamas with their glittering mail; Though sullen castles lour along our sh.o.r.e; Though our polluted soil be drenched with gore; Insolent tyrants! we, prepared to die, Your arms, your horses, and your G.o.ds, defy!

He spoke: the warriors stamped upon the ground, And tore the feathers that their foreheads bound. 60 Insolent tyrants! burst the general cry, We, met for vengeance--we, prepared to die, Your arms, your horses, and your G.o.ds, defy!

Then Teucapel, with warm emotion, cried: This hatchet never yet in blood was dyed; May it be buried deep within my heart, If living from the conflict I depart, Till loud, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, is heard one cry, See! in their gore where the last tyrants lie!

The Mountain-warrior: Oh, that I could raise 70 The hatchet too, as in my better days, When victor on Maypocha's banks I stood; And while the indignant river rolled in blood, And our swift arrows hissed like rushing rain, I cleft Almagro's iron helm in twain!

My strength is well-nigh gone! years marked with woe Have o'er me pa.s.sed, and bowed my spirit low!

Alas, I have no son! Beloved boy, Thy father's last, best hope, his pride, his joy!

Oh, hadst thou lived, sole object of my prayers, 80 To guard my waning life, and these gray hairs, How bravely hadst thou now, in manhood's pride, Swung the uplifted war-club by my side!

But the Great Spirit willed not! Thou art gone; And, weary, on this earth I walk alone; Thankful if I may yield my latest breath, And bless my country in the pangs of death!

With words deliberate, and uplifted hand, Mild to persuade, yet dauntless to command, Raising his hatchet high, Caupolican 90 Surveyed the a.s.sembled chiefs, and thus began: Friends, fathers, brothers, dear and sacred names!

Your stern resolve each ardent look proclaims; On then to conquest; let one hope inspire, One spirit animate, one vengeance fire!

Who doubts the glorious issue! To our foes A tenfold strength and spirit we oppose.

In them no G.o.d protects his mortal sons, Or speaks, in thunder, from their roaring guns.

Nor come they children of the radiant sky; 100 But, like the wounded snake, to writhe and die.

Then, rush resistless on their prostrate bands, s.n.a.t.c.h the red lightning from their feeble hands, And swear to the great spirits, hovering near, Who now this awful invocation hear, That we shall never see our household hearth, Till, like the dust, we sweep them from the earth.

But vain our strength, that idly, in the fight, Tumultuous wastes its ineffectual might, Unless to one the hatchet we confide; 110 Let one our numbers, one our counsels guide.

And, lo! for all that in this world is dear, I raise this hatchet, raise it high, and swear, Never again to lay it down, till we, And all who love this injured land, are free!

At once the loud acclaim tumultuous ran: Our spears, our life-blood, for Caupolican!

With thee, for all that in this world is dear, We lift our hatchets, lift them high, and swear, Never again to lay them down, till we, 120 And all who love this injured land, are free!

Then thus the chosen chief: Bring forth the slave, And let the death-dance recreate the brave.

Two warriors led a Spanish captive, bound With thongs; his eyes were fixed upon the ground.

Dark cypresses the mournful spot inclose: High in the midst an ancient mound arose, Marked on each side with monumental stones, And white beneath with skulls and scattered bones.

Four poniards, on the mound, encircling stood, 130 With points erect, dark with forgotten blood.

Forthwith, with louder voice, the chief commands: Bring forth the lots, unbind the captive's hands; Then north, towards his country, turn his face, And dig beneath his feet a narrow s.p.a.ce.[218]

Caupolican uplifts his axe, and cries: G.o.ds, of our land be yours this sacrifice!-- Now, listen, warriors!--and forthwith commands To place the billets in the captive's hands-- Soldier, cast in the lot! 140 With looks aghast, The captive in the trench a billet cast.

Soldier, declare, who leads the arms of Spain, Where Santiago frowns upon the plain?

CAPTIVE.

Villagra!

WARRIOR.

Earth upon the billet heap; So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!

The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim, Accursed be his nation and his name! 150

WARRIOR.

Captive, declare who leads the Spanish bands, Where the proud fortress shades Coquimbo's sands.