The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 32

Oh! did he love thee, then? Let death betide, 70 Yes, from this cavern I will be thy guide.

Nay, do not shrink! from Caracalla's bay, Ev'n now, the Spaniards wind their march this way.

As late in yester eve I paced the sh.o.r.e I heard their signal-guns at distance roar.

Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,-- The Christian's G.o.d,--through pa.s.ses dark and wild He will direct thy way! Come, follow me; Oh, yet be loved, be happy, and be free!

But I, an outcast on my native plain, 80 The poor Olola ne'er shall smile again!

So guiding from the cave, when all was still, And pointing to the furthest glimmering hill, The Indian led, till, on Itata's side, The Spanish camp and night-fires they descried: Then on the stranger's neck that wild maid fell, And said, Thy own G.o.ds prosper thee, farewell!

The owl[224] is hooting overhead; below, On dusky wing, the vampire-bat sails slow.

Ongolmo stood before the cave of night, 90 Where the great wizard sat:--a lurid light Was on his face; twelve giant shadows frowned, His mute and dreadful ministers, around.

Each eye-ball, as in life, was seen to roll, Each lip to move; but not a living soul Was there, save bold Ongolmo and the seer.

The warrior half advanced his lifted spear, Then spoke: Dread master of the mighty lore!

Say, shall the Spaniards welter in their gore?

Let these dark ministers the answer tell, 100 Replied the master of the mighty spell.

Then every giant-shadow, as it stood, Lifted on high a skull that dropped with blood.

Yet more, the impatient warrior cried; yet more!

Say, shall I live, and drink the tyrant's gore?

'Twas silence. Speak! he cried: none made reply.

At once strange thunder shook the distant sky, And all was o'er; the grisly shapes are flown, And the grim warrior stands in the wild woods alone.

St Pedro's church had rung its midnight chimes, 110 And the gray friars were chanting at their primes, When winds, as of a rushing hurricane, Shook the tall windows of the towered fane;-- Sounds more than earthly with the storm arose, And a dire troop are pa.s.sed to Andes' snows, Where mighty spirits in mysterious ring Their dread prophetic incantations sing, Round Chillan's crater-smoke, whose lurid light Streams high against the hollow cope of night.

Thy genius, Andes, towering o'er the rest, 120 Rose vast, and thus a phantom-shape addressed: Who comes so swift amid the storm?

Ha! I know thy bloodless form, I know thee, angel, who thou art, By the hissing of thy dart!

'Tis Death, the king! the rocks around, Hark! echo back the fearful sound;-- 'Tis Death, the king! away, away!

The famished vulture scents its prey.

Spectre, hence! we cannot die-- 130 Thy withering weapons we defy; Dire and potent as thou art!

Then spoke the phantom of the uplifted dart: Spirits who in darkness dwell, I heard far off your secret spell!

Enough, on yonder fatal sh.o.r.e, My fiends have drank your children's gore; Lo! I come, and doom to fate The murderers, and the foe you hate!

Of all who shook their hostile spears, 140 And marked their way through blood and tears, (Now sleeping still on yonder plain) But one--one only shall remain, Ere thrice the morn shall shine again.

Then sang the mighty spirits. Thee, they sing, Hail to thee, Death, all hail to Death, the king!

The penguin flaps her wings in gore, Devoted Spain, along the sh.o.r.e.

Whence that shriek? with ghastly eyes, Thy victor-chief abandoned lies! 150 Victor of the southern world, Whose crimson banners were unfurled O'er the silence of the waves,-- O'er a land of bleeding slaves!

Victor, where is now thy boast; Thine iron steeds, thy mailed host?

Hark! hark! even now I hear his cries!-- Spirits, hence!--he dies! he dies!

[222] The neck of the flamingo is white, and its wings of rich and beautiful crimson.

[223] From Mungo Park.

[224] The owl is an object of peculiar dread to the Indian of Chili.

CANTO SIXTH.

ARGUMENT.

The City of Conception--The City of Penco--Castle--Lautaro--Wild Indian Maid--Zarinel--Missionary.

The second moon had now begun to wane, Since bold Valdivia left the southern plain; Goal of his labours, Penco's port and bay, Far gleaming to the summer sunset lay.

The wayworn veteran, who had slowly pa.s.sed Through trackless woods, or o'er savannahs vast, With hope impatient sees the city spires Gild the horizon, like ascending fires.

Now well-known sounds salute him, as more near The citadel and battlements appear; 10 The approaching trumpets ring at intervals; The trumpet answers from the rampart walls, Where many a maiden casts an anxious eye, Some long-lost object of her love to espy, Or watches, as the evening light illumes The points of lances, or the pa.s.sing plumes.

The grating drawbridge and the portal-arch, Now echo to the long battalion's march; Whilst every eye some friend remembered greets, Amid the gazing crowd that throngs the streets. 20 As bending o'er his mule, amid the throng, Pensive and pale, Anselmo rode along, How sacred, 'mid the noise of arms, appeared His venerable mien and snowy beard!

Whilst every heart a silent prayer bestowed, Slow to the convent's ma.s.sy gate he rode: Around, the brothers, gratulating, stand, And ask for tidings of the southern land.

As from the turret tolls the vesper bell, He seeks, a weary man, his evening cell, 30 No sounds of social cheer, no beds of state, Nor gorgeous canopies his coming wait; But o'er a little bread, with folded hands, Thanking the G.o.d that gave, a while he stands; Then, while all thoughts of earthly sorrow cease, Upon his pallet lays him down in peace.

The scene how different, where the castle-hall Rings to the loud triumphant festival: A hundred torches blaze, and flame aloof, Long quivering shadows streak the vaulted roof,-- 40 Whilst, seen far off, the illumined windows throw A splendour on the sh.o.r.e and seas below.

Amid his captains, in imperial state, Beneath a crimson canopy, elate, Valdivia sits--and, striking loud the strings, The wandering ministrel of Valentia sings.

For Chili conquered, fill the bowl again!

For Chili conquered, raise the heroic strain!

Lautaro left the hall of jubilee Unmarked, and wandered by the moonlit sea: 50 He heard far off, in dissonant acclaim, The song, the shout, and his loved country's name.

As swelled at times the trump's insulting sound, He raised his eyes impatient from the ground; Then smote his breast indignantly, and cried, Chili! my country; would that I had died On the sad night of that eventful day When on the ground my murdered father lay!

I should not then, dejected and alone, Have thought I heard his injured spirit groan. 60 Ha! was it not his form--his face--his hair?

Hold, soldier! stern, inhuman soldier, spare!

Ha! is it not his blood? Avenge, he cries, Avenge, my son, these wounds! He faints--he dies!

Leave me, dread shadow! Can I then forget My father's look--his voice? He beckons yet!

Now on that glimmering rock I see him stand: Avenge! he cries, and waves his dim-seen hand!

Thus mused the youth, distempered and forlorn, When, hark! the sound as of a distant horn 70 Swells o'er the surge! he turned his look around, And still, with many a pause, he heard the sound: It came from yonder rocks; and, list! what strain Breaks on the silence of the sleeping main?

I heard the song of gladness; It seemed but yesterday, But it turned my thoughts to madness, So soon it died away: I sound my sea-sh.e.l.l; but in vain I try To bring back that enchanting harmony! 80 Hark! heard ye not the surges say, Oh! heartless maid, what canst thou do?

O'er the moon-gleaming ocean, I'll wander away, And paddle to Spain in my light canoe!

The youth drew near, by the strange accents led, Where in a cave, wild sea-weeds round her head, And holding a large sea-conch in her hand, He saw, with wildering air, an Indian maiden stand. 90 A tattered poncho o'er her shoulders hung; On either side her long black locks were flung; And now by the moon's glimmer, he espies Her high cheek-bones, and bright but hollow eyes.

Lautaro spoke: Oh! say what cruel wrong Weighs on thy heart, maiden, what bodes thy song?

She answered not, but blew her sh.e.l.l again; Then thus renewed the desultory strain: Yes, yes, we must forget! the world is wide; My music now shall be the dashing tide: 100 In the calm of the deep I will frolic and swim-- With the breath of the South o'er the sea-blossom[225] skim.

If ever, stranger, on thy way, Sounds, more than earthly sweet, thy soul should move, It is the youth! Oh! do not say-- That poor Olola died for love.

Lautaro stretched his hand; she said, Adieu!

And o'er the glimmering rocks like lightning flew.

He followed, and still heard at distance swell The lessening echoes of that mournful sh.e.l.l. 110 It ceased at once; and now he heard no more Than the sea's murmur dying on the sh.o.r.e.

Olola!--ha! his sister had that name!

Oh, horrid fancies! shake not thus his frame!

All night he wandered by the desert main, To catch the melancholy sounds again.

No torches blaze in Penco's castled hall That echoed to the midnight festival.

The weary soldiers by their toils oppressed, Had now retired to silence and to rest. 120 The minstrel only, who the song had sung Of n.o.ble Cid, as o'er the strings he hung, Upon the instrument had fall'n asleep, Weary, and now was hushed in slumbers deep.

Tracing the scenes long past, in busy dreams Again he wanders by his native streams; Or sits, his evening saraband to sing To the clear Garonne's gentle murmuring.

Cold o'er the fleckered clouds the morning broke Aslant ere from his slumbers he awoke; 130 Still as he sat, nor yet had left the place, The first dim light fell on his pallid face.

He wakes--he gazes round--the dawning day Comes from the deep, in garb of cloudy gray.

The woods with crow of early turkeys ring, The glancing birds beneath the castle sing, And the sole sun his rising orb displays, Radiant and reddening, through the scattered haze.

To recreate the languid sense a while, When earth and ocean wore their sweetest smile, 140 He wandered to the beach: the early air Blew soft, and lifted, as it blew, his hair; Flushed was his cheek; his faded eye, more bright, Shone with a faint but animated light, While the soft morning ray seemed to bestow On his tired mind a transient kindred glow.

As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand, He mused and wandered on the winding strand, At distance tossed upon the tumbling tide, A dark and floating substance he espied. 150 He stood, and where the eddying surges beat, An Indian corse was rolled beneath his feet: The hollow wave retired with sullen sound; The face of that sad corse was to the ground; It seemed a female, by the slender form; He touched the hand--it was no longer warm; He turned its face--O G.o.d! that eye, though dim, Seemed with its deadly glare as fixed on him!

How sunk his shuddering sense, how changed his hue, When poor Olola in that corse he knew! 160 Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanced; His keen eye, like a startled eagle's glanced: 'Tis she!--he knew her by a mark impressed From earliest infancy beneath her breast.

Oh, my poor sister! when all hopes were past Of meeting, do we meet--thus meet--at last!

Then full on Zarinel, as one amazed, With rising wrath and stern suspicion gazed; For Zarinel still knelt upon the sand, And to his forehead pressed the dead maid's hand. 170 Speak! whence art thou?

Pale Zarinel, his head Upraising answered, Peace is with the dead!

Him dost thou seek who injured thine and thee?

Here--strike the fell a.s.sa.s.sin--I am he!

Die! he exclaimed, and with convulsive start Instant had plunged the dagger in his heart, When the meek father, with his holy book, And placid aspect, met his frenzied look. 180 He trembled--struck his brow--and, turning round, Flung the uplifted dagger to the ground.

Then murmured: Father, Heaven has heard thy prayer-- But oh! the sister of my soul lies there!

The Christian's G.o.d has triumphed! father, heap Some earth upon her bones, whilst I go weep!

Anselmo with calm brow approached the place, And hastened with his staff his faltering pace: Ho! child of guilt and wretchedness, he cried, Speak!--Holy father, the sad youth replied, 190 G.o.d bade the seas the accusing victim roll Dead at my feet, to teach my shuddering soul Its guilt: Oh! father, holy father, pray That heaven may take the deep, dire curse away!

Oh! yet, Anselmo cried, live and repent, For not in vain was this dread warning sent; The deep reproaches of thy soul I spare, Go! seek Heaven's peace by penitence and prayer.

The youth arose, yet trembling from the shock, And severed from the dead maid's hair a lock; 200 This to his heart with trembling hand he pressed, And dried the salt-sea moisture on his breast.

They laid her limbs within the sea-beat grave, And prayed: Her soul, O blessed Mary, save!

[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.