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INTRODUCTION.

WHEN o'er th' Atlantic wild, rock'd by the blast,
Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign pass'd,
Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throne
Cast forth, and wandering to a clime unknown,
To seek a refuge on that distant shore,

That once her country's legions dyed with gore ;-
Sudden, methought, high-towering o'er the flood,
Hesperian world! thy mighty Genius stood;
Where spread, from cape to cape, from bay to bay,
Serenely blue, the vast Pacific lay;
And the huge Cordilleras, to the skies,
With all their burning summits seem'd to rise.

Then the stern spirit spoke, and to his voice The waves and woods replied " Mountains, rejoice!

1

Thou solitary sea, whose billows sweep
The margin of my forests, dark and deep,
Rejoice! the hour is come: the mortal blow,
That smote the golden shrines of Mexico,
In Europe is avenged! and thou, proud Spain,
Now hostile hosts insult thy own domain;
Now fate, vindictive, rolls, with refluent flood,
Back on thy shores the tide of human blood.
Think of my murder'd millions! of the cries
That once I heard from all my kingdoms rise;
Of famine's feeble plaint, of slavery's tear;
Think, too, if valour, freedom, fame, be dear,-
How my Antarctic sons,† undaunted, stood,
Exacting groan for groan, and blood for blood;
And shouted, (may the sounds be hail'd by thee!)
TYRANTS, THE VIRTUOUS AND THE BRAVE ARE
FREE!"

A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest-
Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest.

Range of volcanoes on the summits of the Andes.
The natives of Chili, who were never subdued.
A volcano in Chili.

Summer was in its prime: the parrot-flocks
Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel* and purple butterfly,†
Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,
With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flowers,
The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.
And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;
Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling
dews,

Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.

Checkering with partial shade the beams of noon, And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, Here, its gay net-work and fantastic twine, The purple cogult threads from pine to pine, And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white,

The sunshine darts its interrupted light,
And, mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,
With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes.

So smiles the scene ;-but can its smiles impart
Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart?
He heeds not now, when beautifully bright,
The humming-bird is circling in his sight;
Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still,
Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill
But gazing on the rocks and mountain wild,
Rock after rock, in glittering masses piled
To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high
Gray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky,
He cries, "O! if thy spirit yet be fled
To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead,—
In yonder tract of purest light above,
Dear long-lost object of a father's love,
Dost thou abide? or like a shadow come,
Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home,
And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam
Of evening, light the desert mountain stream?
Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard,
In the sad notes of that melodious bird,§
Which, as we listen with mysterious dread,
Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead?

CANTO I.

ARGUMENT.

One day and part of night.

Valley in the Andes-Old Indian warrior-Loss of his son
and daughter.
BENEATH aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain tribes: high overhead
The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,
And Chillant trail'd its smoke and smouldering fires. ship.-Molina.

* The crysomela is a beautiful insect, of which the young women of Chili make necklaces.

+ The parrot butterfly, peculiar to this part of America, the largest and most brilliant of its kind-Papilio psit

tacus.

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

§ "But because I cannot describe all the American birds, which differ not a little from ours, not only in kind, but also in variety of colour, as rose-colour, red, violet, white, ash-colour, purple, &c.; I will at length describe one, which the barbarians so observe and esteem, that

"Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away,
Thine eyes yet view the living light of day;
Sad in the stranger's land, thou mayst sustain
A weary life of servitude and pain,

With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,
And think of these white rocks and torrent stream,
Never to hear the summer cocoa wave,
Or weep upon thy father's distant grave."

Ye, who have waked, and listen'd with a tear, When cries confused, and clangours roll'd more

near;

With murmur'd prayer, when mercy stood aghast,
As war's black trump peal'd its terrific blast,
And o'er the wither'd earth the armed giant pass'd!
Ye, who his track with terror have pursued,
When some delightful land, all blood-imbrued,
He swept; where silent is the champaign wide,
That echoed to the pipe of yester-tide,
Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong
The last deep echoes of his parting gong;
Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot
Where trailed the smoke of many a peaceful cot,
Save livid corpses that unburied lic,
And conflagrations, reeking to the sky;
Come listen, whilst the causes I relate

That bow'd the warrior to the storms of fate,
And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate.
In other days, when in his manly pride,
Two children for a father's fondness vied,—
Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield
His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield.
Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade,
Lightsome of heart as gay of look, they play'd,
Brother and sister: she, along the dew,
Blithe as the squirrel of the forest, flew;
Blue rushes wreath'd her head; her dark brown
hair

Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare;

Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made, That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade: Light was her form; a clasp of silver braced The azure-dyed ichella* round her waist;

they will not only not hurt them, but suffer them not to escape unrevenged who do them any wrong. It is of the bigness of a pigeon, and of an ash-colour. The Tououpinambaltii hear her more often in the night than in the day, with a mournful voice; and believe that it is sent from their friends and kindred unto them, and also declareth good luck; and especially, that it encourageth and admonisheth them to behave themselves valiantly in the wars against their enemies. Besides, they verily think, that if they rightly observe these divinations, it shall come to pass that they should vanquish their enemies even in this life, and after death their souls should fly beyond the mountains to their ancestors, perpetually

to dance there.

"I chanced once to lodge in a village, named Upec by the Frenchmen: there, in the night, I heard these 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.

* The ichella is a short cloak, of a greenish blue colour, of wool, fastened before with a silver buckle.-Molina.

Her ankles rung with shells, as unconfined,
She danced, and sung wild carols to the wind.
With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye,-
So beautiful in youth, she bounded by.

Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland,-
The tame alpaca* stood and lick'd her hand;
She brought him gather'd moss, and loved to deck
With flowery twine his tall and stately neck;
Whilst he with silent gratitude
eplies,
And bends to her caress his large blue eyes.

These children danced together in the shade, Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade; Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee, The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree; Or through the forest's wildest solitude, From glen to glen, the maimozet pursued; And thought the light of parting day too short, That call'd them, lingering, from their daily sport.

In that fair season of awakening life,

When dawning youth and childhood are at strife;
When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands
Tiptoe, with glistening eye and outspread hands;
With airy look, and form and footsteps light,
And glossy locks, and features berry-bright,
And eye like the young eaglet's, to the ray
Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away;
A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung,
A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung,
With slender lance, and feathers, blue and red,
That, like the heron'st crest, waved on his head,-
Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy,
Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy:
Taught by his sire, e'en now he drew the bow
Or track'd the jaguar on the morning snow;
Startled the condor, on the craggy height;
Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight,
Lessening in ether to a speck of white.

But when th' impassion'd chieftain spoke of war
Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar,-
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main,
And the proud banners of insulting Spain,-
Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke,
And his red gods, that wrapt in rolling smoke,
Roar'd from the guns,-the boy, with still-drawn
breath,

Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death;
Then raised his animated eyes, and cried,
"O let me perish by my father's side!"

Once, when the moon, o'er Chilian's cloudless height,

Pour'd, far and wide, its soft and mildest light,
A predatory band of mailed men
Burst on the stillness of the shelter'd glen,
They shouted" death," and shook their sabres high,
That shone terrific to the moonlight sky :
Where'er they rode, the valley and the hill
Echoed the shrieks of death, till all again was still.
The warrior, ere he sunk in slumber deep,
Had kiss'd his son, soft-breathing in his sleep,
Where on a llama's skin he lay, and said,
Placing his hand, with tears, upon his head,

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

† Ardea cristata.

"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!"

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 th 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!

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INDIAN.

"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,
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.

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.

"6

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!"

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"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 deadThe 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 criesLet 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 profound,

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.

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

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.

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?"

Hist clime-changed countenance, though pale, yet Waving the youth, at distance, to retire:

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.

"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!"

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

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

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