My strength is wellnigh gone! years mark'd with
Have o'er me pass'd, and bow'd my spirit low!
Alas, I have no son! Beloved boy!
Caupolican uplifts his axe, and cries,
"Gods of our land, be yours this sacrifice!
Now, listen, warriors!" and forthwith commands
To place the billets in the captive's hands.
Thy father's last, best hope!-his pride!-his joy!" Soldier, cast in the lot!"
O, hadst thou lived-sole object of my prayers!-
To guard my waning life, and these gray hairs!
How bravely hadst thou now, in manhood's pride,
Swung th' uplifted war-club on my side:
But the Great Spirit will'd 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!"
The captive in the trench a billet cast.
"Soldier, declare who leads the arms of Spain,
Where Santiago frowns upon the plain?"
With words deliberate, and uplifted hand;
Mild to persuade, yet dauntless to command;
Raising his hatchet high, Caupolican
Survey'd th' assembled chiefs, and thus began:
"Friends, fathers, brothers- dear and sacred
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 god protects his mortal sons,
Or speaks, in thunder, from their roaring guns.
Nor come they children of the radiant sky;
But, like the wounded snake, to writhe and die.
Then, rush resistless on their prostrate hands;
Snatch the red lightning from their feeble hands,
And swear, to the great spirits, hovering near-
Who now this awful invocation hear-
That we will never set 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:
Let one, our numbers--one, our counsels guide.
And, lo! for all that in this world is dear,
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,
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 fix'd upon the ground.
Dark cypresses the mournful spot enclose:
High in the midst an ancient mound arose,
Mark'd, on each side, with monumental stones,
And white beneath, with sculls and scatter'd bones.
Four poniards, on the mound, encircling stood,
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 space."*
The reader is referred to Molina for a particular description of the war-sacrifice, which is very striking and poetical.
"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!"
"Hark, the battle!-Hark, the din! Now the deeds of death begin!
The Spaniards come, in clouds! above,
I hear their hoarse artillery move!
Spirits of our fathers slain,
Haste, pursue the dogs of Spain !
The noise was in the northern sky!
Haste, pursue! They fly--they fly!
Now from the cavern's secret cell,
Where the direst phantoms dwell,
See they rush, and, riding high,
Break the moonlight as they fly;
And, on the shadow'd plain beneath,
Shoot, unseen, the shafts of death!
O'er the devoted Spanish camp,
Like a vapour, dark and damp,
May they hover, till the plain
Is hid beneath the countless slain;
And none, but silent women, tread
From corpse to corpse, to seek the dead!"
The wavering fire flash'd with expiring light,
When shrill and hollow, through the cope of night,
A distant shout was heard; at intervals
Increasing on the listening ear it falls.
It ceased; when, bursting from the thickest wood, With lifted axe, two gloomy warriors stood: Wan in the midst, with dark and streaming hair, Blown by the winds upon her bosom bare, A woman, faint from terror's wild alarms, And folding a white infant in her arms, Appear'd. Each warrior stoop'd his lance to gaze On her pale looks, seen ghastlier through the blaze. "Save!" she exclaim'd,with harrow'd aspect wild; "O, save my innocent-my helpless child!" Then fainting fell, as from death's instant stroke. Caupolican, with stern inquiry, spoke"Whence come, to interrupt our awful rite, At this dread hour, the warriors of the night?" "From ocean."
"Who is she who fainting lies, And now scarce lifts her supplicating eyes?" "The Spanish ship went down: the seamen bore, In a small boat, this woman to the shore: They fell beneath our hatchets, and again, We gave them back to the insulted main.t The child and woman-of a race we hateWarriors, 'tis yours, here, to decide their fate." "Vengeance!" aloud, fierce Mariantu cried: Vengeance! let vengeance dire be satisfied! Let none of hated Spanish blood remain, Woman, or child, to violate our plain !"
Amid that dark and bloody scene, the child Stretch'd to the mountain chief his hands, and smiled.
A starting tear of pity dimm'd the eye
Of the old warrior, though he knew not why.
"O! think upon your little ones!" he cried,
"Nor be compassion to the weak denied."
Caupolican then fix'd his aspect mild
On the white woman and her shrieking child,
*Terrific imaginary beings, called "Man-animals," that leave their caves by night, and scatter pestilence and death as they fly. See Molina.
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Ocean cave-Spanish captive-Wild Indian maid-Genius of Andes, and spirits.
"TIs dawn:-the distant Andes' rocky spires,
One after one, have caught the orient fires.
Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight,
His wings are touch'd with momentary light.
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads,
A boundless ocean of gray vapour spreads,
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below,
Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising slow,
Till all the living landscape is display'd
In various pomp of colour, light, and shade,
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain,
Lessening in sunshine to the southern main.
The llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew;
The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew;
see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride,
The tall flamingo, by the river's side,
Stalks, in his richest plumage bright array'd,
With snowy neck superb,* and legs of lengthening
shade.
Sad maid, for others may the valleys ring,
For other ears the birds of morning sing,
For other eyes the palms in beauty wave,
Dark is thy prison in the ocean cave!
Amid that winding cavern's inmost shade,
A dripping rill its ceaseless murmur made:
Masses of dim-discover'd crags aloof,
Hung, threatening, from the vast and vaulted roof;
And through a fissure, in its glimmering height,
Seen like a star, appear'd the distant light;
Beneath the opening, where the sunbeams shine,
Far down, the rock weed hung its slender twine.
Here, pale and bound, the Spanish captive lay,
Till morn on morn, in silence, pass'd away;
When once, as o'er her sleeping child she hung,
And sad her evening supplication sung,-
Like a small gem, amidst the gloom of night,
A glow-worm shot its green and trembling light,-
And, 'mid the moss and craggy fragments, shed
Faint lustre, o'er her sleeping infant's head;
And hark! a voice-a woman's voice-its sound
Dies, in faint echoes, 'mid the vault profound-
"Let us pity the poor white maid !+
She has no mother near!
No friend to dry her tear!
*The neck of the flamingo is white, and its wings of
+ "Render them back upon the insulted ocean."-Cole- rich and beautiful crimson.
Upon the cold earth she is laid: Let us pity the poor white maid!" of Wo;
It seem'd the burden of a song
Each eyeball, as in life, was seen to roll, Each lip to move; but not a living soul Was there, save bold Ongolmo and the seer.
And mark, across the gloom an Indian girl move The warrior half advanced his lifted spear,
Her nearer look is sorrowful, yet mild
Her hanging locks are wreath'd with rock-weed wild
Gently she spoke, "Sad Christian, dry thy tear-
Art thou afraid? all are not cruel here.
O! still more wretched may my portion be,
Stranger, if I could injure thine and thee!
And, lo! I bring, from banks and thickets wild,
Wood-strawberries, and honey for thy child."
Then spoke-" Dread master of the secret lore! Say, shall the Spaniards welter in their gore ?" "Let these mute ministers the answer tell," Replied the master of the mighty spell. Then every giant shadow, as it stood, Lifted on high a skull that dropp'd with blood. "Wizard, to what I ask do thou replySay, shall I live, and spurn them as they die? 'Twas silence. "Speak!" he cried-no voice was
Earth moan'd, and hollow thunder shook the air.
'Tis pass'd-the phantoms, with a shriek, are flown,
"Whence? Who art thou, who, in this fearful And the grim warrior stands in the wild wood alone.
Dost comfort speak to one of Spanish race?"
"It is an Indian maid, who chanced to hear Thy tale of sorrow as she wander'd near. I loved a white man once-but he is flown, And now I wander heartless and alone.
I traced the dark and winding way beneath; But well I know to lead thee hence were death. O, say what fortunes led thee o'er the wave, On these sad shores to find, perhaps, a grave?"
"Three years have pass'd since a fond husband left
Me, and this infant, of his love bereft;
Him I have follow'd-need I tell thee more,
Cast helpless, friendless, hopeless, on this shore ?"
"O! did he love thee then? let death betide,
Yes, from this cavern I will be thy guide.
Nay, do not shrink! from Caracalla's bay,
St. Pedro's church had rung its midnight chimes,*
And the gray friars were chanting at their primes,
When winds, as of a rushing hurricane,
Shook the tall windows of the tower'd fane-
Sounds, more than earthly, with the storm arose,
And a dire troop are pass'd 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,
Rose vast, and thus a spectre shade address'd.
"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 famish'd vulture scents its prey-
Spectre, hence! we cannot die-
Thy withering weapons we defy;
Dire and potent as thou art!"
E'en now, the Spaniards wind their march this Then spoke the phantom of th' uplifted dart,
I heard, at night-fall as I paced the shore,
But yesterday, their cannon's distant roar.
Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,-
The Christian's God,-through passes dark and wild
He will direct thy way! Come, follow me;
O, yet be loved, be happy-and be free!
But I, an outcast on my native plain,
The lost Olola ne'er shall smile again!"
So guiding from the cave, when all was still,
And silent pointing to the farthest 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 gods prosper thee!-Fare-
well!"
The owl is hooting overhead-below, On dusky wing, the vampire-bat sails slow. Ongolmo stood before the cave of night, Where the great wizard sat:-a lurid light Was on his face; twelve giant shadows frown'd, His mute and dreadful ministers, around.
* The owl is an object of peculiar dread to the Indians of Chili.
"Spirits who in darkness dwell,
I heard far off your secret spell!
Enough, on yonder fatal shore,
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,
And mark'd 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 sung the mighty spirits. "Thee," they sing,
"Hail to thee, Death! All hail, to Death the king.
The battle and the noise is o'er-
The penguin flaps her wings in gore.
"Victor of the southern world,
Whose crimson banners were unfurl'd
O'er the silence of the waves,—
O'er a land of bleeding slaves!
Stern soldier, where is now thy boast?
Thy iron steeds, thy mailed hosts ?
Hark! hark! they are his latest cries!
Spirits, hence!-he dies! he dies!"
* I trust this poetica licentia may be pardoned.
On the sad night of that eventful day
When on the ground my murder'd father lay!
I should not then, dejected and alone,
The city of Conception-Castle-Lautaro-Wild Indian Have thought I heard his injured spirit groan.
maid-Zarinel-Missionary.
THE second moon had now began 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 way-worn veteran, who had slowly pass'd
Through trackless woods, or o'er savannahs vast,
With hope impatient, sces the city spires
Gild the horizon, like ascending fires.
Now well-known sounds salute him, as more near
The citadel and battlements appear;
Th' 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 'spy,
Or watches, as the evening light illumes
The points of lances, or the passing plumes.
The grating drawbridge and the portal arch
Now echo to the long battalion's march;
Whilst every eye some friend remember'd greets,
Amid the gazing crowd that throngs the streets.
As bending o'er his mule, amid the throng,
Pensive and pale, Anselmo rode along,-
How sacred, 'mid the noise of arms, appear'd
His venerable mien and snowy beard.
Whilst every heart a silent prayer bestow'd,
Slow to the convent's massy 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.
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 God 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,
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, distemper'd and forlorn,
When, hark! the sound as of a distant horn
Swells o'er the surge: he turn'd 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 seem❜d but yesterday,
But it turn'd my thoughts to madness,
So soon it died away!
I sound my sea-shell; but in vain I try
To bring back that enchanting harmony!
Hark! heard ye not the surges say,
O! wretched 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,
A tatter'd panco* 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: "O! say what cruel wrong
Weighs on thy heart? maiden, what bodes thy
song?"
She answer'd not, but blew her shell again;
Then thus renew'd the desultory strain:
"Yes, yes, we must forget! the world is wide;
My music now shall be the dashing tide:
Long quivering shadows streak the vaulted roof, In the calm of the deep I will frolic and swim
Whilst, seen far off, th' illumined windows throw
A splendour on the shore and seas below.
Amid his captains, in imperial state,
Beneath a crimson canopy, elate,
Valdivia sits-while, striking loud the strings,
The wandering minstrel of Valentia sings.
"For Chili conquer'd, fill the bowl again!
For Chili conquer'd, raise th' heroic strain !"
"Bard," cried Valdivia, "sleep is on thy lid!
Wake, minstrel !—sing the war-song of the Cid!"
Lautaro left the hall of jubilee
Unmark'd, and wander'd by the moonlight sea;
He heard far off, in dissonant acclaim,
The song, the shout, and his loved country's name.
As swell'd 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
With the breath of the south, o'er the sea-blossom,t
Now listen-If ever you meet with that youth,
O! do not his falsehood reprove,
Nor say, though, alas, you would say but the
His poor Olola died for love."
Lautaro stretch'd his hand-she said, "Adieu !"
And o'er the glimmering rocks like lightning flew.
He follow'd, and still heard at distance swell
The lessening echoes of that mournful shell.
It ceased at once-and now he heard no more
Than the sea's murmur dying on the shore.
"Olola!--ha! his sister had that name!
O, horrid fancies! shake not thus his frame."
†The "sea-blossom," Holothuria, known to seamen by the name of "Portuguese man of war," is among the most
* Omitted in the poem, as too much impeding the nar- striking and beautiful objects in the calms of the Southern
All night he wander'd 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 way-worn soldiers, by their toils opprest,
Had now retired to silence and to rest.
The minstrel only, who the song had sung
Of the brave Cid, as o'er the strings he hung,
Upon the instrument had fall'n asleep,
Weary, and now was hush'd 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 Minho's gentle murmuring.
Cold o'er the freckled clouds the morning broke
Aslant ere from his slumbers he awoke:
Still as he sat, nor yet had left the place,
The first weak 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,
Him dost thou seek who injured thine and thee?
Here-strike the fell assassin-I am he!"
"Die!" he exclaim'd, 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,-
He trembled-struck his brow-and, turning round,
Flung the uplifted dagger to the ground.
Then murmur'd-" Father, Heaven has heard thy
prayer-
"But O! the sister of my soul-lies there!
The Christian's God has triumph'd! Father, heap
Some earth upon her bones, whilst I go weep!"
Anselmo with calm brow approach'd the place,
And hasten'd with his staff his faltering pace:
"Ho! child of guilt and wretchedness," he cried,
"Speak!"-" Holy father," the sad youth replied,
"God bade the seas th' accusing victim roll
Dead at my feet, to teach my shuddering soul
Its guilt: O father, holy father, pray
That Heaven may take the deep dire curse away."
"O! yet," Anselmo cried, " live and repent,
For not in vain was this dread warning sent-
Radiant and reddening, through the scatter'd haze. The deep reproaches of thy soul I spare,
To recreate the languid sense a while,
When earth and ocean wore their sweetest smile,
He wander'd to the beach: the early air
Blew soft, and lifted, as it blew, his hair;
Flush'd was his cheek; his faded eye, yet bright,
Shone with a faint, but animated light,
While the soft morning ray seem'd to bestow
On his tired mind a transient kindred glow.
Then the sad thought of young Olola rose,
And the still glen beneath the mountain snows.
"I will return," he cried, " and whisper, live!
And say--(0)! can I say?) Forgive! forgive!'
As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand,
He mused and wander'd on the winding strand,
At distance, toss'd upon the fuming tide,
A dark and floating substance he espied.
He stood, and where the eddying surges beat,
An Indian corpse was roll'd beneath his feet:
The hollow wave retired with sullen sound-
The face of that sad corpse was to the ground;
It seem'd a female, by the slender form;
He touch'd the hand-it was no longer warm;
He turn'd its face-O! God, that eye, though
dim,
Seem'd with its deadly glare as fix'd on him.
How sunk his shuddering sense, how changed his
hue,
When poor Olola in that corpse he knew!
Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanced;
His keen eye, like a startled eagle's, glanced:
'Tis she!-he knew her by a mark impress'd
From earliest infancy beneath her breast.
"O, 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,
Go! seek Heaven's peace by penitence and prayer."
The youth arose, yet trembling from the shock,
And sever'd from the dead maid's hair a lock-
This to his heart with trembling hand he press'd,
And dried the salt sea moisture on his breast.
They laid her limbs within the sea-beat grave,
And pray'd, "Her soul, O! blessed Mary, save!"
Midnight-Valdivia's tent-Missionary-March to the
valley Arauco-First sight of assembled Indians.
THE Watchman on the tower his bugle blew,
And swelling to the morn the streamers flew,-
The rampart guns a dread alarum gave,
Smoke roll'd, and thunder echoed o'er the wave;
When, starting from his couch, Valdivia cried,
"What tidings?" "Of the tribes!" a scout replied;
"E'en now, prepared thy bulwarks to assail,
Their gathering numbers darken all the vale !"
Valdivia call'd to the attendant youth,
"Philip," he cried, " belike thy words have truth;
The formidable host, by holy James,
Might well appal our priests and city dames
"Dost thou not fear?-Nay-dost thou not
reply?
Now by the rood, and all the saints on high,
I hold it sin-that thou shouldst lift thy hand
Against thy brothers in thy native land!
But, as thou saidst, those mighty enemies
Me and my feeble legions would despise,
Yes, by our holy lady, thou shalt ride,
Spectator of their prowess, by my side!
Come life, come death, our battle shall display
Its ensigns to the earliest beam of day!
With louder summons ring the rampart bell,
And to his forehead press'd the dead maid's hand.) And haste the shriving father from his cell"Speak! whence art thou?"
A soldier's heart rejoices in alarms:
Pale Zarinel, his head And let the trump at midnight sound to arms!"""
And now, obedient to the chief's commands,
The gray-hair'd priest before the soldier stands :—
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