Imágenes de páginas


Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken

“ Whence comes my son ?” with kind complaOf public view, and sounds of murmuring men,

cent look Of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood, He ask'd, and closed again th' embossed book. A small and rustic oratory stood:

“ I come to thee for peace !” the youth replied: Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross,

“0, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride, The porch within was lined with mantling moss; In this sad Christian world; my native land A crucifix and hourglass, on each side-

Was happy, ere the soldier, with his band One to admonish seem'd and one to guide;

Of fell destroyers, like a vulture, came, This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er; And gave the peaceful scenes to blood and flame. And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no When will the turmoil of earth's tempests cease?

Father, I come to thee for peace—for peace !" O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding “Seek peace," the father cried, “ with God above: stray,

In his good time, all will be peace and love. The clustering copu weaved its trellis gay:

“We mourn, indeed, that grief, and toil, and strife, Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove Send one deep murmur from the walks of life, Their aged and fantastic arms above.

That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky, In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers, Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery; A dial counted the departing hours,

The course of wide destruction to withstand, On which the sweetest light of summer shone, - We lift our feeble voice our trembling hand; A rude and brief inscription mark'd the stone:-- But still, bow'd low, or smitten to the dust,

“ To count, with passing shade, the hours, Father of mercy! still in thee we trust! I placed the dial ’mid the flowers;

Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth, That, one by one, came forth, and died, In joy or wo, in sickness or in health, Blooming, and withering, round its side. Meek piety thy awful hand surveys, Mortal, let the sight impart

And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise ! Its pensive moral to thy heart !"

We know--whatever evils we deplore-Just heard to trickle through a covert near, Thou hast permitted, and we know no more! And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, Behold, illustrious on the subject plain, A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd through the Some tower'd city of imperial Spain ! * stone,

Hark! 'twas the earthquake! clouds of dust alone And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. Ascend from earth, where tower and temple shone. Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,

“ Such is the conqueror's dread path: the grave And, gem-like, hovering o’er the violets blue, Yawns for its millions where his banners wave; The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh, Heedlessly murmur'd, all the summer long, With sullen acquiescence, gaze and die? And when the winter came, retired to rest, Alas, how little of the mighty maze And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest. Of providence, our mortal ken surveys ! No sounds of a conflicting world were near; Heaven's awful Lord, pavilion'd in the clouds, The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,

Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds; That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noontide blast, And, far beyond the tempest and the night, But dying sounds of passions that were past;

Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire

light.” The lessening echoes of the distant choir. Here, every human sorrow husb’d to rest,

His pale hands meekly cross'd upon his breast,

Anselmo sat: the sun, with westering ray,
Just touch'd his temples and his locks of gray.

Evening and night of the same day.
There was no worldly feeling in his eye ;-

Anselmo's story-Converted Indians-Confession of the The world to him “ was as a thing gone by.”

wandering minstrel-Night scene. Now, all his features lit, he raised his look,

ANSELMO'S TALE. Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book; “ COME,--for the sun yet hangs above the bay,-And whilst the hourglass shed its silent sand, And whilst our time may brook a brief delay A tame opossum* lick'd his wither'd hand. With other thoughts,-and, haply, with a tear, That sweetest light of slow declining day,

An old man's tale of sorrow thou shalt hear. Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray, I wish'd not to reveal it-thoughts that dwell Resting a moment on his few gray hairs,

Deep in the lonely bosom's inmost cell Seem'd light from heaven sent down to bless his Unnoticed, and unknown—too painful wake, prayers.

And like a tempest, the dark spirit shake, When the trump echoed to the quiet spot, When starting, from our slumberous apathy, He thought upon the world, but mourn'd it not; We gaze upon the scenes of days gone by. Enough if his mcek wisdom could control,

Yet, if a moment's irritating flush And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul; Darkenst thy cheek, as thoughts conflicting rush, Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod, He led one erring Indian to his God.

* No part of the world is so subject to earthquakes as Peru.

+ Indians of Chili are of the lightest class, called by • A small and beautiful species, which is domesticated some " white Indians." 63

2 1 2

When I disclose my hidden griefs, the tale Some bread and water, nature to sustain, May more than wisdom or reproof prevail. Duly was brought when eve return'd again; 0, may it teach thee, till all trials cease,

And thus I knew, hoping it were the last, To hold thy course, though sorrowing, yet in peace: Another day of lingering life was pass'd. Still looking up to Him, the soul's best stay, “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!

Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was bart'd, “ Where fair Seville's Morisco turrets* gleam And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarr'd, On Guadilquiver's gently-stealing stream,

Methought I heard, as clang'd the iron door, Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide, A dull and hollow echo from the floor : Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side,

I stamp'd: the vault and winding caves around My youth was pass'd. O, days for ever gone! Return'd a long and melancholy sound. How touch'd with heaven's own light your morn- With patient toil, I raised a massy stone, ings shone!

And look'd into a depth of shade unknown; “E'en now, when lonely and forlorn I bend, - The murky twilight of the lurid place My weary journey hastening to its end,

Served me, at length, a secret way to trace. A drooping exile on a distant shore,

I enter'd, step by step; explored the road, I mourn the hours of youth that are no more. In darkness, from my desolate abode; The tender thought amid my prayers has part, Till, winding through long passages of night, And steals, at times, from heaven my aged heart. I saw, at distance dim streak of light:

“ Forgive the cause, O God !--forgive the tear, It was the sun—the bright, the blessed beam That flows, e'en now, o'er Leonora's bier ;

Of day! I knelt-I wept-the glittering stream For, midst the innocent and lovely, none

Roll'd soft beneath me, as I left the care, More beautiful than Leonora shone.

Conceal'd in woods above the winding wave. ““ As by her widow'd mother's side she knelt, “ I rested on a verdant bank a while, A sad and sacred sympathy I felt.

I saw around the summer landscape smile. At Easter-tide, when the high mass was sung, I gain'd a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave, And, fuming high, the silver censer swung, Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve. When rich-hued windows, from the arches' height, Remembering still affection's fondest hours, Pour'd o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light, I turn'd my footsteps to the city towers ; From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear,

In pilgrim's dress, I traced the streets unknown: When “Adoremus' swell’d upon the ear,

No light in Leonora's lattice shone. (Such as to heaven thy rapt attention drew

“ The morning came; the busy tumult swells; First in the Christian churches of Peru)

Knolling to church, I heard the minster bells: She seem'd, methought, some spirit of the sky, Involuntary to that scene I stray'd, Descending to that holy harmony.

Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid. “Boots not to say, when life and hope were new, I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand, How by degrees the soul's first passion grew : And yield, half shrinking, her reluctant hand: I loved her, and I won her virgin heart,

She turn'd her look--she saw my hollow eyes, But fortune whisper'd, We, a while, must part. And knew me,-wasted, wan, and in disguise ;

“ The minster toll'd the middle hour of night, She shriek'd, and fell-breathless, I left the fane When waked to agony and wild affright,

In agony-nor saw her form again ; I heard the words, words of appalling dread And from that day, her voice, her look, was given, • The holy Inquisition !!—from the bed

Her name, her memory, to the winds of heaven. I started ; snatch'd my dagger, and my cloak

“Far off I bent my melancholy way, • Who dare accuse me ??-none, in answer, spoke. Heart-sick and faint, and, in this gown of gray, The demons seized, in silence, on their prey, From every human eye my sorrows hid, And tore me from my dreams of bliss away. Unknown, amidst the tumult of Madrid.

“ How frightful was their silence, and their shade, Grief in my heart, despair upon my look, In torch-light, as their victim they convey'd, With no companion save my beads and book, By dark-inscribed and massy-window'd walls, My morsel with affliction's sons to share, Through the dim twilight of terrific halls;

To tend the sick and poor, my only care(For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stain Forgotten, thus I lived, till day by day Of pure religion, and the rites of Spain)-

Had worn nigh thirteen years of grief away. Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold “One winter's night, when I had closed my cell, blast,

And bid the labours of the day farewell, And echoed to the foot-fall as we pass'd!

An aged crone approach'd, with panting breath“ They left me, faint and breathless with affright, She bade me hasten to the house of death. In a cold cell, to solitude and night;

“ I came—with moving lips intent to pray, 0! think, what horror through the heart must thrill A dying woman on a pallet lay; When the last bolt was barr'd, and all at once was Her listed hands were wasted to the bone, still.

And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone; « Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom, Beside the bed a pious daughter stands Sadder than darkness, wrapt the living tomb. Silent, and weeping, kisses her pale hands.

“ Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head, ** Of Moorish architecture.

• Forgive, forgive! they told me he was dead!


But in the sunshine of that dreadful day,

I need not say the sequel-not unmoved That gave me to another's arms away,

Poor Indiana heard thy tale, and lovedI saw him-like a ghost, with deadly stare; Some sympathy a kindred fate might claim ; I saw his wasted eyeballs' ghastly glare ; Your years, your fortunes, and your friend the I saw his lips-(0 hide them, God of love !) I saw his livid lips, half muttering, move, Both early of a parent's care bereft, Tu curse the maid, forgetful of her vow;

Both strangers in a world of sadness left, Perhaps he lives to curse—to curse me now!! I mark'd each slowly struggling thought, I shed “He lives to bless! I cried; and drawing A tear of love paternal on each head, nigh,

And, while I saw her timid eyes incline, Held up the crucifix: her heavy eye

Bless'd the affection that has made her thine ! She raised, and scarce pronounced Does he yet “Here let the murmurs of despondence cease: live?

There is a God--believe--and part in peace ! Can he his lost, his dying child forgive ?

Rich hues illumed the track of parting day Will God forgive—the Lord who bled—will He? As the great sun sunk in the western bay, Ah, no! there is no mercy left for me!'

And only its last light yet lingering shone, “ Words were in vain, and colours all too faint, Upon the highest palm tree's feathery cone; The awful moment of despair to paint.

When at a distance, on the dewy plain, She knew me—her exhausted breath, with pain, In mingled group appear'd an Indian train,Drawing, she press'd my hand, and spoke again. Men, women, children, round Anselmo press

“« By a false guardian's cruel wiles deceived, “Farewell!” they cried. He raised his hand to The tale of fraudful falsehood I believed ;

bless, And thought thee dead! he gave the stern com- And said, “My children, may the God above mand,

Still lead you in the paths of peace and love: And bade me take the rich Antonio's hand. To-morrow, and we part; when I am gone, I knelt, implored, embraced my guardian's knees- Raise on this spot a cross, and place a stone, Ruthless inquisitor! he held the keys

That tribes unborn may some memorial have Of the dark torture-house.* Trembling for life, |(When I far off am mouldering in the grave) Yes, I became a sad, heart-broken-wife! Of that poor messenger, who tidings bore, Yet curse me not! of every human care

of gospel mercy, to your distant shore.” Already my full heart has had its share.

The crowd retired-along the twilight gray, Abandon'd-left in youth to want and wo! The condor swept its solitary way; 0! let these tears, that agonizing flow,

The fire-fies shone, when to the hermit's cell Witness how deep e’en now my heart is rent: Who hastens but the minstrel, Zarinel ? Yet one is lovely-one is innocent!

In foreign lands, far from his native home, Protect-protect—and faint in death she smiled)- | 'Twas his, a gay romantic youth to roam • When I am dead--protect my orphan child !! With a light cittern o'er his shoulders slung,

“ The dreadful prison, that so long detain’d Where'er he pass'd he play'd, and loved, and sung My wasting life, her dying words explain’d. And thus accomplish’d, late had join’d the train The wretched priest, who wounded me by stealth, of gallant soldiers on the southern plains Barter'd her love, her innocence, for wealth. “ Father,” he cried, " uncertain of the fate

“I laid her bones in earth: the chanted hymn That may to-morrow's toilsome march await, Echoed along the hollow cloister dim:

For long will be the road, I would confess I heard, far off, the bell funereal toll,

Some secret thoughts that on my bosom press ! And, sorrowing, said, ' Now peace be with her | They are of one I left, an Indian maid, soul!'

Whose trusting love my careless heart betray'd, Far o'er the western ocean I convey'd, Say, may I speak ?” And Indiana call'd—the orphan maid :

“Say on,” the father cried ; Beneath my eye she grew--and, day by day, “Nor be to penitence all hope denied.” Seem'd, grateful, every kindness to repay.

“ Then hear, Anselmo! From a very child “ Renouncing Spain, her cruelties and crimes, I loved all fancies, marvellous and wild ; Amid untutor'd tribes, in distant climes,

I turn'd from truth, to listen to the lore 'Twas mine to spread the light of truth, or save Of many an old and fabling troubadour. From stripes and torture the poor Indian slave. Thus, with impassion'd heart and wayward onind, I saw thee, young and innocent-alone,

To dreams and shapes of shadowy things resign'd, Cast on the mercies of a race unknown;

I left my native vales and village bome, I saw, in dark adversity's cold hour,

Wide o'er the world a minstrel boy to roam. Thy virtues blooming, like a winter's flower; “ I never shall forget the day—the hour, From chains and slavery I redeem'd thy youth, When, all my soul resign’d to fancy's power, Pour'd on thy sight the beams of heavenly truth; First, from the snowy Pyrenees, I cast By thy warm heart and mild demeanour won, My labouring vision o'er the landscape vast, Call’d thee my other child-roy age's son. And saw beneath my feet long vapours float,

Streams, mountains, woods, and ocean's mist re

mote. * Perhaps it may not be improper to mention, that Seville was the first place in Spain in which the Inquisition My mountain guide, a soldier, poor and old, was established in 1481.

Who tales of Cortez and Balboa told,


Won my young ear, when pausing to survey O’erhung with icy summits :--to be brief,
Th’ Atlantic, white in sunshine far away, She was the daughter of an aged chief;
He spoke of this new world,-rivers like seas, He, by her gentle voice to pity won,
Mountains, to which the mighty Pyrenees Show'd mercy, for himself had lost a son.
Were but as sand-hills-ancient forests rude, The father spoke not:--by the pine wood blaze,
In measureless extent of solitude,

The daughter stood, and turn'd a cake of maize.
Stretching their wild and unknown world of shade! And then, as sudden shone the light, I saw
Full blithe he then described the Indian maid Such features as no artist hand might draw.
Graceful and agile as the marmozet,

Her form, her face, her symmetry, her air Whose eyes of radiance and whose locks of jet, Father! thy age must this recital spareThough bow'd by want and age, he never could She saved my life—and kindness, if not love, forget.

Might sure in time the coldest bosom move. “My ardent fancy follow'd while he spoke Mine was not cold-she loved to hear me sing, Of lakes, savannahs, or the cataract's smoke, And sometimes touch'd with playful hand the Or some strange tale of perilous wandering told,

string: By waters, through remotest regions rollid: And when I waked some melancholy strain, How shone the woods with pomp of plumage gay, She wept, and smiled, and bade me sing again: And how the green bird mock'd and talk'd all And sometimes on the turf reclined, I tried

Her erring hand along the wires to guide; “Imagination thus, in colours new,

Then chiding, with a kiss, the rude essay, This distant world presented to my view;

Taught her some broken saraband to play ; Young, and enchanted with the fancied scene, Whilst the loud parrot, from the neighbouring tree, I cross'd the toiling seas that roar'd between, On laughing echo call'd to join our glee. And, with ideal images impressid,

“ I built our hut of the wild-orange boughs, Stood on these unknown shores, a wondering guest. And pledged—oh! perjury-eternal vows ! “ Still to romantic fantasies resign'd,

She raised her eyes with tenderness, and cried, I left Callao's crowded port behind,

Shall poor Olola be the white man's bride? And climb'd the mountains, which their shadow Yes! we will live-live and be happy herethrew

When thou art sad, I will kiss off the tear: Upon the lessening summits of Peru.

Thou shalt forget thy father's land, and see Some sheep, the armed peasants drove before, A friend, a sister, and a child, in me.' That all our food through the wild passes bore, So many a happy day in this deep glen, Had wander'd in the frost smoke of the morn, Far from the noise of life, and sounds of men, Far from the tract-I blew the signal horn Was pass'd! Nay! father, the sad sequel bear; But echo only answer'd. 'Mid the snows, 'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year Wilder'd and lost, I saw the evening close.

Ambition call'd me: True, I knew, to part, The sun was setting in the crimson west;

Would break her generous and her trusting heartIn all the earth I had no home of rest;

True, I had vow'd—but now estranged and cold, The last sad light upon the ice-hills shone; She saw my look, and shudder'd to behold I seem'd.forsaken in a world unknown;

She would go with me-leave the lonely glade How did my cold and sinking heart rejoice, Where she grew up, but my stern voice forbade. When! hark! methought I heard a human voice. She hid her face and wept, -Go then away,' It might be some wild Indian's roving troop; (Father, methinks e'en now I hear her say,) Or the dread echo of their distant whoop iGo to thy distant land-forget this tearStill it was human, and I seem'd to find

Forget these rocks,-forget I once was dear. Again some commerce with remote mankind.

Fly to the world, o'er the wide ocean fly, The voice is nearer, rising through the shade- And leave me, unremember'd, here to die! Is it the song of a rude mountain maid ?

Yet to my father should I all relate, And now I heard the tread of hastening feet, Death, instant death, would be a traitor's fate!' And, in the western glen, a llama bleat.

“ Nor fear, nor pity, moved my stubborn mind I listen'd-all is still-but hark ! again

I left her sorrows and the scene behindNear and more near is heard the welcome strain : I sought Valdivia on the southern plain, It is a wild maid's carolling, who seeks

And join'd the careless military train :Her wandering llama midst the snowy peaks. 0! ere I sleep, thus, lowly on my knee,

'Truant,' she cried, “thy lurking place is found.' Father, I absolution crave from thee.” With languid touch I waked the cittern's sound, Anselmo spoke with look and voice severe, And soon a maid, by the pale light, I saw

“ Yes ! thoughtless youth, my absolution hear. Gaze breathless with astonishment and awe: First, by deep penitence the wrong atone, What instant terrors to her fancy rose !

Then absolution ask from God alone! Ha! is it not the spirit of the snows?

Yet stay, and to my warning voice attend-But when she saw me, weary, cold, and weak, O, hear me as a father, and a friend! Stretch forth my hand, (for now I could not speak,) Let truth severe be wayward fancy's guide, She pitied, raised me from the snows, and led Let stern-eyed conscience o’er each thought pre My faltering footsteps to her father's shed;

sideThe llama follow'd with her tinkling bell: The passions, that on noblest natures prey, The dwelling rose within a craggy dell,

0! cast them, like corroding bonds, away!

Disdain to act mean falsehood's coward part, And, like a giant of no earthly race,
And let religion dignisy thine art.

To his broad shoulders heaved his ponderous mace.
“ If, by thy bed, thou seest at midnight stand With lifted hatchet, as in act to fell,
Pale conscience, pointing, with terrific hand, Here stood the young and ardent Teucapel.
To deeds of darkness done, whilst, like a corse Like a lone cypress, stately in decay,
To shake thy soul, uprises dire remorse-

When time has worn its summer boughs away, Fly to God's mercy-fly, ere yet too late And hung its trunk with moss and lichens sere, Perhaps one hour marks thy eternal fate The mountain warrior rested on his spear. Let the warm tear of deep contrition flow,

And thus, and at this hour, a hundred chiefs, The heart obdurate melt, like softening snow, Chosen avengers of their country's griefs ; The last vain follies of thy youth deplore,

Chiefs of the scatter'd tribes who roam the plain Then go-in secret weep—and sin no more !" That sweeps from Andes to the western main,

The stars innumerous in their watches shone Their country gods around the coiling smoke, Anselmo knelt before the cross alone.

With sacrifice and silent prayers, invoke. Ten thousand glowing orbs their pomp display'd, For all, at first, were silent as the dead; Whilst, looking up, thus silently he pray'd: The pine was heard to whisper o'er their head, “O! how oppressive to the aching sense,

So stood the stern assembly: but apart, How fearful were this vast magnificence,

Wrapt in the spirit of his fearful art, This prodigality of glory, spread

Alone, to hollow sounds “of hideous hum," From world to world, above an emmet's head, The wizard-seer struck bis prophetic drum. That toil'd his transient hour upon the shore

Silent they stood—and watch'd, with anxious Of mortal life, and then was seen no more

eyes, If man beheld, on his terrific throne,

What phantom shape might from the ground arise : A dark, cold, distant deity, alone!

No voices came–no spectre form appear'd Felt no relating, no endearing tie,

A hollow sound, but not of winds, was heard That hope might upwards raise her glistening eye, Among the leaves, and distant thunder low And think, with deep, unutterable bliss,

Seem'd like the moans of an expiring foe. In yonder radiant realm my kingdom is !

His crimson feathers quivering in the smoke, - More glorious than those orbs that silent roll, Then, with loud voice, first Mariantu spoke :Shines Heaven's redeeming mercy on the soul “ Hail we the omen -Spirits of the slain, 0! pure effulgence of unbounded love!

I hear your voices ! Mourn, devoted Spain ! In thee I think-I feel-I live-I move

Pale-visaged tyrants ! still, along our coasts, Yet when-0! thou, whose name is Love and Light, Shall we despairing mark your iron hosts? When will thy dayspring on these realms of night Spirits of our brave fathers, curse the race Arise? O! when shall sever'd nations raise Who thus your name, your memory disgrace! One hallelujah of triumphant praise !

No: though yon mountain's everlasting snows “Soon may thy kingdom come, that love, and peace, In vain Almagro's* toilsome march oppose ; And charity, may bid earth's chidings cease! Though Atacama's long and wasteful plain Meantime, in life or death, through good or ill, Be heap'd with blackening carcasses in vain ; Thy poor and feeble servant, I fulfil,

Though still fresh hosts those snowy summits scale, As best I may, thy high and holy will,

And scare the llamas with their glittering mail; Till, weary, on the world my lids I close,

Though sullen castles lour along our shore ; And hasten to my long and last repose !"

Though our polluted soil be drench'd with gore;

Insolent tyrants ! We-prepared to die,

Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy!”

He spoke: the warriors stamp'd upon the ground, ARGUMENT.

And tore the feathers that their foreheads bound. Assembly of Indian warriors—Caupolican, Ongolmo, “ Insolent tyrants !” burst the general cry, Teucapel-Mountain chief-Song of the Indian wizard

“We, met for vengeance! We-prepared to die ! -While woman and child.

Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy !" FAR in the centre of the deepest wood,

Then Teucapel, with warm emotion, cried, Th'assembled fathers of their country stood. “ This hatchet never yet in blood was dyed ! 'Twas midnight now: the pine-wood fire burnt red, May it be buried deep within my heart, And to the leaves a shadowy glimmer spread:

If living from the conflict I depart, The struggling smoke, or flame with fitful glance,

Till loud, from shore to shore, is heard one cry, Obscured, or show'd, some dreadful countenance; See ! in their gore where the last tyrants lie !'" And every warrior, as his club he rear'd,

The mountain warrior. “0, that I could raise With larger shadow, indistinct, appear'd;

The hatchet too, as in my better days, While more terrific, his wild locks and mien,

When victor on Maypocha's banks I stood; And fierce eye through the quivering smoke was

And while th' indignant river roll'd in blood,

And our swift arrows hiss'd like rushing rain, In sea-wolf's skin, here Mariantu stood; I cleft Almagro's iron helm in twain ! Gnash'd his white teeth, impatient, and cried, “ Blood !"

* The first Spaniard who visited Chili. He entered it

by the dreadful passage of the snows of the Andes; but His lofty brow with crimson feathers bound,

afterwards the passage was allempled through the desert Here, brooding death, the huge Ongolmo frown'd; of Atacama.


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