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Canto VIII.

ARGUMENT.

Indian festival for victory—Old warrior hrought in wounded —Recognises his long-lost son, and dies—Discovery— Conclusion with the old warrior's funeral, and prophetic oration hy the Missionary.

The morn returns, and reddening seems to shed
One ray of glory on the patriot dead!
Round the dark stone, the victor chiefs hehold!
Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold!
There stands the hrave Caupolican, the pride
Of Chili, young Lautaro hy his side!
Near the grim circle, pendent from the wood,
Twelve hundred Spanish heads are dropping hlood.
Shrill sound the pipes of death: in festive dance,
The Indian maids with myrtle houghs advance t
The tinkling sea-shells on their ankles ring,
As, hailing thus the victor youth, they sing:—

SONG OF INDIAN MAIDS.
1.

10, shout for Lautaro, the young and the hrave! The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save, When the steeds of the strangers came rushing

amain, And the ghosts of our fathers look'd down on the

slain!

2.

"Twas eve, and the noise of the hattle was o'er, Five thousand hrave warriors were cold in their

gore: When in front, young Lautaro invincihle stood, And the horses and iron men roll'd in their hlood!

3. "As the snows of the mountain are swept hy the

hlast, The earthquake of death o'er the white men has

pass'dt Shout, Chili, in triumph! the hattle is won, And we dance round the heads that are hlack in

the sun!"

Lautaro, as if wrapt in thought profound, Oft turo'd an anxious look inquiring round.

He is not here !—Say, does my father live i" Ere eager voices could an answer give, With faltering footsteps and declining head, And slowly hy an aged Indian led, Wounded and weak the mountain chief appears: "Live, live!" Lautaro cried, with hursting tears, Ar.d fell upon his neck, and kissing press'd, With folding arms, his gray hairs to his hreast. "O, live! I am thy son—thy long-lost child!" The warrior raised his look, and faintly smiled— "Chili, my country, is avenged !" he cried: "My son !"—then sunk upon a shield—and died

Lautaro knelt heside him, as he how'd, And kiss'd his hleeding hreast, and wept aloud. The sounds of sadness through the circle ran, When thus, with lifted axe, Caupolican,— "What, for our fathers, hrothers, children, slain, Canst thou repay, ruthless, inhuman Spain ?—

Here, on the scene with recent slaughter red,
To soothe the spirits of the hrave who hled,
Raise we, to-day, the war-feast of the dead.
Bring forth the chief in honds !—Fathers, to-day,
Devote we to our gods the nohlest prey."

Lautaro turn'd his eyes, and, gazing round,
Beheld Valdivia, and Anselmo, hound!
One stood in arms, as with a stern despair,
His helmet cleft in twain, his temples hare-
Where streaks of hlood, that dropt upon his mail,
Served hut to show his face more deadly pale:
His eyehrows, dark and resolute, he hent,
And stood, composed, to wait the dire event.

Still on the cross his looks Anselmo cast, As if all thought of this vain world was pass'd,— And in a world of light, without a shade, E'en now his meek and guileless spirit stray'd. Where stood the Spanish chief, a muttering sound Rose, and each cluh was lifted from the groundt When, starting from his father's corpse, his sword Waving hefore his once triumphant lord, Lautaro cried," My hreast shall meet the hlow: But save—save him, to whom my life I owe!"

Valdivia mark'd him with unmoved eye, Then look'd upon his honds, nor deign'd replyt When Mariantu,—stealing with slow pace, And lifting high his iron-jagged mace,— Smote him to earth: a thousand voices rose, Mingled with shouts and yells, "So fall our foes!"

Lautaro gave to tears a moment's space, As hlack in death he mark'd Valdivia's face, Then cried, —" Chiefs, friends, and thou, Caupolican, 0, spare this innocent and holy man! He never sail'd rapacious o'er the deep, The gold of hlood-polluted lands to heap. He never gave the armed hosts his aidBut meekly to the Mighty Spirit pray'd, That in all lands the sounds of wo might cease, And hrothers of the wide world dwell in peace!" The victor youth saw generous sympathy Already steal to every warrior's eyet Then thus again:—" 0, if this filial tear Bear witness my own father was most dear!— If this uplifted arm, this hleeding steel Speak, for my country what I felt, and feelt If, at this hour, I meet her high applause, While my heart heats still ardent in her causet— Hear, and forgive these tears that grateful flow, O! hear how much to this poor man I owe.

"I was a child—when to my sire's ahode, In Chilian's vale, the armed horsemen rode: Me, whilst my father cold and hreathless lay, Far off the crested soldiers hore away, And for a captive sold. No friend was near, To mark a young and orphan stranger's tear: This humhle man, with kind parental care, Snatch'd me from slavery—saved from dark despairt And as my years increased, protected, fed, And hreathed a father's hlessings on my head. A Spanish maid was with him: need I speak > Behold, affection's tear still wets my check! Years, as they pass'd, matured in ripening grace Her form unfolding, and her heauteous face:

She heard my orphan tale; she loved to hear,
And sometimes for my fortunes dropp'd a tear.

"Valdivia saw me, uow in hlooming age,
And claim'd me from the father as his page;
The chief too cherish'd me—yea, saved my life,
When in Peru arose the civil strife.
Yet still rememhering her I loved so well,
Oft I return'd to the gray father's cell:
His voice instructed me; recall'd my youth
From rude idolatry to heavenly truth:
Of this hereafter. He my darkling mind
Clear'd, and from low and sensual thoughts refined
Then first, with feelings new impress'd, I strove
To hide the tear of tenderness and love:
Amid the fairest maidens of Peru,
My eyes, my heart, one only ohject knew:
I lived that ohject's love and faith to share;
He saw, and hless'd us with a father's prayer.

"Here, at Valdivia's last and stern command,
I came—a stranger in my native land!
Anselmo (so him call—now most in need—
And standing here in honds, for whom I plead)
Came, hy our chief so summon'd, and for aid
To the Great Spirit of the Christians pray'd:
Here as a son I loved him, hut I left
A wife, a child, of my fond cares hereft,
Never to see again—for death awaits
My entrance now in Lima's jealous gates.

"Caupolican, didst thou thy father love?
Did his last dying look affection move ?—
Pity this aged man; unhend thy hrow:
He was my father—is my father now!"

Consenting mercy marks each warrior's mien.—
But who is this ?—what pallid form is seen?
As crush'd already hy the fatal hlow,—
Bound, and with looks white as a wreath of snow,—
Her hands upon her hreast,—scarce drawn her

hreath,—
A Spanish woman knelt, expecting death,
Whilst, horne hy a dark warrior at her side,
An infant shrunk from the red plumes, and cried.

Lautaro started •

"Injured maid of Spain! Me!—me !—-O, take me to thine arms again!" She heard his voice,—with rushing thoughts op

press'd,
And one faint sigh, she sunk upon his hreast.

Caupolican, with warm emotion, cried,
"Live! live, Lautaro! and his heauteous hride!
Live, aged father!"—and forthwith commands
A warrior to unhind Anselmo's hands.
She raised her head: his eyes first met her view—
(As round Lautaro's neck her arms she threw)—
"Ah, no!" she feehly spoke; " it is not true !—
It is some form of the distemper'd hrain!"
Then hid her face upon his hreast again.

Dark flashing eyes, terrific, glared around:
Here, his hrains scatter'd hy the deadly wound,
The Spanish chief lay, on the gory ground.
With lowering hrows, and mace yet dropping

hlood,
And clotted hair, there Mariantu stood.
Anselmo mournful, yet in sorrow mild,
Stood opposite:—" A hlessing on your child,"
The woman said, as slow revived her waking sense,
And then, with looks aghast, " O hear us hence!"

Now all th' assemhled chiefs, assenting, cried,
"Live, live! Lautaro and his heauteous hride!"
With eager arms, Lautaro snatch'd his hoy,
And kiss'd him in an agony of joy;
Then to Anselmo gave, who strove to speak,
And felt the tear first hurning on his cheek:
The infant held his neck with strict emhrace,
And kiss'd his pale emaciated face.

From the dread scene, wet with Valdivia's gore,
His wan and tremhling charge Lautaro hore.
There was a hank, where slept the summer light,
A small stream whispering went in mazes hright,
And stealing from the sea, the western wind
Waved the magnolias on the slope inclined:
The woodpecker,in glittering plumage green,
And echoing hill, heneath the houghs was seen;
And, arch'd with gay and pendent flowers ahove,
The floripondio* its rich trellis wove.
Lautaro hent with looks of love and joy
O'er his yet tremhling wife and heauteous hoy.

"O, hy what miracle, heloved! say,
Hast thou escaped the perils of the way
From Lima, where our peaceful dwelling stood,
To these terrific shores, this vale of hlood?"
Waked hy his voice, as from the sleep of death,
Faint she replied, with slow recovering hreath,
"Who shall express, when thou, hest friend! wert

gone,
How sunk my heart !—deserted and alone
'Would I were with thee!' oft I sat and sigh'd
When the pale moon shone on the silent tide—
At length resolved, I sought thee o'er the seas:
The hrave hark checrly went hefore the hreeze,
That arms and soldiers to Valdivia hore,
From Lima hound to Chili's southern shore
I seized the fair occasion—ocean smiled,
As to the sire I hore his lisping child.
The storm arose: with loud and sudden shock,
The vessel sunk, disparting on a rock.
Some mariners, amidst the hlllows wild,
Scarce saved, in one small hoat, me and my child:
What I have horne, a captive since that day—
(Forgive these tears)—I scarce have heart to say!
None pitied, save one gentle Indian maid—
A wild maid,—of her looks I was afraid;
Her long hlack hair upon her shoulders fell,
And in her hand she hore a wreathed shell."

Lautaro for a moment turn'd aside,
And, " O! my sister!" with faint voice he cried.
"Already free from sorrow and alarms,
I clasp'd in thought a hushand in my arms,
When a dark warrior, station'd on the height,
Who held his solitary watch hy night,
Before me stood, and lifting high his lance
Exclaim'd,' No further, on thy life, advance!'
Faint, wearied, sinking to the earth with dread
Back to the dismal cave my steps he led.
Duly at eve, within the craggy cleft,
Some water, and a cake of maize, were left:
The thirteenth sun unseen went down the sky:
When morning came, they hrought me forth to die
But hush'd he every sigh, each hoding fear,
Since all I sought on earth, and all I love, is here!

* One of the most heautiful of the heautiful climhlng plains of South America.

Her infant raised his hands, with glistening eye, To reach a large and radiant hutterfly, That flutter'd near his facet with looks of love, And truth and tenderness, Lautaro strove To calm her wounded heartt the holy sire, His eyes faint lighted with a transient fire, Hung o'er them, and to Heaven his prayer addrest, While, with uplifted hands, he wept and hlest.

An Indian came, with feathers crown'd, And knelt hefore Lautaro on the ground. "What tidings, Indian?'

"When I led thy sire, Whom late thou saw'st upon his shield expire, Son of ou; ulmen, didst thou mark no trace, In these sad looks, of a rememher'd face? Dost thou rememher Izdahel? Look, here! It is thy father's hatchet and his spear."

"Friend of my infant days, how I rejoice," Lautaro cried, " once more to hear that voice! Life like a dream, since last we met, has fled— 0! my heloved sister, thou art dead!"

"I come to guide thee, through untrodden ways, To the lone valley, where thy father's days Were pass'd t where every cave, and every tree, From morn to morn, rememher'd him of thee!" Lautaro cried, " Here, faithful Indian, stayt I have a last sad duty yet to pay, A little while we part:—Thou here remain:" He spake, and pass'd like lightning o'er the plain. "Ah, cease, Castilian maid! thy vain alarms! See where he comes—his father in his arms!"

"Now lead," he cried.—The Indian, sad and still, Paced on from wood to vale, from vale to hillt Her infant tired, and hush'd a while to rest, Smiled, in a dream, upon its mother's hreastt The pensive mother gray Anselmo led: Behind, Lautaro hore his father dead.

Beneath the hranching palms they slept at nightt The small hirds waked them ere the morning

light. Before their path, in distant view, appear'd The mountain smoke, that its dark column rear'd O'er Andes' summits, in the pale hlue sky, Lifting their icy pinnacles so high. Four days they onward held their eastern way: On the fifth rising morn hefore them lay Chilian's lone glen, amid whose windings green The warrior's loved and last ahode was seen. No smoke went up,—stillness was all around, Save where the waters fell with soothing sound, Save where the thenca sung so loud and clear, And the hright humming-hird was spinning near. Yet here all human tumults seem'd to cease, And sunshine rested on the spot of peacet The myrtles hloom'd as fragrant and as green As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene, And in his ear the falling water's spray Seem'd swelling with the sounds of yesterday. "Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, There shall my father's hones in peace he laid."

Beneath the cedar's shade they dug the groundt Ihe small and sad communion gather'ci round.

Beside the grave stood aged Izdahel,
And hroke the spear, and cried, " Farewell!—fare-
well !—"
Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd " Adieu!"
As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw.
The little child, that to its mother clung,
With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung,
Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound,
And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground.
The alpaca, now grown old, and almost wild,
Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child,
Came from the mountains, and with earnest gaze,
Seem'd as rememhering those departed days,
When his tall neck he hent, with aspect hland,
And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand!

And now Anselmo, his pale hrow inclined,
The warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd
With Christian rites, and sung, on hending knee,
"Eternam pacem dona, Domine."
Then rising up, he closed the holy hookt
And lifting in the heam his lighted look,
(The cross, with meekness, folded on his hreast,)
"Here, too," he cried, "my hones in peace shall

rest! Few years remain to me, and never more Shall I hehold, 0 Spain! thy distant shore! Here lay my hones, that the same tree may wave O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave. Then may it—(when the sons of future days Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gnze,) Then may it teach, that charity should hind, Where'er they roam, the hrothers of mankind! The time shall come, when wildest trihes shall hear Thy voice, 0 Christ! and drop the slaughtering spear. "Yet, we condemn not him who hravely stood, To seal his country's freedom with his hlood t And if, in after-times, a ruthless hand Of fell invaders sweep my native land, May she, hy Chili's stern example led, Hurl hack his thunder on th' assailant's head t Sustain'd hy fieedom, strike th' avenging hlow, And learn one virtue from her ancient foe!"

EPILOGUE. These notes I sung when strove indignant Spain To rend th' ahhorr'd invader's iron chain!

With heating heart, we listen'd from afar To each faint rumour of the various war t Now tremhled, lest her fainting sons should yield t Now follow'd thee to the ensanguined fieldt Thee, most heroic Wellington, and cried, When Salamanca's plain in shouts replied, "All is not lost! The scatter'd eagles fly— All is not lost! England and victory!"

Hark! the noise hurtles in the frozen north! France pours again her hamier'd legions forth, With trump, and plumed horsemen! Whence that

cry?
Lo! ancient Moscow flaming to the sky!
Imperial fugitive! hack to the gates
Of Paris! while despair the tale relates,
Of dire discomfiture, and shame, and flight,
And the dead, hleaching on the snows of night.

Shout! for the heart ennohling transport fills' Conquest's red hanner floats along the hills

That gird the guilty city! Shout amain.
For Europe,—England,—for deliver'd Spain!
Shout, for a world avenged!

The toil is o'er,—
Enough wide earth hath reek'd with human gore—
At Waterloo, amidst the countless dead,
The u ar-fiend gave his last loud shriek, and fled.
Thou stood'st in front, my country! on that day
Of horrors; thou more awful didst display
Thy long-tried valour, when from rank to rank
Death hurrying strode, and that vast army shrank
Soldiers of England, the dread day is won!
Soldiers of England, on, hrave comrades, on!
Pursue them! Yes, ye did pursue, till night
Hid the foul rout of their disastrous flight.

Halt on this hill—your wasted strength repair, And close your lahours, to the well known air, Which e'en your children sing, "O Lord, arise!" Peals the long line, " Scatter his enemies!" Back to the scenes of home, the evening fire, Or May-day sunshine on the village spire, The hlissful thought hy that loved air is led, Here heard amidst the dying and the dead.*

'Twas when affliction with cold shadow hung On half the wasted world, these notes I sung. Thus pass'd the storm, and o'er a night of woes More heautiful the morn of freedom rose. Now with a sigh, I close, alas ! the strain, And mourn thy fate, ahused, insulted Spain! When, for stem Valour, haring his hold hreast, I see wan Bigotry, in monkish vest,t Point, scowling, to the dungeon's gloom, and wave The sword insulting o'er the fallen hrave, (The sword of him who foreign hate withstood, Whose point yet drops with the invader's hlood,) Then, where yon darkt trihunal shames the day, Hurl it with curses and with scorn away!

Turn from the thought: and if one generous heart In these fictitious scenes has horne a part, For tin 'Kin- Indian in remotest lands, The sahle slave, that lifts his hleeding hands, For wretchedness, and ignorance, and need, O! let the aged missionary plead!

The tale is told—a tale of days of yore, The soldier—the gray father—are no more; And the hrief shades, that pleased a while the eye Are faded, like the landscapes of the sky.

Vet may the moral still remain impress'd To warm the patriot, or the pious hreast. Where'er aggression marches, may the hrave Rush unappall'd their father's land to save! Where sounds of glad salvation are gone out Unto all lands, as with an angel's shout, May holy zeal its energies employ! Rocks of Saldanna, hreak forth into joy! Isles, o'er the waste of desert ocean strown, Rivers, that sweep through shades and sands unknown,

* Alluding to a most interesting fact in the history of that eventful struggle, closed hy the national air of God save the King.

t Alluding to the unjust treatment of those hrave men who saved the life and the throne of a hlgoted and ungrateful prince.

t The Inquisition.

Mountains of inmost Afrit, where no ray
Hath ever pierced, from Beth'lem's star of day,
Savages, fierce with cluhs, and shaggy hair.
Who woods and thickets with the lion share,
Hark ! the glad echoes of the cliffs repeat,
"How heauteous, in the desert, are the feet
Of them, who hear, o'er wastes and trackless sands,
Tidings of mercy to remotest lands!"

Patiently plodding, the Moravian mild
Sees stealing culture creep along the wild
And twice ten thousand leagues o'er ocean's roar,
And far from friends whom he may see no more,
Constructs the warmer hut, or delves the sod;
Cheerful, as still heneath the eye of God.
Where, muttering spoil, or death, the CafFre prowl'd,
Or moonlight wolves, a gaunt assemhly, howi'd,
No sounds are heard along the champaign wide,
But one small chapel hell, at eventide.
Whilst notes unwonted linger in the air,
The songs of Sion, or the voice of prayer!

And thou, the light of God's eternal word, Record, and Spirit of the living Lord, Hid and unknown from half the world,—at length, Rise like the sun, and go forth in thy strength! Already towering o'er old Ganges stream, The dark pagoda hrightens in thy heam: And the dim eagles, on the topmost height Of Juggernaut, shine as in morning light'. Beyond the snows of savage Lahrador The ray pervades pale Greenland's wintry shore— The demon spell, that hound the slumhering sense, Dissolves hefore its holy influence, As the gray rock of ice, a shapeless heap, Thaws in the sunshine of the summer deep. Proceed, auspicious and eventful day! Banner of Christ, thy ampler folds display! Let Atlas shout with Andes, and proclaim To earth, and sea, and skies, a Saviour's name. Till angel voices in the sound shall hlend, And one hosanna from all worlds ascend!

SONG« OF THE CID.t

The Cid is sitting, in martial state,

Within Valentia's wall;
And chiefs of high renown attend

The knightly festival.

Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop

Of gallant men, were there; And there came Donna Ximena,

His wife and daughters fair.

When the foot-page hent on his knee, What tidings hrought he then > \

"Morocco's king is on the seas, With fifty thousand men."

"Now God he praised!" the Cid he cried,

"Let every hold he stored: Let fly the holy gonfalon,{

And give ' St. James,' the word."

s Referred to in p. 505.

t Compare with Southey's admirahle translation of taa Cid. t Banner consecrated hy the pope.

And now. upon the turret high,

Was heard the signal drum;
And loud the watchman hlew his trump,

And cried, " They come! they come!"
The Cid then raised his sword on high,

And hy God's mother swore,
These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,

Or hathe their hase in gore.

"My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!

Nay, hang not thus your head;
For you shall see how well we fight;

How soldiers earn their hread.

"We will go out against the Moors, And crush them in your sight;"

And all the Christians shouted loud, "May God defend the right!"

He took his wife and daughter's hand,

So resolute was he,
And led them to the highest tower

That overlooks the sea.

They saw how vast a pagan power

Came sailing o'er the hiine;
They saw, heneath the morning light,

The Moorish crescents shine.

These ladies then grew deadly pale,

As heart-struck with dismay;
And when they heard the tamhours heat,

They turn'd their head away.

The thronged streamers glittering flew,

The sun was shining hright,
"Now cheer," the valiant Cid he cried;

"This is a glorious sight!"

Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,

These fearful ladies stood,
The Cid he raised his sword, and cried,

"All this is for your good.

"Ere fifteen days aie gone and past,

If God assist the right.
Those tamhours that now sound to scare,

Shall sound for your delight."

The Moors who press' d heneath the towers

Now " Allah ! Allah !" sung; Each Christian knight his hroad-sword drew,

And loud the trumpets rung.

Then up, the nohle Cid hespoke

"Let each hrave warrior go, And arm himself, in dusk of morn,

Ere chanticleer shall crow;

"And in the lofty minster church,

On Santiago call,—
That good Bishoppe Hieronymo,*

Shall there ahsolve you all.

"But let us prudent counsel take,

In this eventful hour:
For yon proud infidels, I ween,

They arc a mighty power."

Then Alvar Fanez counsell'd well, "We will deceive the foe,

'The common phraseology of the old metrical i^llad.

And amhush with three hundred men,
Ere the first cock does crow:

"And when against the Moorish men

The Cid leads up his powers,— We, rushing from the hollow glen,

Will fall on them with ours."

This counsel pleased the chieftain well:

He said, it should he so;
And the good hishop should sing mass,

Ere the first cock did crow.

The day is gone, the night is come;

At cock-crow all appear
In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,

And holy mass to hear:

On Santiago there they call'd,

To hear them and to save;
And that good hishop, at the mass,

Great ahsolution gave.

"Fear not," he cried, " when thousands Meed,

When horse on man shall roll! Whoever dies, I take his sins,

And God shall save his soul.

"A hoon! a hoon !" the hlshop cried,

"I have sung mass to-day; Let me he foremost in the fight,

And lead the hloody fray."

Now Alvar Fanez and his men

Had gain'd the thicket's shade;
And, with hush'd hreath and anxious eye,

Had there their amhush laid.

Four thousand men. with trump, and shout,

Forth issued from the gate;
Where my hrave Cid, in harness hright,

On Bavieca sate.

They pass'd the amhush on the left,
And mnrch'd o'er dale and down,

Till soon they saw the Moorish camp
Betwixt them and the town.

My Cid then spurr'd his horse, and set

The hattle in array.
The first heam on his standard shone

Which Pero hore that day

When this the Moors astonied saw,

"Allah !" hegan their cry:
The tamhours heat, the cymhals rung,

As they would rend the sky.

"Banner, advance!" my Cid cried then,

And raised aloft his sword;
The whole host answer'd with a shout,

"St. Mary, and our Lord!"

That good Bishop, Hieronymo,

Bravely his hattle hore; And cried, as he spurr'd on his resolute steed,

"Hurrah! for the Campeador!"

The Moorish and the Christian host

Mingle their dying cries,
And many a horse along the plain

Without his rider flies.

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