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Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken

Of public view, and sounds of murmuring men, of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood, A small and rustic oratory stood:

Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross,

The porch within was lined with mantling moss;

A crucifix and hourglass, on each side-
One to admonish seem'd and one to guide;

This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er;

"Whence comes my son ?" with kind compla

cent look

He ask'd, and closed again th' embossed book. "I come to thee for peace!" the youth replied: "O, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride, In this sad Christian world; my native land Was happy, ere the soldier, with his band Of fell destroyers, like a vulture, came,

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?

more.

O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding

stray,

The clustering copu weaved its trellis gay:
Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove
Their aged and fantastic arms above.

In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers,
A dial counted the departing hours,

On which the sweetest light of summer shone,-
A rude and brief inscription mark'd the stone:-
"To count, with passing shade, the hours,
I placed the dial 'mid the flowers;
That, one by one, came forth, and died,
Blooming, and withering, round its side.
Mortal, let the sight impart

Its pensive moral to thy heart!"
Just heard to trickle through a covert near,
And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,
A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd through the
stone,-

And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone.
Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,
And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,
The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song
Heedlessly murmur'd, all the summer long,
And when the winter came, retired to rest,
And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.
No sounds of a conflicting world were near;
The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,
That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noontide blast,
But dying sounds of passions that were past;
Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire
The lessening echoes of the distant choir.

Here, every human sorrow hush'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.
There was no worldly feeling in his eye;-
The world to him "was as a thing gone by."
Now, all his features lit, he raised his look,
Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book;
And whilst the hourglass shed its silent sand,
A tame opossum lick'd his wither'd hand.
That sweetest light of slow declining day,
Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray,
Resting a moment on his few gray hairs,

Father, I come to thee for peace-for peace!"
"Seek peace," the father cried," with God above:
In his good time, all will be peace and love.
"We mourn, indeed, that grief, and toil, and strife,
Send one deep murmur from the walks of life,
That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky,
Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery;
The course of wide destruction to withstand,
We lift our feeble voice-our trembling hand;
But still, bow'd low, or smitten to the dust,
Father of mercy! still in thee we trust!
Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth,
In joy or wo, in sickness or in health,-
Meek piety thy awful hand surveys,
And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise!
We know-whatever evils we deplore--
Thou hast permitted, and we know no more!
Behold, illustrious on the subject plain,
Some tower'd city of imperial Spain ! *

Hark! 'twas the earthquake! clouds of dust alone
Ascend from earth, where tower and temple shone.
"Such is the conqueror's dread path: the grave
Yawns for its millions where his banners wave;
But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh,
With sullen acquiescence, gaze and die?
Alas, how little of the mighty maze

Of providence, our mortal ken surveys !
Heaven's awful Lord, pavilion'd in the clouds,
Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds;
And, far beyond the tempest and the night,
Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless
light."

CANTO III.

ARGUMENT.

Evening and night of the same day.

Anselmo's story-Converted Indians-Confession of the
wandering minstrel-Night scene.

ANSELMO'S TALE.
"COME,--for the sun yet hangs above the bay,--
And whilst our time may brook a brief delay
With other thoughts,-and, haply, with a tear,
An old man's tale of sorrow thou shalt hear.
I wish'd not to reveal it-thoughts that dwell
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.

When the trump echoed to the quiet spot, He thought upon the world, but mourn'd it not; Enough if his meek wisdom could control, And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul; Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod, He led one erring Indian to his God.

And like a tempest, the dark spirit shake,
When starting, from our slumberous apathy,
We gaze upon the scenes of days gone by.
Yet, if a moment's irritating flush
Darkenst thy cheek, as thoughts conflicting rush,

*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 T 2

When I disclose my hidden griefs, the tale
May more than wisdom or reproof prevail.
O, may it teach thee, till all trials cease,

To hold thy course, though sorrowing, yet in peace:
Still looking up to Him, the soul's best stay,

Some bread and water, nature to sustain,
Duly was brought when eve return'd again;
And thus I knew, hoping it were the last,
Another day of lingering life was pass'd.

"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!

"Where fair Seville's Morisco turrets* gleam On Guadilquiver's gently-stealing stream, Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide, Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side, My youth was pass'd. O, days for ever gone! How touch'd with heaven's own light your mornings shone!

"E'en now, when lonely and forlorn I bend,-
My weary journey hastening to its end,
A drooping exile on a distant shore,-

I mourn the hours of youth that are no more.
The tender thought amid my prayers has part,
And steals, at times, from heaven my aged heart.
"Forgive the cause, O God!--forgive the tear,
That flows, e'en now, o'er Leonora's bier;
For, midst the innocent and lovely, none
More beautiful than Leonora shone.

"As by her widow'd mother's side she knelt, A sad and sacred sympathy I felt.

At Easter-tide, when the high mass was sung,
And, fuming high, the silver censer swung,
When rich-hued windows, from the arches' height,
Pour'd o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light,
From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear,
When Adoremus' swell'd upon the ear,
(Such as to heaven thy rapt attention drew
First in the Christian churches of Peru)
She seem'd, methought, some spirit of the sky,
Descending to that holy harmony.

" Boots not to say, when life and hope were new,
How by degrees the soul's first passion grew:
I loved her, and I won her virgin heart,
But fortune whisper'd, We, a while, must part.
"The minster toll'd the middle hour of night,
When waked to agony and wild affright,
I heard the words, words of appalling dread-
The holy Inquisition !'-from the bed

I started; snatch'd my dagger, and my cloak-
Who dare accuse me?'-none, in answer, spoke.
The demons seized, in silence, on their prey,
And tore me from my dreams of bliss away.
"How frightful was their silence, and their shade,
In torch-light, as their victim they convey'd,
By dark-inscribed and massy-window'd walls,
Through the dim twilight of terrific halls;
(For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stain
Of pure religion, and the rites of Spain)--
Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold
blast,

And echoed to the foot-fall as we pass'd!

"They left me, faint and breathless with affright, In a cold cell, to solitude and night;

O! think, what horror through the heart must thrill When the last bolt was barr'd, and all at once was still.

"Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom, Sadder than darkness, wrapt the living tomb.

**Of Moorish architecture.

Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was barr❜d,
And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarr'd,
Methought I heard, as clang'd the iron door,
A dull and hollow echo from the floor:

I stamp'd: the vault and winding caves around
Return'd a long and melancholy sound.
With patient toil, I raised a massy stone,
And look'd into a depth of shade unknown;
The murky twilight of the lurid place
Served me, at length, a secret way to trace.
I enter'd, step by step; explored the road,
In darkness, from my desolate abode ;
Till, winding through long passages of night,
I saw, at distance, a dim streak of light:—
It was the sun-the bright, the blessed beam
Of day! I knelt-I wept-the glittering stream
Roll'd soft beneath me, as I left the cave,
Conceal'd in woods above the winding wave.

"I rested on a verdant bank a while,

I saw around the summer landscape smile.
I gain'd a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave,
Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve.
Remembering still affection's fondest hours,
I turn'd my footsteps to the city towers;
In pilgrim's dress, I traced the streets unknown:
No light in Leonora's lattice shone.

"The morning came; the busy tumult swells; Knolling to church, I heard the minster bells: Involuntary to that scene I stray'd,

Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid.
I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand,

And yield, half shrinking, her reluctant hand:
She turn'd her look-she saw my hollow eyes,
And knew me,-wasted, wan, and in disguise;
She shriek'd, and fell-breathless, I left the fane
In agony-nor saw her form again;

And from that day, her voice, her look, was given,
Her name, her memory, to the winds of heaven.
"Far off I bent my melancholy way,
Heart-sick and faint, and, in this gown of gray,
From every human eye my sorrows hid,
Unknown, amidst the tumult of Madrid.
Grief in my heart, despair upon my look,
With no companion save my beads and book,
My morsel with affliction's sons to share,
To tend the sick and poor, my only care-
Forgotten, thus I lived, till day by day
Had worn nigh thirteen years of grief away.
"One winter's night, when I had closed my cell,
And bid the labours of the day farewell,
An aged crone approach'd, with panting breath-
She bade me hasten to the house of death.

"I came with moving lips intent to pray,
A dying woman on a pallet lay;
Her lifted hands were wasted to the bone,
And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone;
Beside the bed a pious daughter stands
Silent, and weeping, kisses her pale hands.

Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head, 'Forgive, forgive! they told me he was dead!

But in the sunshine of that dreadful day,
That gave me to another's arms away,

I saw him-like a ghost, with deadly stare;
I saw his wasted eyeballs' ghastly glare;
I saw his lips-(O hide them, God of love!)
I saw his livid lips, half muttering, move,
To curse the maid, forgetful of her vow;
Perhaps he lives to curse-to curse me now!'
"He lives to bless! I cried; and drawing
nigh,

Held up the crucifix: her heavy eye

She raised, and scarce pronounced-Does he yet live?

Can he his lost, his dying child forgive ?

Will God forgive-the Lord who bled-will He?
Ah, no! there is no mercy left for me!'

I need not say the sequel-not unmoved
Poor Indiana heard thy tale, and loved-
Some sympathy a kindred fate might claim;
Your years, your fortunes, and your friend the

same:

Both early of a parent's care bereft,
Both strangers in a world of sadness left,

I mark'd each slowly struggling thought—I shed
A tear of love paternal on each head,
And, while I saw her timid eyes incline,
Bless'd the affection that has made her thine!
"Here let the murmurs of despondence cease:
There is a God--believe--and part in peace!"
Rich hues illumed the track of parting day
As the great sun sunk in the western bay,
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.

She knew me-her exhausted breath, with pain,
Drawing, she press'd my hand, and spoke again.
"By a false guardian's cruel wiles deceived,
The tale of fraudful falsehood I believed;

When at a distance, on the dewy plain,

In mingled group appear'd an Indian train,--
Men, women, children, round Anselmo press,-
"Farewell!" they cried. He raised his hand to
bless,

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

mand,

And bade me take the rich Antonio's hand.

I knelt, implored, embraced my guardian's knees-
Ruthless inquisitor! he held the keys
Of the dark torture-house. Trembling for life,
Yes I became a sad, heart-broken-wife!
Yet curse me not! of every human care
Already my full heart has had its share.
Abandon'd-left in youth to want and wo!
O! let these tears, that agonizing flow,
Witness how deep e'en now my heart is rent:
Yet one is lovely-one is innocent!
Protect-protect'-(and faint in death she smiled)-
When I am dead-protect my orphan child!'
"The dreadful prison, that so long detain'd
My wasting life, her dying words explain'd.
The wretched priest, who wounded me by stealth,
Barter'd her love, her innocence, for wealth.

"I laid her bones in earth: the chanted hymn Echoed along the hollow cloister dim:

I heard, far off, the bell funereal toll,

Still lead you in the paths of peace and love:
To-morrow, and we part; when I am gone,
Raise on this spot a cross, and place a stone,
That tribes unborn may some memorial have
(When I far off am mouldering in the grave)
Of that poor messenger, who tidings bore,
Of gospel mercy, to your distant shore."

The crowd retired-along the twilight gray,
The condor swept its solitary way;
The fire-flies shone, when to the hermit's cell
Who hastens but the minstrel, Zarinel?
In foreign lands, far from his native home,
'Twas his, a gay romantic youth to roam
With a light cittern o'er his shoulders slung,
Where'er he pass'd he play'd, and loved, and sung
And thus accomplish'd, late had join'd the train
Of gallant soldiers on the southern plain.
"Father," he cried, " uncertain of the fate
That may to-morrow's toilsome march await,
For long will be the road, I would confess
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!'

Far o'er the western ocean I convey'd,
And Indiana call'd-the orphan maid:
Beneath my eye she grew--and, day by day,
Seem'd, grateful, every kindness to repay.
"Renouncing Spain, her cruelties and crimes,
Amid untutor'd tribes, in distant climes,
'Twas mine to spread the light of truth, or save
From stripes and torture the poor Indian slave.
I saw thee, young and innocent-alone,
Cast on the mercies of a race unknown;
I saw, in dark adversity's cold hour,

Thy virtues blooming, like a winter's flower;
From chains and slavery I redeem'd thy youth,
Pour'd on thy sight the beams of heavenly truth;
By thy warm heart and mild demeanour won,
Call'd thee my other child-my age's son.

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Whose trusting love my careless heart betray'd,
Say, may I speak?"

"Say on," the father cried;
"Nor be to penitence all hope denied."
"Then hear, Anselmo! From a very child
I loved all fancies, marvellous and wild;
I turn'd from truth, to listen to the lore
Of many an old and fabling troubadour.
Thus, with impassion'd heart and wayward mind,
To dreams and shapes of shadowy things resign'd,
I left my native vales and village home,
Wide o'er the world a minstrel boy to roam.

"I never shall forget the day-the hour,-
When, all my soul resign'd to fancy's power,
First, from the snowy Pyrenees, I cast
My labouring vision o'er the landscape vast,
And saw beneath my feet long vapours float,
Streams, mountains, woods, and ocean's mist re-

mote.

My mountain guide, a soldier, poor and old,
Who tales of Cortez and Balboa told,

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Won my young ear, when pausing to survey
Th' Atlantic, white in sunshine far away,
He spoke of this new world,-rivers like seas,
Mountains, to which the mighty Pyrenees
Were but as sand-hills-ancient forests rude,
In measureless extent of solitude,
Stretching their wild and unknown world of shade!
Full blithe he then described the Indian maid-
Graceful and agile as the marmozet,

Whose eyes of radiance and whose locks of jet,
Though bow'd by want and age, he never could
forget.

"My ardent fancy follow'd while he spoke
Of lakes, savannahs, or the cataract's smoke,
Or some strange tale of perilous wandering told,
By waters, through remotest regions roll'd:
How shone the woods with pomp of plumage gay,
And how the green bird mock'd and talk'd all
day!

"Imagination thus, in colours new,
This distant world presented to my view;
Young, and enchanted with the fancied scene,
I cross'd the toiling seas that roar'd between,
And, with ideal images impress'd,

O'erhung with icy summits:-to be brief,
She was the daughter of an aged chief;
He, by her gentle voice to pity won,
Show'd mercy, for himself had lost a son.
The father spoke not:--by the pine wood blaze,
The daughter stood, and turn'd a cake of maize.
And then, as sudden shone the light, I saw
Such features as no artist hand might draw.
Her form, her face, her symmetry, her air-
Father! thy age must this recital spare-
She saved my life-and kindness, if not love,
Might sure in time the coldest bosom move.
Mine was not cold-she loved to hear me sing,
And sometimes touch'd with playful hand the
string:

And when I waked some melancholy strain,
She wept, and smiled, and bade me sing again:
And sometimes on the turf reclined, I tried
Her erring hand along the wires to guide;
Then chiding, with a kiss, the rude essay,
Taught her some broken saraband to play;
Whilst the loud parrot, from the neighbouring tree,
On laughing echo call'd to join our glee.
"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,

I left Callao's crowded port behind,

She raised her eyes with tenderness, and cried,
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 here

threw

Upon the lessening summits of Peru.

Some sheep, the armed peasants drove before,

That all our food through the wild passes bore,
Had wander'd in the frost smoke of the morn,
Far from the tract-I blew the signal horn-
But echo only answer'd. 'Mid the snows,
Wilder'd and lost, I saw the evening close.
The sun was setting in the crimson west;
In all the earth I had no home of rest;
The last sad light upon the ice-hills shone;
I seem'd forsaken in a world unknown;
How did my cold and sinking heart rejoice,
When! hark! methought I heard a human voice.
It might be some wild Indian's roving troop;
Or the dread echo of their distant whoop--
Still it was human, and I seem'd to find
Again some commerce with remote mankind.
The voice is nearer, rising through the shade--
Is it the song of a rude mountain maid?
And now I heard the tread of hastening feet,
And, in the western glen, a llama bleat.
I listen'd-all is still-but hark! again
Near and more near is heard the welcome strain:
It is a wild maid's carolling, who seeks
Her wandering llama midst the snowy peaks.
Truant,' she cried, thy lurking place is found.'
With languid touch I waked the cittern's sound,
And soon a maid, by the pale light, I saw
Gaze breathless with astonishment and awe:
What instant terrors to her fancy rose !
Ha! is it not the spirit of the snows?
But when she saw me, weary, cold, and weak,
Stretch forth my hand, (for now I could not speak,)
She pitied, raised me from the snows, and led
My faltering footsteps to her father's shed;
The llama follow'd with her tinkling bell:
The dwelling rose within a craggy dell,

When thou art sad, I will kiss off the tear:
Thou shalt forget thy father's land, and see
A friend, a sister, and a child, in me.'

So many a happy day in this deep glen,
Far from the noise of life, and sounds of men,
Was pass'd! Nay! father, the sad sequel hear;
'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year-
Ambition call'd me: True, I knew, to part,
Would break her generous and her trusting heart-
True, I had vow'd-but now estranged and cold,
She saw my look, and shudder'd to behold-
She would go with me-leave the lonely glade
Where she grew up, but my stern voice forbade.
She hid her face and wept,- Go then away,'
(Father, methinks e'en now I hear her say,)

Go to thy distant land-forget this tear-
Forget these rocks,-forget I once was dear.
Fly to the world, o'er the wide ocean fly,
And leave me, unremember'd, here to die!
Yet to my father should I all relate,
Death, instant death, would be a traitor's fate!'
"Nor fear, nor pity, moved my stubborn mind
I left her sorrows and the scene behind-
I sought Valdivia on the southern plain,
And join'd the careless military train :-
O! ere I sleep, thus, lowly on my knee,
Father, I absolution crave from thee."

Anselmo spoke with look and voice severe,
"Yes! thoughtless youth, my absolution hear.
First, by deep penitence the wrong atone,
Then absolution ask from God alone!
Yet stay, and to my warning voice attend--
O, hear me as a father, and a friend!
Let truth severe be wayward fancy's guide,
Let stern-eyed conscience o'er each thought pre
side-

The passions, that on noblest natures prey,
O! cast them, like corroding bonds, away!

Disdain to act mean falsehood's coward part,
And let religion dignify thine art.

"If, by thy bed, thou seest at midnight stand
Pale conscience, pointing, with terrific hand,
To deeds of darkness done, whilst, like a corse
To shake thy soul, uprises dire remorse-
Fly to God's mercy-fly, ere yet too late-
Perhaps one hour marks thy eternal fate-
Let the warm tear of deep contrition flow,
The heart obdurate melt, like softening snow,
The last vain follies of thy youth deplore,
Then go in secret weep-and sin no more!"
The stars innumerous in their watches shone-
Anselmo knelt before the cross alone.
Ten thousand glowing orbs their pomp display'd,
Whilst, looking up, thus silently he pray'd:-
"O! how oppressive to the aching sense,
How fearful were this vast magnificence,
This prodigality of glory, spread

From world to world, above an emmet's head,
That toil'd his transient hour upon the shore
Of mortal life, and then was seen no more-
If man beheld, on his terrific throne,
A dark, cold, distant deity, alone!
Felt no relating, no endearing tie,

That hope might upwards raise her glistening eye,
And think, with deep, unutterable bliss,
In yonder radiant realm my kingdom is!

"More glorious than those orbs that silent roll, Shines Heaven's redeeming mercy on the soulO! pure effulgence of unbounded love!

In thee I think-I feel-I live-I move-
Yet when-O! thou, whose name is Love and Light,
When will thy dayspring on these realms of night
Arise? O! when shall sever'd nations raise
One hallelujah of triumphant praise !

"Soon may thy kingdom come, that love, and peace,
And charity, may bid earth's chidings cease!
Meantime, in life or death, through good or ill,
Thy poor and feeble servant, I fulfil,
As best I may, thy high and holy will,
Till, weary, on the world my lids I close,
And hasten to my long and last repose!"

CANTO IV.
ARGUMENT.

And, like a giant of no earthly race,

To his broad shoulders heaved his ponderous mace.
With lifted hatchet, as in act to fell,
Here stood the young and ardent Teucapel.
Like a lone cypress, stately in decay,
When time has worn its summer boughs away,
And hung its trunk with moss and lichens sere,
The mountain warrior rested on his spear.
And thus, and at this hour, a hundred chiefs,
Chosen avengers of their country's griefs;
Chiefs of the scatter'd tribes who roam the plain
That sweeps from Andes to the western main,
Their country gods around the coiling smoke,
With sacrifice and silent prayers, invoke.
For all, at first, were silent as the dead;
The pine was heard to whisper o'er their head,
So stood the stern assembly: but apart,
Wrapt in the spirit of his fearful art,
Alone, to hollow sounds "of hideous hum,"
The wizard-seer struck his prophetic drum.
Silent they stood-and watch'd, with anxious

eyes,

What phantom shape might from the ground arise:
No voices came-no spectre form appear'd
A hollow sound, but not of winds, was heard
Among the leaves, and distant thunder low
Seem'd like the moans of an expiring foe.

His crimson feathers quivering in the smoke,
Then, with loud voice, first Mariantu spoke :-
"Hail we the omen !-Spirits of the slain,
I hear your voices! Mourn, devoted Spain !
Pale-visaged tyrants! still, along our coasts,
Shall we despairing mark your iron hosts ?
Spirits of our brave fathers, curse the race
Who thus your name, your memory disgrace!
No: though yon mountain's everlasting snows
In vain Almagro's toilsome march oppose;
Though Atacama's long and wasteful plain
Be heap'd with blackening carcasses in vain ;
Though still fresh hosts those snowy summits scale,
And scare the llamas with their glittering mail;
Though sullen castles lour along our shore;
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,
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
-White woman and child.

FAR in the centre of the deepest wood,
Th' assembled fathers of their country stood.
'Twas midnight now: the pine-wood fire burnt red,
And to the leaves a shadowy glimmer spread:
The struggling smoke, or flame with fitful glance,
Obscured, or show'd, some dreadful countenance;
And every warrior, as his club he rear'd,
With larger shadow, indistinct, appear'd;
While more terrific, his wild locks and mien,
And fierce eye through the quivering smoke was

seen.

In sea-wolf's skin, here Mariantu stood;
Gnash'd his white teeth, impatient, and cried,
"Blood!"

His lofty brow with crimson feathers bound,
Here, brooding death, the huge Ongolmo frown'd;

"We, met for vengeance! We-prepared to die! Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy !"

Then Teucapel, with warm emotion, cried,
"This hatchet never yet in blood was dyed!
May it be buried deep within my heart,
If living from the conflict I depart,
Till loud, from shore to shore, is heard one cry,
"See! in their gore where the last tyrants lie!'"

The mountain warrior. "O, that I could raise
The hatchet too, as in my better days,
When victor on Maypocha's banks I stood;
And while th' indignant river roll'd in blood,
And our swift arrows hiss'd like rushing rain,
I cleft Almagro's iron helm in twain !

The first Spaniard who visited Chili. He entered it by the dreadful passage of the snows of the Andes; but afterwards the passage was attempted through the desert of Atacama.

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