<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538648" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Missionary - Canto Eighth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shed<br>One ray of glory on the patriot-dead.<br>Round the dark stone, the victor-chiefs behold!<br>Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold!<br>There stands the brave Caupolican, the pride<br>Of Chili, young Lautaro, by his side!<br>Near the grim circle, pendent from the wood,<br>Twelve hundred Spanish heads are dripping blood.<br>Shrill sound the notes of death: in festive dance,<br>The Indian maids with myrtle boughs advance; <br>The tinkling sea-shells on their ancles ring,<br>As, hailing thus the victor-youth, they sing:--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SONG OF INDIAN MAIDS.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave!<br>The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save,<br>When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain,<br>And the ghosts of our fathers looked down on the slain!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Twas eve, and the noise of the battle was o'er,<br>Five thousand brave warriors were cold in their gore;<br>When, in front, young Lautaro invincible stood,<br>And the horses and iron-men rolled in their blood!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the snows of the mountain are swept by the blast,<br>The earthquake of death o'er the white men has passed;<br>Shout, Chili, in triumph! the battle is won,<br>And we dance round the heads that are black in the sun!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lautaro, as if wrapt in thought profound,<br>Oft turned an anxious look inquiring round.<br>He is not here!--Say, does my father live? <br>Ere eager voices could an answer give,<br>With faltering footsteps and declining head,<br>And slowly by an aged Indian led,<br>Wounded and weak the mountain chief appears:<br>Live, live! Lautaro cried, with bursting tears, <br>And fell upon his neck, and, kissing, pressed,<br>With folding arms, his gray hairs to his breast.<br>Oh, live! I am thy son--thy long-lost child!<br>The warrior raised his look, and faintly smiled;<br>Chili, my country, is avenged! he cried:<br>My son!--then sunk upon a shield--and died.<br>Lautaro knelt beside him, as he bowed,<br>And kissed his bleeding breast, and wept aloud.<br>The sounds of sadness through the circle ran,<br>When thus, with lifted axe, Caupolican: <br>What, for our fathers, brothers, children, slain,<br>Canst thou repay, ruthless, inhuman Spain?<br>Here, on the scene with recent slaughter red,<br>To sooth the spirits of the brave who bled,<br>Raise we, to-day, the war-feast of the dead.<br>Bring forth the chief in bonds! Fathers, to-day<br>Devote we to our gods the noblest prey!<br>Lautaro turned his eyes, and, gazing round,<br>Beheld Valdivia and Anselmo bound!<br>One stood in arms, as with a stern despair, <br>His helmet cleft in twain, his temples bare,<br>Where streaks of blood that dropped upon his mail,<br>Served but to show his face more deadly pale:<br>His eyebrows, dark and resolute, he bent,<br>And stood, composed, to wait the dire event.<br>Still on the cross his looks Anselmo cast,<br>As if all thought of this vain world was passed,<br>And in a world of light, without a shade,<br>Ev'n now his meek and guileless spirit strayed.<br>Where stood the Spanish chief, a muttering sound <br>Rose, and each club was lifted from the ground;<br>When, starting from his father's corse, his sword<br>Waving before his once-triumphant lord,<br>Lautaro cried, My breast shall meet the blow:<br>But save--save him, to whom my life I owe!<br>Valdivia marked him with unmoving eye,<br>Then looked upon his bonds, nor deigned reply;<br>When Harratomac, stealing with slow pace,<br>And lifting high his iron-jagged mace,<br>Smote him to earth; a thousand voices rose, <br>Mingled with shouts and yells, So fall our foes!<br>Lautaro gave to tears a moment's space,<br>As black in death he marked Valdivia's face,<br>Then cried--Chiefs, friends, and thou, Caupolican,<br>Oh, spare this innocent and holy man!<br>He never sailed, rapacious, o'er the deep,<br>The gold of blood-polluted lands to heap;<br>He never gave the armed hosts his aid,<br>But meekly to the Mighty Spirit prayed,<br>That in all lands the sounds of woe might cease, <br>And brothers of the wide world dwell in peace!<br>The victor-youth saw generous sympathy<br>Already steal to every warrior's eye;<br>Then thus again: Oh, if this filial tear<br>Bear witness my own father was most dear;<br>If this uplifted arm, this bleeding steel<br>Speak for my country what I felt and feel;<br>If, at this hour, I meet her high applause,<br>While my heart beats still ardent in her cause;--<br>Hear, and forgive these tears that grateful flow, <br>Oh! hear, how much to this poor man I owe!<br>I was a child--when to my sire's abode,<br>In Chillan's vale, the armed horsemen rode:<br>Me, whilst my father cold and breathless lay,<br>Far off the crested soldiers bore away,<br>And for a captive sold. No friend was near,<br>To mark a young and orphan stranger's tear!<br>This humble man, with kind parental care,<br>Snatched me from slavery--saved from dark despair;<br>And as my years increased, protected, fed, <br>And breathed a father's blessings on my head.<br>A Spanish maid was with him: need I speak?<br>Behold, affection's tear still wets my cheek!<br>Years, as they passed, matured in ripening grace<br>Her form unfolding, and her beauteous face:<br>She heard my orphan tale; she loved to hear,<br>And sometimes for my fortunes dropped a tear.<br>I could have bowed to direst ills resigned,<br>But wept at looks so sweet, at words so kind.<br>Valdivia saw me, now in blooming age, <br>And claimed me from the father as his page;<br>The chief too cherished me, yea, saved my life,<br>When in Peru arose the civil strife.<br>Yet still remembering her I loved so well,<br>Oft I returned to the gray father's cell:<br>His voice instructed me; recalled my youth<br>From rude idolatry to heavenly truth:<br>Of this hereafter; he my darkling mind<br>Cleared, and from low and sensual thoughts refined.<br>Then first, with feelings new impressed, I strove <br>To hide the tear of tenderness and love:<br>Amid the fairest maidens of Peru,<br>My eyes, my heart, one only object knew:<br>I lived that object's love and faith to share;<br>He saw, and blessed us with a father's prayer.<br>Here, at Valdivia's last and stern command,<br>I came, a stranger in my native land!<br>Anselmo (so him call--now most in need--<br>And standing here in bonds, for whom I plead)<br>Came, by our chief so summoned, and for aid <br>To the Great Spirit of the Christians prayed:<br>Here as a son I loved him, but I left<br>A wife, a child, of my fond cares bereft,<br>Never to see again; for death awaits<br>My entrance now in Lima's jealous gates.<br>Caupolican, didst thou thy father love?<br>Did his last dying look affection move?<br>Pity this aged man; unbend thy brow:<br>He was my father--is my father, now!<br>Consenting mercy marks each warrior's mien. <br>But who is this, what pallid form is seen,<br>As crushed already by the fatal blow,<br>Bound, and with looks white as a wreath of snow,<br>Her hands upon her breast, scarce drawn her breath,<br>A Spanish woman knelt, expecting death,<br>Whilst, borne by a dark warrior at her side,<br>An infant shrunk from the red plumes, and cried!<br>Lautaro started:<br>Injured maid of Spain!<br>Me!--me! oh, take me to thine arms again! <br>She heard his voice, and, by the scene oppressed,<br>With one faint sigh fell senseless on his breast.<br>Caupolican, with warm emotion, cried,<br>Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!<br>Live, aged father!--and forthwith commands<br>A warrior to unbind Anselmo's hands.<br>She raised her head: his eyes first met her view,<br>As round Lautaro's neck her arms she threw,<br>Ah, no! she feebly spoke; it is not true!<br>It is some form of the distempered brain! <br>Then hid her face upon his breast again.<br>Dark flashing eyes, terrific, glared around:<br>Here, his brains scattered by the deadly wound,<br>The Spanish chief lay on the gory ground.<br>With lowering brows, and mace yet drooping blood,<br>And clotted hair, there Mariantu stood.<br>Anselmo here, sad, yet in sorrow mild,<br>Appeared: she cried, A blessing on your child,<br>And knelt, as slow revived her waking sense,<br>And then, with looks aghast, Oh bear us hence! <br>Now all the assembled chiefs, assenting, cried,<br>Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!<br>With eager arms Lautaro snatched his boy,<br>And kissed him in an agony of joy;<br>Then to Anselmo gave, who strove to speak,<br>And felt the tear first burning on his cheek:<br>The infant held his neck with strict embrace,<br>And kissed his pale emaciated face.<br>From the dread scene, wet with Valdivia's gore,<br>His wan and trembling charge Lautaro bore. <br>There was a bank, where slept the summer-light,<br>A small stream whispering went in mazes bright,<br>And stealing from the sea, the western wind<br>Waved the magnolias on the slope inclined:<br>The woodpecker, in glittering plumage green,<br>And echoing bill, beneath the boughs was seen;<br>And, arched with gay and pendent flowers above,<br>The floripondio its rich trellis wove.<br>Lautaro bent, with looks of love and joy,<br>O'er his yet trembling wife and beauteous boy: <br>Oh, by what miracle, beloved! say,<br>Hast thou escaped the perils of the way<br>From Lima, where our humble dwelling stood,<br>To these tumultuous scenes, this vale of blood?<br>Roused by his voice, as from the sleep of death,<br>Faint she replied, with slow-recovering breath,<br>Who shall express, when thou, best friend! wert gone,<br>How sunk my heart!--deserted and alone!<br>Would I were with thee! oft I sat and sighed,<br>When the pale moon shone on the silent tide-- <br>At length resolved, I sought thee o'er the seas:<br>The brave bark cheer'ly went before the breeze,<br>That arms and soldiers to Valdivia bore,<br>From Lima bound to Chili's southern shore:<br>I seized the fair occasion--ocean smiled,<br>As to the sire I bore his lisping child.<br>The storm arose: with loud and sudden shock<br>The vessel sunk, disparting on a rock.<br>Some mariners, amidst the billows wild,<br>Scarce saved, in one small boat, me and my child. <br>What I have borne, a captive since that day--<br>Forgive these tears--I scarce have heart to say!<br>None pitied, save one gentle Indian maid--<br>A wild maid--of her looks I was afraid;<br>Her long black hair upon her shoulders fell,<br>And in her hand she bore a wreathed shell.<br>Lautaro for a moment turned aside,<br>And, Oh, my sister! with faint voice he cried.<br>Already free from sorrow and alarms,<br>I clasped in thought a husband in my arms, <br>When a dark warrior, stationed on the height,<br>Who held his solitary watch by night,<br>Before me stood, and lifting high his lance,<br>Exclaimed: No further, on thy life, advance!<br>Faint, wearied, sinking to the earth with dread,<br>Back to the dismal cave my steps he led.<br>Only at eve, within the craggy cleft,<br>Some water, and a cake of maize, were left.<br>The thirteenth sun unseen went down the sky;<br>When morning came, they brought me forth to die;<br>But hushed be every sigh, each boding fear,<br>Since all I sought on earth, and all I love, is here! <br>Her infant raised his hands, with glistening eye,<br>To reach a large and radiant butterfly,<br>That fluttered near his face; with looks of love,<br>And truth and tenderness, Lautaro strove<br>To calm her wounded heart; the holy sire,<br>His eyes faint-lighted with a transient fire,<br>Hung o'er them, and to Heaven his prayer addressed,<br>While, with uplifted hands, he wept and blest. <br>An aged Indian came, with feathers crowned,<br>And knelt before Lautaro on the ground.<br>What tidings, Indian?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">INDIAN.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I led thy sire,<br>Whom late thou saw'st upon his shield expire,<br>Son of our Ulmen, didst thou mark no trace,<br>In these sad looks, of a remembered face?<br>Dost thou remember Izdabel? Look here!<br>It is thy father's hatchet and his spear.<br>Friend of my infant days, how I rejoice, <br>Lautaro cried, once more to hear that voice!<br>Life like a dream, since last we met, has fled--<br>Oh, my beloved sister, thou art dead!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">INDIAN.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I come to guide thee through untrodden ways,<br>To the lone valley, where thy father's days<br>Were passed; where every cave and every tree,<br>From morn to morn, reminded him of thee!<br>Lautaro cried: Here, faithful Indian, stay;<br>I have a last sad duty yet to pay.<br>A little while we part:--thou here remain. <br>He spake, and passed like lightning o'er the plain.<br>Ah, cease, Castilian maid, thy vain alarms!<br>See where he comes--his father in his arms!<br>Now lead, he cried. The Indian, sad and still,<br>Paced on from wood to vale, from vale to hill;<br>Her infant tired, and hushed a while to rest,<br>Smiled, in a dream, upon its mother's breast;<br>The pensive mother gray Anselmo led;<br>Behind, Lautaro bore his father dead.<br>Beneath the branching palms they slept at night; <br>The small birds waked them ere the morning light.<br>Before their path, in distant view, appeared<br>The mountain-smoke, that its dark column reared<br>O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky,<br>Lifting their icy pinnacles so high.<br>Four days they onward held their eastern way;<br>On the fifth rising morn, before them lay<br>Chillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green,<br>The Warrior's loved and last abode was seen.<br>No smoke went up, a stillness reigned around, <br>Save where the waters fell with soothing sound,<br>Save where the Thenca sang so loud and clear,<br>And the bright humming-bird was spinning near.<br>Yet here all human tumults seemed to cease,<br>And sunshine rested on the spot of peace;<br>The myrtles bloomed as fragrant and as green<br>As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene;<br>And in his ear the falling waters' spray<br>Seemed swelling with the sounds of yesterday.<br>Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, <br>There shall my father's bones in peace be laid.<br>Beneath the cedar's shade they dug the ground;<br>The small and sad communion gathered round.<br>Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel,<br>And broke the spear, and cried: Farewell, farewell!<br>Lautaro hid his face, and sighed Adieu!<br>As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw.<br>The little child that to its mother clung,<br>Stretched out its arm, then on her garment hung,<br>With sidelong looks, half-shrinking, half-amazed, <br>And dropped its flowers, unconscious, as it gazed.<br>And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclined,<br>The honoured relics, dust to dust, consigned<br>With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee,<br>'Eternam pacem dona, Domine.'<br>Then rising up he closed the holy book;<br>And lifting in the beam his lighted look,<br>(The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast),<br>Here, too, he cried, my bones in peace shall rest!<br>Few years remain to me, and never more <br>Shall I behold, O Spain! thy distant shore!<br>Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave<br>O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave.<br>Oh, may it (when the sons of future days<br>Shall hear our tale and on the hillock gaze),<br>Oh, may it teach, that charity should bind,<br>Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind!<br>The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear<br>Thy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaughtering spear.<br>Yet we condemn not him who bravely stood, <br>To seal his country's freedom with his blood;<br>And if, in after-times, a ruthless band<br>Of fell invaders sweep my native land,<br>May she, by Chili's stern example led,<br>Hurl back his thunder on the assailant's head;<br>Sustained by Freedom, strike the avenging blow,<br>And learn one virtue from her ancient foe!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Lisle+Bowles">William Lisle Bowles</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538648" data-title="The Missionary - Canto Eighth de William Lisle Bowles" data-description="The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shed One ray of glory on the patriot-dead. Round the dark stone, the victor-chiefs behold! Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold! There stands the brave Caupolican, the pride Of Chili, young La..."></div> </div> </div>

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