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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538651" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Missionary - Canto Fourth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Far in the centre of the deepest wood,<br>The assembled fathers of their country stood.<br>'Twas midnight now; the pine-wood fire burned red,<br>And to the leaves a shadowy glimmer spread;<br>The struggling smoke, or flame with fitful glance,<br>Obscured, or showed, some dreadful countenance;<br>And every warrior, as his club he reared,<br>With larger shadow, indistinct, appeared;<br>While more terrific, his wild locks and mien,<br>And fierce eye, through the quivering smoke, was seen. <br>In sea-wolf's skin, here Mariantu stood;<br>Gnashed his white teeth, impatient, and cried, blood!<br>His lofty brow, with crimson feathers bound,<br>Here, brooding death, the huge Ongolmo frowned;<br>And, like a giant of no earthly race,<br>To his broad shoulders heaved his ponderous mace.<br>With lifted hatchet, as in act to fell,<br>Here stood the young and ardent Teucapel.<br>Like a lone cypress, stately in decay,<br>When time has worn its summer boughs away, <br>And hung its trunk with moss and lichens sere,<br>The Mountain-warrior rested on his spear.<br>And thus, and at this hour, a hundred chiefs,<br>Chosen avengers of their country's griefs;<br>Chiefs of the scattered tribes that roam the plain,<br>That sweeps from Andes to the western main,<br>Their country-gods, around the coiling smoke,<br>With sacrifice, and silent prayers, invoke.<br>For all, at first, were silent as the dead;<br>The pine was heard to whisper o'er their head, <br>So stood the stern assembly; but apart,<br>Wrapped in the spirit of his fearful art,<br>Alone, to hollow sounds of hideous hum,<br>The wizard-seer struck his prophetic drum.<br>Silent they stood, and watched with anxious eyes,<br>What phantom-shape might from the ground arise;<br>No voices came, no spectre-form appeared;<br>A hollow sound, but not of winds, was heard<br>Among the leaves, and distant thunder low,<br>Which seemed like moans of an expiring foe. <br>His crimson feathers quivering in the smoke,<br>Then, with loud voice, first Mariantu spoke:<br>Hail we the omen! Spirits of the slain,<br>I hear your voices! Mourn, devoted Spain!<br>Pale-visaged tyrants! still, along our coasts,<br>Shall we despairing mark your iron hosts!<br>Spirits of our brave fathers, curse the race<br>Who thus your name, your memory disgrace!<br>No; though yon mountain's everlasting snows<br>In vain Almagro's toilsome march oppose; <br>Though Atacama's long and wasteful plain<br>Be heaped with blackening carcases in vain;<br>Though still fresh hosts those snowy summits scale,<br>And scare the Llamas with their glittering mail;<br>Though sullen castles lour along our shore;<br>Though our polluted soil be drenched with gore;<br>Insolent tyrants! we, prepared to die,<br>Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy!<br>He spoke: the warriors stamped upon the ground,<br>And tore the feathers that their foreheads bound. <br>Insolent tyrants! burst the general cry,<br>We, met for vengeance--we, prepared to die,<br>Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy!<br>Then Teucapel, with warm emotion, cried:<br>This hatchet never yet in blood was dyed;<br>May it be buried deep within my heart,<br>If living from the conflict I depart,<br>Till loud, from shore to shore, is heard one cry,<br>See! in their gore where the last tyrants lie!<br>The Mountain-warrior: Oh, that I could raise <br>The hatchet too, as in my better days,<br>When victor on Maypocha's banks I stood;<br>And while the indignant river rolled in blood,<br>And our swift arrows hissed like rushing rain,<br>I cleft Almagro's iron helm in twain!<br>My strength is well-nigh gone! years marked with woe<br>Have o'er me passed, and bowed my spirit low!<br>Alas, I have no son! Beloved boy,<br>Thy father's last, best hope, his pride, his joy!<br>Oh, hadst thou lived, sole object of my prayers, <br>To guard my waning life, and these gray hairs,<br>How bravely hadst thou now, in manhood's pride,<br>Swung the uplifted war-club by my side!<br>But the Great Spirit willed not! Thou art gone;<br>And, weary, on this earth I walk alone;<br>Thankful if I may yield my latest breath,<br>And bless my country in the pangs of death!<br>With words deliberate, and uplifted hand,<br>Mild to persuade, yet dauntless to command,<br>Raising his hatchet high, Caupolican <br>Surveyed the assembled chiefs, and thus began:<br>Friends, fathers, brothers, dear and sacred names!<br>Your stern resolve each ardent look proclaims;<br>On then to conquest; let one hope inspire,<br>One spirit animate, one vengeance fire!<br>Who doubts the glorious issue! To our foes<br>A tenfold strength and spirit we oppose.<br>In them no god protects his mortal sons,<br>Or speaks, in thunder, from their roaring guns.<br>Nor come they children of the radiant sky; <br>But, like the wounded snake, to writhe and die.<br>Then, rush resistless on their prostrate bands,<br>Snatch the red lightning from their feeble hands,<br>And swear to the great spirits, hovering near,<br>Who now this awful invocation hear,<br>That we shall never see our household hearth,<br>Till, like the dust, we sweep them from the earth.<br>But vain our strength, that idly, in the fight,<br>Tumultuous wastes its ineffectual might,<br>Unless to one the hatchet we confide; <br>Let one our numbers, one our counsels guide.<br>And, lo! for all that in this world is dear,<br>I raise this hatchet, raise it high, and swear,<br>Never again to lay it down, till we,<br>And all who love this injured land, are free!<br>At once the loud acclaim tumultuous ran:<br>Our spears, our life-blood, for Caupolican!<br>With thee, for all that in this world is dear,<br>We lift our hatchets, lift them high, and swear,<br>Never again to lay them down, till we, <br>And all who love this injured land, are free!<br>Then thus the chosen chief: Bring forth the slave,<br>And let the death-dance recreate the brave.<br>Two warriors led a Spanish captive, bound<br>With thongs; his eyes were fixed upon the ground.<br>Dark cypresses the mournful spot inclose:<br>High in the midst an ancient mound arose,<br>Marked on each side with monumental stones,<br>And white beneath with skulls and scattered bones.<br>Four poniards, on the mound, encircling stood, <br>With points erect, dark with forgotten blood.<br>Forthwith, with louder voice, the chief commands:<br>Bring forth the lots, unbind the captive's hands;<br>Then north, towards his country, turn his face,<br>And dig beneath his feet a narrow space.<br>Caupolican uplifts his axe, and cries:<br>Gods, of our land be yours this sacrifice!--<br>Now, listen, warriors!--and forthwith commands<br>To place the billets in the captive's hands--<br>Soldier, cast in the lot! <br>With looks aghast,<br>The captive in the trench a billet cast.<br>Soldier, declare, who leads the arms of Spain,<br>Where Santiago frowns upon the plain?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">CAPTIVE.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Villagra!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">WA RRIOR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Earth upon the billet heap;<br>So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!<br>The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim,<br>Accursed be his nation and his name! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">WARRIOR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Captive, declare who leads the Spanish bands,<br>Where the proud fortress shades Coquimbo's sands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">CAPTIVE.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ocampo!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">WARR IOR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Earth upon the billet heap;<br>So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!<br>The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim,<br>Accursed be his nation and his name!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">WARRIOR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cast in the lot.<br>Again, with looks aghast,<br>The captive in the trench a billet cast. <br>Pronounce his name who here pollutes the plain,<br>The leader of the mailed hosts of Spain!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">CAPTIVE.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Valdivia!<br>At that name a sudden cry<br>Burst forth, and every lance was lifted high.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">WARRIOR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Valdivia!<br>Earth upon the billet heap;<br>So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!<br>The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim,<br>Accursed be his nation and his name! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now loud yells, and whoops of death resound;<br>The shuddering captive ghastly gazed around,<br>When the huge war-club smote him to the ground.<br>Again deep stillness hushed the listening crowd,<br>While the prophetic wizard sang aloud.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SONG TO THE GOD OF WAR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By thy habitation dread,<br>In the valley of the dead,<br>Where no sun, nor day, nor night,<br>Breaks the red and dusky light;<br>By the grisly troops, that ride, <br>Of slaughtered Spaniards, at thy side,--<br>Slaughtered by the Indian spear,<br>Mighty Epananum, hear!<br>Hark, the battle! Hark, the din!<br>Now the deeds of Death begin!<br>The Spaniards come, in clouds! above,<br>I hear their hoarse artillery move!<br>Spirits of our fathers slain,<br>Haste, pursue the dogs of Spain!<br>The noise was in the northern sky! <br>Haste, pursue! They fly--they fly!<br>Now from the cavern's secret cell,<br>Where the direst phantoms dwell,<br>See they rush, and, riding high,<br>Break the moonlight as they fly;<br>And, on the shadowed plain beneath,<br>Shoot, unseen, the shafts of Death!<br>O'er the devoted Spanish camp,<br>Like a vapour, dark and damp,<br>May they hover, till the plain <br>Is hid beneath the countless slain;<br>And none but silent women tread<br>From corse to corse, to seek the dead!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The wavering fire flashed with expiring light,<br>When shrill and hollow, through the cope of night,<br>A distant shout was heard; at intervals,<br>Increasing on the listening ear it falls.<br>It ceased; when, bursting from the thickest wood,<br>With lifted axe, two gloomy warriors stood;<br>Wan in the midst, with dark and streaming hair, <br>Blown by the winds upon her bosom bare,<br>A woman, faint from terror's wild alarms,<br>And folding a white infant in her arms,<br>Appeared. Each warrior stooped his lance to gaze<br>On her pale looks, seen ghastlier through the blaze.<br>Save! she exclaimed, with harrowed aspect wild;<br>Oh, save my innocent, my helpless child!<br>Then fainting fell, as from death's instant stroke;<br>Caupolican, with stern inquiry, spoke:<br>Whence come, to interrupt our awful rite, <br>At this dread hour, the warriors of the night?<br>From ocean.<br>Who is she who fainting lies,<br>And now scarce lifts her supplicating eyes?<br>The Spanish ship went down; the seamen bore,<br>In a small boat, this woman to the shore:<br>They fell beneath our hatchets,--and again,<br>We gave them back to the insulted main.<br>The child and woman--of a race we hate--<br>Warriors, 'tis yours, here to decide their fate. <br>Vengeance! aloud fierce Mariantu cried:<br>Let vengeance on the race be satisfied!<br>Let none of hated Spanish blood remain,<br>Woman or child, to violate our plain!<br>Amid that dark and bloody scene, the child<br>Stretched to the mountain-chief his hands and smiled.<br>A starting tear of pity dimmed the eye<br>Of the old warrior, though he knew not why.<br>Oh, think upon your little ones! he cried,<br>Nor be compassion to the weak denied. <br>Caupolican then fixed his aspect mild<br>On the white woman and her shrinking child,<br>Then firmly spoke:--<br>White woman, we were free,<br>When first thy brethren of the distant sea<br>Came to our shores! White woman, theirs the guilt!<br>Theirs, if the blood of innocence be spilt!<br>Yet blood we seek not, though our arms oppose<br>The hate of foreign and remorseless foes;<br>Thou camest here a captive, so abide, <br>Till the Great Spirit shall our cause decide.<br>He spoke: the warriors of the night obey;<br>And, ere the earliest streak of dawning day,<br>They lead her from the scene of blood away.</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>
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The assembled fathers of their country stood.
'Twas midnight now; the pine-wood fire burned red,
And to the leaves a shadowy glimmer spread;
The struggling smoke, or flame with fitful glance,
Obscured, or sho..."></div>
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