<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538652" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Missionary - Canto Second</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows,<br>Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,--<br>A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone,<br>Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone;<br>And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke,<br>Thus to the spirits of the fire he spoke:--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye, who tread the hidden deeps,<br>Where the silent earthquake sleeps;<br>Ye, who track the sulphurous tide,<br>Or on hissing vapours ride,-- <br>Spirits, come!<br>From worlds of subterraneous night;<br>From fiery realms of lurid light;<br>From the ore's unfathomed bed;<br>From the lava's whirlpools red,--<br>Spirits, come!<br>On Chili's foes rush with vindictive sway,<br>And sweep them from the light of living day!<br>Heard ye not the ravenous brood,<br>That flap their wings, and scream for blood? <br>On Peru's devoted shore<br>Their murderous beaks are red with gore;<br>Yet here, impatient for new prey,<br>The insatiate vultures track their way.<br>Let them perish! they, whose bands<br>Swept remote and peaceful lands!<br>Let them perish!--on their head,<br>Descend the darkness of the dead!<br>Spirits, now your caves forsake:<br>Hark! ten thousand warriors wake!-- <br>Spirits, their high cause defend!--<br>From your caves ascend! ascend!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As thus the Genius of the Andes spoke,<br>The trembling mountain heaved with darker smoke;<br>Lightnings, and phantom-forms, by fits appeared;<br>His mighty voice far off Osorno heard;<br>The caverned deeps shook through their vast profound,<br>And Chimborazzo's height rolled back the sound.<br>With lifted arm, and towering stature high,<br>And aspect frowning to the middle sky <br>(Its misty form dilated in the wind),<br>The phantom stood,--till, less and less defined,<br>Into thin air it faded from the sight,<br>Lost in the ambient haze of slow-returning light.<br>Its feathery-seeming crown, its giant spear,<br>Its limbs of huge proportion, disappear;<br>And the bare mountains to the dawn disclose<br>The same long line of solitary snows.<br>The morning shines, the military train<br>Streams far and wide along the tented plain; <br>And plaited cuirasses, and helms of steel,<br>Throw back the sunbeams, as the horsemen wheel:<br>Thus, with arms glancing to the eastern light,<br>Pass, in review, proud steeds and cohorts bright;<br>For all the host, by break of morrow's gray,<br>Wind back their march to Penco's northern bay,<br>Valdivia, fearful lest confederate foes,<br>Ambushed and dark, his progress might oppose,<br>Marshals to-day the whole collected force,<br>File and artillery, cuirassier and horse: <br>Himself yet lingers ere he joins the train,<br>That moves, in ordered march, along the plain,<br>While troops, and Indian slaves beneath his eye,<br>The labours of the rising city ply:<br>Wide glows the general toil; the mole extends,<br>The watch-tower o'er the desert surge ascends;<br>And battlements, and rising ramparts, shine<br>Above the ocean's blue and level line.<br>The sun ascended to meridian height,<br>And all the northern bastions shone in light; <br>With hoarse acclaim, the gong and trumpet rung,<br>The Moorish slaves aloft their cymbals swung,<br>When the proud victor, in triumphant state,<br>Rode forth, in arms, through the portcullis' gate.<br>With neck high-arching as he smote the ground,<br>And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound,--<br>With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders spread,<br>And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,--<br>The coal-black steed, in rich caparison<br>Far trailing to the ground, went proudly on. <br>Proudly he tramped, as conscious of his charge,<br>And turned around his eye-balls, bright and large,<br>And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain;<br>And tossed the flakes, indignant, off his mane;<br>And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressed<br>Proudly against the barb his heaving breast.<br>The fate of empires glowing in his thought,<br>Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought.<br>On the left side his poised shield he bore,<br>With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er; <br>Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,<br>Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone;<br>Blue in the wind the escutcheoned mantle flowed,<br>O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode.<br>The barred vizor raised, you might discern<br>His clime-changed countenance, though pale, yet stern,<br>And resolute as death,--whilst in his eye<br>Sat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory.<br>Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride,<br>Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side, <br>In Spanish mantle gracefully arrayed;<br>Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played:<br>His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace,<br>Shaded the noonday sunbeams on his face.<br>Though passed in tears the dayspring of his youth,<br>Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth:<br>He, in Valdivia, owned a nobler friend;<br>Kind to protect, and mighty to defend.<br>So, on he rode; upon his youthful mien<br>A mild but sad intelligence was seen; <br>Courage was on his open brow, yet care<br>Seemed like a wandering shade to linger there;<br>And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright,<br>It beamed with humid, melancholy light<br>When now Valdivia saw the embattled line,<br>Helmets, and swords, and shields, and matchlocks, shine;<br>Now the long phalanx still and steady stand,<br>Fixed every eye, and motionless each hand;<br>Then slowly clustering, into columns wheel,<br>Each with the red-cross banners of Castile; <br>While trumps, and drums, and cymbals, to his ear<br>Made music such as soldiers love to hear;<br>While horsemen checked their steeds, or, bending low<br>With levelled lances, o'er the saddle-bow,<br>Rode gallantly at tilt; and thunders broke,<br>Instant involving van and rear in smoke,<br>Till winds the obscuring volume rolled away,<br>And the red file, stretched out in long array,<br>More radiant moved beneath the beams of day;<br>While ensigns, arms, and crosses, glittered bright,-- <br>Philip! he cried, seest thou the glorious sight?<br>And dost thou deem the tribes of this poor land<br>Can men, and arms, and steeds, like these, withstand?<br>Forgive!--the youth replied, and checked a tear,--<br>The land where my forefathers sleep is dear!--<br>My native land!--this spot of blessed earth,<br>The scene where I, and all I love, had birth!<br>What gratitude fidelity can give<br>Is yours, my lord!--you shielded--bade me live,<br>When, in the circuit of the world so wide, <br>I had but one, one only friend beside.<br>I bowed resigned to fate; I kissed the hand,<br>Red with the best blood of my father's land!<br>But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,<br>Though Cortes' desolating march laid low<br>The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico;<br>With carcases, though proud Pizarro strew<br>The Sun's imperial temple in Peru,<br>Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave,<br>And the last spot they lose will be their grave! <br>A moment's crimson crossed Valdivia's cheek--<br>Then o'er the plain he spurred, nor deigned to speak,<br>Waving the youth, at distance, to retire;<br>None saw the eye that shot terrific fire.<br>As their commander sternly rode along,<br>Troop after troop, halted the martial throng;<br>And all the pennoned trumps a louder blast<br>Blew, as the Southern World's great victor passed.<br>Lautaro turned, scarce heeding, from the view,<br>And from the noise of trumps and drums withdrew; <br>And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell,<br>Seeks the gray Missionary's humble cell.<br>Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken<br>Of public view, and sounds of murmuring men,<br>Of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood,<br>A small and rustic oratory stood;<br>Upon its roof of reeds appeared a cross,<br>The porch within was lined with mantling moss;<br>A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side--<br>One to admonish seemed, and one to guide; <br>This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er;<br>And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more.<br>O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray,<br>The clustering copu weaved its trellis gay;<br>Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove<br>Their aged and fantastic arms above.<br>In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers,<br>A dial counted the departing hours,<br>On which the sweetest light of summer shone,--<br>A rude and brief inscription marked the stone: <br>To count, with passing shade, the hours,<br>I placed the dial 'mid the flowers;<br>That, one by one, came forth, and died,<br>Blooming, and withering, round its side.<br>Mortal, let the sight impart<br>Its pensive moral to thy heart!<br>Just heard to trickle through a covert near,<br>And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,<br>A fount, like rain-drops, filtered through the stone,<br>And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. <br>Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,<br>And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,<br>The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song<br>Heedlessly murmured, all the summer long;<br>And when the winter came, retired to rest,<br>And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.<br>No sounds of a conflicting world were near;<br>The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,<br>That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast,<br>But dying sounds of passions that were past; <br>Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire<br>The lessening echoes of the distant choir.<br>Here, every human sorrow hushed to rest,<br>His pale hands meekly crossed upon his breast,<br>Anselmo sat: the sun, with westering ray,<br>Just touched his temples, and his locks of gray.<br>There was no worldly feeling in his eye;<br>The world to him was 'as a thing gone by.'<br>Now, all his features lit, he raised his look,<br>Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasped the book; <br>And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand,<br>A tame opossum licked his withered hand.<br>That sweetest light of slow-declining day,<br>Which through the trellis poured its slanting ray,<br>Resting a moment on his few gray hairs,<br>Seemed light from heaven sent down to bless his prayers.<br>When the trump echoed to the quiet spot,<br>He thought upon the world, but mourned it not;<br>Enough if his meek wisdom could control,<br>And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul; <br>Enough, if, while these distant scenes he trod,<br>He led one erring Indian to his God.<br>Whence comes my son? with kind complacent look<br>He asked, and closed again the embossed book.<br>I come to thee for peace, the youth replied:<br>Oh, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride,<br>In this sad Christian world! My native land<br>Was happy, ere the soldier, with his band<br>Of fell destroyers, like a vulture, came,<br>And gave its peaceful scenes to blood and flame. <br>When will the turmoil of earth's tempests cease?<br>Father, I come to thee for peace--for peace!<br>Seek peace, the father cried, with God above:<br>In His good time, all will be peace and love.<br>We mourn, indeed, mourn that all sounds of ill,<br>Earth's fairest scenes with one deep murmur fill;<br>That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky,<br>Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery;<br>The course of wide destruction to withstand,<br>We lift our feeble voice--our trembling hand; <br>But still, bowed low, or smitten to the dust,<br>Father of mercy, still in Thee we trust!<br>Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth,<br>In joy or woe, in sickness or in health,<br>Meek Piety thy awful hand surveys,<br>And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise!<br>We know--whatever evils we deplore--<br>Thou hast permitted, and we know no more!<br>Behold, illustrious on the subject plain,<br>Some tow'r-crowned city of imperial Spain! <br>Hark! 'twas the earthquake! clouds of dust alone<br>Ascend from earth, where tower and temple shone!<br>Such is the conqueror's dread path: the grave<br>Yawns for its millions where his banners wave;<br>But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh,<br>With sullen acquiescence gaze and die?<br>Alas, how little of the mighty maze<br>Of Providence our mortal ken surveys!<br>Heaven's awful Lord, pavilioned in the clouds,<br>Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds; <br>And, far beyond the tempest and the night,<br>Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless light.</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=538652" data-title="The Missionary - Canto Second de William Lisle Bowles" data-description="The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows, Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,-- A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone, Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone; And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke, Thus to the spirits o..."></div> </div> </div>

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