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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538654" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Missionary - Canto Sixth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The second moon had now begun to wane,<br>Since bold Valdivia left the southern plain;<br>Goal of his labours, Penco's port and bay,<br>Far gleaming to the summer sunset lay.<br>The wayworn veteran, who had slowly passed<br>Through trackless woods, or o'er savannahs vast,<br>With hope impatient sees the city spires<br>Gild the horizon, like ascending fires.<br>Now well-known sounds salute him, as more near<br>The citadel and battlements appear; <br>The approaching trumpets ring at intervals;<br>The trumpet answers from the rampart walls,<br>Where many a maiden casts an anxious eye,<br>Some long-lost object of her love to espy,<br>Or watches, as the evening light illumes<br>The points of lances, or the passing plumes.<br>The grating drawbridge and the portal-arch,<br>Now echo to the long battalion's march;<br>Whilst every eye some friend remembered greets,<br>Amid the gazing crowd that throngs the streets. <br>As bending o'er his mule, amid the throng,<br>Pensive and pale, Anselmo rode along,<br>How sacred, 'mid the noise of arms, appeared<br>His venerable mien and snowy beard!<br>Whilst every heart a silent prayer bestowed,<br>Slow to the convent's massy gate he rode:<br>Around, the brothers, gratulating, stand,<br>And ask for tidings of the southern land.<br>As from the turret tolls the vesper bell,<br>He seeks, a weary man, his evening cell, <br>No sounds of social cheer, no beds of state,<br>Nor gorgeous canopies his coming wait;<br>But o'er a little bread, with folded hands,<br>Thanking the God that gave, a while he stands;<br>Then, while all thoughts of earthly sorrow cease,<br>Upon his pallet lays him down in peace.<br>The scene how different, where the castle-hall<br>Rings to the loud triumphant festival:<br>A hundred torches blaze, and flame aloof,<br>Long quivering shadows streak the vaulted roof,-- <br>Whilst, seen far off, the illumined windows throw<br>A splendour on the shore and seas below.<br>Amid his captains, in imperial state,<br>Beneath a crimson canopy, elate,<br>Valdivia sits--and, striking loud the strings,<br>The wandering ministrel of Valentia sings.<br>For Chili conquered, fill the bowl again!<br>For Chili conquered, raise the heroic strain!<br>Lautaro left the hall of jubilee<br>Unmarked, and wandered by the moonlit sea: <br>He heard far off, in dissonant acclaim,<br>The song, the shout, and his loved country's name.<br>As swelled at times the trump's insulting sound,<br>He raised his eyes impatient from the ground;<br>Then smote his breast indignantly, and cried,<br>Chili! my country; would that I had died<br>On the sad night of that eventful day<br>When on the ground my murdered father lay!<br>I should not then, dejected and alone,<br>Have thought I heard his injured spirit groan. <br>Ha! was it not his form--his face--his hair?<br>Hold, soldier! stern, inhuman soldier, spare!<br>Ha! is it not his blood? Avenge, he cries,<br>Avenge, my son, these wounds! He faints--he dies!<br>Leave me, dread shadow! Can I then forget<br>My father's look--his voice? He beckons yet!<br>Now on that glimmering rock I see him stand:<br>Avenge! he cries, and waves his dim-seen hand!<br>Thus mused the youth, distempered and forlorn,<br>When, hark! the sound as of a distant horn <br>Swells o'er the surge! he turned his look around,<br>And still, with many a pause, he heard the sound:<br>It came from yonder rocks; and, list! what strain<br>Breaks on the silence of the sleeping main?<br>I heard the song of gladness;<br>It seemed but yesterday,<br>But it turned my thoughts to madness,<br>So soon it died away:<br>I sound my sea-shell; but in vain I try<br>To bring back that enchanting harmony! <br>Hark! heard ye not the surges say,<br>Oh! heartless maid, what canst thou do?<br>O'er the moon-gleaming ocean, I'll wander away,<br>And paddle to Spain in my light canoe!<br>The youth drew near, by the strange accents led,<br>Where in a cave, wild sea-weeds round her head,<br>And holding a large sea-conch in her hand,<br>He saw, with wildering air, an Indian maiden stand. <br>A tattered poncho o'er her shoulders hung;<br>On either side her long black locks were flung;<br>And now by the moon's glimmer, he espies<br>Her high cheek-bones, and bright but hollow eyes.<br>Lautaro spoke: Oh! say what cruel wrong<br>Weighs on thy heart, maiden, what bodes thy song?<br>She answered not, but blew her shell again;<br>Then thus renewed the desultory strain:<br>Yes, yes, we must forget! the world is wide;<br>My music now shall be the dashing tide: <br>In the calm of the deep I will frolic and swim--<br>With the breath of the South o'er the sea-blossom skim.<br>If ever, stranger, on thy way,<br>Sounds, more than earthly sweet, thy soul should move,<br>It is the youth! Oh! do not say--<br>That poor Olola died for love.<br>Lautaro stretched his hand; she said, Adieu!<br>And o'er the glimmering rocks like lightning flew.<br>He followed, and still heard at distance swell<br>The lessening echoes of that mournful shell. <br>It ceased at once; and now he heard no more<br>Than the sea's murmur dying on the shore.<br>Olola!--ha! his sister had that name!<br>Oh, horrid fancies! shake not thus his frame!<br>All night he wandered by the desert main,<br>To catch the melancholy sounds again.<br>No torches blaze in Penco's castled hall<br>That echoed to the midnight festival.<br>The weary soldiers by their toils oppressed,<br>Had now retired to silence and to rest. <br>The minstrel only, who the song had sung<br>Of noble Cid, as o'er the strings he hung,<br>Upon the instrument had fall'n asleep,<br>Weary, and now was hushed in slumbers deep.<br>Tracing the scenes long past, in busy dreams<br>Again he wanders by his native streams;<br>Or sits, his evening saraband to sing<br>To the clear Garonne's gentle murmuring.<br>Cold o'er the fleckered clouds the morning broke<br>Aslant ere from his slumbers he awoke; <br>Still as he sat, nor yet had left the place,<br>The first dim light fell on his pallid face.<br>He wakes--he gazes round--the dawning day<br>Comes from the deep, in garb of cloudy gray.<br>The woods with crow of early turkeys ring,<br>The glancing birds beneath the castle sing,<br>And the sole sun his rising orb displays,<br>Radiant and reddening, through the scattered haze.<br>To recreate the languid sense a while,<br>When earth and ocean wore their sweetest smile, <br>He wandered to the beach: the early air<br>Blew soft, and lifted, as it blew, his hair;<br>Flushed was his cheek; his faded eye, more bright,<br>Shone with a faint but animated light,<br>While the soft morning ray seemed to bestow<br>On his tired mind a transient kindred glow.<br>As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand,<br>He mused and wandered on the winding strand,<br>At distance tossed upon the tumbling tide,<br>A dark and floating substance he espied. <br>He stood, and where the eddying surges beat,<br>An Indian corse was rolled beneath his feet:<br>The hollow wave retired with sullen sound;<br>The face of that sad corse was to the ground;<br>It seemed a female, by the slender form;<br>He touched the hand--it was no longer warm;<br>He turned its face--O God! that eye, though dim,<br>Seemed with its deadly glare as fixed on him!<br>How sunk his shuddering sense, how changed his hue,<br>When poor Olola in that corse he knew! <br>Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanced;<br>His keen eye, like a startled eagle's glanced:<br>'Tis she!--he knew her by a mark impressed<br>From earliest infancy beneath her breast.<br>Oh, my poor sister! when all hopes were past<br>Of meeting, do we meet--thus meet--at last!<br>Then full on Zarinel, as one amazed,<br>With rising wrath and stern suspicion gazed;<br>For Zarinel still knelt upon the sand,<br>And to his forehead pressed the dead maid's hand. <br>Speak! whence art thou?<br>Pale Zarinel, his head<br>Upraising answered,<br>Peace is with the dead!<br>Him dost thou seek who injured thine and thee?<br>Here--strike the fell assassin--I am he!<br>Die! he exclaimed, and with convulsive start<br>Instant had plunged the dagger in his heart,<br>When the meek father, with his holy book,<br>And placid aspect, met his frenzied look. <br>He trembled--struck his brow--and, turning round,<br>Flung the uplifted dagger to the ground.<br>Then murmured: Father, Heaven has heard thy prayer--<br>But oh! the sister of my soul lies there!<br>The Christian's God has triumphed! father, heap<br>Some earth upon her bones, whilst I go weep!<br>Anselmo with calm brow approached the place,<br>And hastened with his staff his faltering pace:<br>Ho! child of guilt and wretchedness, he cried,<br>Speak!--Holy father, the sad youth replied, <br>God bade the seas the accusing victim roll<br>Dead at my feet, to teach my shuddering soul<br>Its guilt: Oh! father, holy father, pray<br>That heaven may take the deep, dire curse away!<br>Oh! yet, Anselmo cried, live and repent,<br>For not in vain was this dread warning sent;<br>The deep reproaches of thy soul I spare,<br>Go! seek Heaven's peace by penitence and prayer.<br>The youth arose, yet trembling from the shock,<br>And severed from the dead maid's hair a lock; <br>This to his heart with trembling hand he pressed,<br>And dried the salt-sea moisture on his breast.<br>They laid her limbs within the sea-beat grave,<br>And prayed: Her soul, O blessed Mary, save!</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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<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=538654" data-title="The Missionary - Canto Sixth de William Lisle Bowles" data-description="The second moon had now begun to wane,
Since bold Valdivia left the southern plain;
Goal of his labours, Penco's port and bay,
Far gleaming to the summer sunset lay.
The wayworn veteran, who had slowly passed
Through trackless woods, or o'er savan..."></div>
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