<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538655" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Missionary - Canto Third</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come,--for the sun yet hangs above the bay,--<br>And whilst our time may brook a brief delay<br>With other thoughts, and, haply with a tear,<br>An old man's tale of sorrow thou shalt hear.<br>I wished not to reveal it;--thoughts that dwell<br>Deep in the lonely bosom's inmost cell<br>Unnoticed, and unknown, too painful wake,<br>And, like a tempest, the dark spirit shake,<br>When, starting from our slumberous apathy,<br>We gaze upon the scenes of days gone by. <br>Yet, if a moment's irritating flush,<br>Darkens thy cheek, as thoughts conflicting rush,<br>When I disclose my hidden griefs, the tale<br>May more than wisdom or reproof prevail.<br>Oh, may it teach thee, till all trials cease,<br>To hold thy course, though sorrowing, yet in peace;<br>Still looking up to Him, the soul's best stay,<br>Who Faith and Hope shall crown, when worlds are swept away!<br>Where fair Seville's Morisco turrets gleam<br>On Guadilquiver's gently-stealing stream; <br>Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide,<br>Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side,<br>My youth was passed. Oh, days for ever gone!<br>How touched with Heaven's own light your mornings shone<br>Even now, when lonely and forlorn I bend,<br>My weary journey hastening to its end,<br>A drooping exile on a distant shore,<br>I mourn the hours of youth that are no more.<br>The tender thought amid my prayers has part,<br>And steals, at times, from Heaven my aged heart. <br>Forgive the cause, O God!--forgive the tear,<br>That flows, even now, o'er Leonora's bier;<br>For, 'midst the innocent and lovely, none<br>More beautiful than Leonora shone.<br>As by her widowed mother's side she knelt,<br>A sad and sacred sympathy I felt.<br>At Easter-tide, when the high mass was sung,<br>And, fuming high, the silver censer swung;<br>When rich-hued windows, from the arches' height,<br>Poured o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light; <br>From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear,<br>When 'Adoremus' swelled upon the ear.<br>(Such as to Heaven thy rapt attention drew<br>First in the Christian churches of Peru),<br>She seemed, methought, some spirit of the sky,<br>Descending to that holy harmony.<br>But wherefore tell, when life and hope were new,<br>How by degrees the soul's first passion grew!<br>I loved her, and I won her virgin heart;<br>But fortune whispered, we a while must part. <br>The minster tolled the middle hour of night,<br>When, waked to agony and wild affright,<br>I heard those words, words of appalling dread--<br>'The Holy Inquisition!'--from the bed<br>I started; snatched my dagger, and my cloak--<br>Who dare accuse me!--none, in answer, spoke.<br>The demons seized, in silence, on their prey,<br>And tore me from my dreams of bliss away.<br>How frightful was their silence, and their shade,<br>In torch-light, as their victim they conveyed, <br>By dark-inscribed, and massy-windowed walls,<br>Through the dim twilight of terrific halls;<br>(For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stain<br>Of pure religion, and the rights of Spain<br>Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold blast,<br>And echoed to the foot-fall as we passed!<br>They left me, faint and breathless with affright,<br>In a cold cell, to solitude and night;<br>Oh! think, what horror through the heart must thrill<br>When the last bolt was barred, and all at once was still! <br>Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom,<br>Sadder than darkness, wrapped the living tomb.<br>Some bread and water, nature to sustain,<br>Duly was brought when eve returned again;<br>And thus I knew, hoping it were the last,<br>Another day of lingering life was passed.<br>Five years immured in that deep den of night,<br>I never saw the sweet sun's blessed light.<br>Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was barred,<br>And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarred, <br>Methought I heard, as clanged the iron door,<br>A dull and hollow echo from the floor;<br>I stamped; the vault, and winding caves around,<br>Returned a long and melancholy sound.<br>With patient toil I raised a massy stone,<br>And looked into a depth of shade unknown;<br>The murky twilight of the lurid place<br>Helped me, at length, a secret way to trace:<br>I entered; step by step explored the road,<br>In darkness, from my desolate abode; <br>Till, winding through long passages of night,<br>I saw, at distance, a dim streak of light:--<br>It was the sun--the bright, the blessed beam<br>Of day! I knelt--I wept;--the glittering stream<br>Rolled on beneath me, as I left the cave,<br>Concealed in woods above the winding wave.<br>I rested on a verdant bank a while,<br>I saw around the summer landscape smile;<br>I gained a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave,<br>Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve. <br>Remembering still affection's fondest hours,<br>I turned my footsteps to the city towers;<br>In pilgrim's dress, I traced the streets unknown:<br>No light in Leonora's lattice shone.<br>The morning came; the busy tumult swells;<br>Knolling to church, I heard the minster bells;<br>Involuntary to that scene I strayed,<br>Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid.<br>I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand,<br>And yield, half-shrinking, her reluctant hand; <br>She turned her head; she saw my hollow eyes,<br>And knew me, wasted, wan, in my disguise;<br>She shrieked, and fell;--breathless, I left the fane<br>In agony--nor saw her form again;<br>And from that day her voice, her look were given,<br>Her name, her memory, to the winds of heaven.<br>Far off I bent my melancholy way,<br>Heart-sick and faint, and, in this gown of gray,<br>From every human eye my sorrows hid,<br>Unknown, amidst the tumult of Madrid. <br>Grief in my heart, despair upon my look,<br>With no companion save my beads and book,<br>My morsel with Affliction's sons to share,<br>To tend the sick and poor, my only care,<br>Forgotten, thus I lived; till day by day<br>Had worn nigh thirteen years of grief away.<br>One winter's night, when I had closed my cell,<br>And bid the labours of the day farewell,<br>An aged crone approached, with panting breath,<br>And bade me hasten to the house of death. <br>I came. With moving lips intent to pray,<br>A dying woman on a pallet lay;<br>Her lifted hands were wasted to the bone,<br>And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone;<br>Beside the bed a pious daughter stands<br>Silent, and, weeping, kisses her pale hands.<br>Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head,<br>Forgive, forgive!--they told me he was dead!--<br>But in the sunshine of that dreadful day,<br>That gave me to another's arms away, <br>I saw him, like a ghost, with deadly stare;<br>I saw his wasted eye-balls' ghastly glare;<br>I saw his lips (oh, hide them, God of love!)<br>I saw his livid lips, half-muttering, move,<br>To curse the maid--forgetful of her vow:--<br>Perhaps he lives to curse--to curse me now!<br>He lives to bless! I cried; and, drawing nigh,<br>Held up the crucifix; her heavy eye<br>She raised, and scarce pronounced--Does he yet live?<br>Can he his lost, his dying child forgive? <br>Will God forgive--the Lord who bled--will He?--<br>Ah, no, there is no mercy left for me!<br>Words were but vain, and colours all too faint,<br>That awful moment of despair to paint.<br>She knew me; her exhausted breath, with pain,<br>Drawing, she pressed my hand, and spoke again:<br>By a false guardian's cruel wiles deceived,<br>The tale of fraudful falsehood I believed,<br>And thought thee dead; he gave the stern command,<br>And bade me take the rich Antonio's hand. <br>I knelt, implored, embraced my guardian's knees;<br>Ruthless inquisitor, he held the keys<br>Of the dark torture-house. Trembling for life,<br>Yes, I became a sad, heart-broken wife!<br>Yet curse me not; of every human care<br>Already my full heart has had its share:<br>Abandoned, left in youth to want and woe,<br>Oh! let these tears, that agonising flow,<br>Witness how deep ev'n now my heart is rent!<br>Yet one is lovely--one is innocent! <br>Protect, protect, (and faint in death she smiled)<br>When I am dead, protect my orphan child!<br>The dreadful prison, that so long detained<br>My wasting life, her dying words explained.<br>The wretched priest, who wounded me by stealth,<br>Bartered her love, her innocence for wealth!<br>I laid her bones in earth; the chanted hymn<br>Echoed along the hollow cloister dim;<br>I heard, far off, the bell funereal toll,<br>And sorrowing said: Now peace be with her soul! <br>Far o'er the Western Ocean I conveyed,<br>And Indiana called the orphan maid;<br>Beneath my eye she grew, and, day by day,<br>Seemed, grateful, every kindness to repay.<br>Renouncing Spain, her cruelties and crimes,<br>Amid untutored tribes, in distant climes,<br>'Twas mine to spread the light of truth, or save<br>From stripes and torture the poor Indian slave.<br>I saw thee, young and innocent, alone,<br>Cast on the mercies of a race unknown; <br>I saw, in dark adversity's cold hour,<br>Thy virtues blooming, like a winter's flower;<br>From chains and slavery I redeemed thy youth,<br>Poured on thy mental sight the beams of truth;<br>By thy warm heart and mild demeanour won,<br>Called thee my other child--my age's son.<br>I need not tell the sequel;--not unmoved<br>Poor Indiana heard thy tale, and loved;<br>Some sympathy a kindred fate might claim;<br>Your years, your fortunes, and your friend the same;<br>Both early of a parent's care bereft, <br>Both strangers in a world of sadness left;<br>I marked each slowly-struggling thought; I shed<br>A tear of love paternal on each head;<br>And, while I saw her timid eyes incline,<br>Blessed the affection that had made her thine!<br>Here let the murmurs of despondence cease:<br>There is a God--believe--and part in peace!<br>Rich hues illumed the track of dying day<br>As the great sun sank in the western bay, <br>And only its last light yet lingering shone,<br>Upon the highest palm-tree's feathery cone;<br>When at a distance on the dewy plain,<br>In mingled group appeared an Indian train;<br>Men, women, children, round Anselmo press,<br>Farewell! they cried. He raised his hand to bless,<br>And said: My children, may the God above<br>Still lead you in the paths of peace and love;<br>To-morrow, we must part;--when I am gone,<br>Raise on this spot a cross, and place a stone, <br>That tribes unborn may some memorial have,<br>When I far off am mouldering in the grave,<br>Of that poor messenger, who tidings bore<br>Of Gospel-mercy to your distant shore.<br>The crowd retired; along the twilight gray,<br>The condor kept its solitary way,<br>The fire-flies shone, when to the hermit's cell<br>Who hastens but the minstrel Zarinel!<br>In foreign lands, far from his native home,<br>'Twas his, a gay, romantic youth, to roam, <br>With a light cittern o'er his shoulders slung,<br>Where'er he passed he played, and loved, and sung;<br>And thus accomplished, late had joined the train<br>Of gallant soldiers on the southern plain.<br>Father, he cried, uncertain of the fate<br>That may to-morrow's toilsome march await,<br>For long will be the road, I would confess<br>Some secret thoughts that on my bosom press.<br>They are of one I left, an Indian maid,<br>Whose trusting love my careless heart betrayed. <br>Say, may I speak?<br>Say on, the father cried,<br>Nor be to penitence all hope denied.<br>Then hear, Anselmo! From a very child<br>I loved all fancies marvellous and wild;<br>I turned from truth, to listen to the lore<br>Of many an old and fabling troubadour.<br>Thus, with impassioned heart, and wayward mind,<br>To dreams and shapes of shadowy things resigned,<br>I left my native vales and village home, <br>Wide o'er the world a minstrel boy to roam.<br>I never shall forget the day, the hour,<br>When, all my soul resigned to Fancy's power,<br>First, from the snowy Pyrenees, I cast<br>My labouring vision o'er the landscape vast,<br>And saw beneath my feet long vapours float,<br>Streams, mountains, woods, and ocean's mist remote.<br>There once I met a soldier, poor and old,<br>Who tales of Cortes and Bilboa told,<br>And this new world; he spoke of Indian maids, <br>Rivers like seas, and forests whose deep shades<br>Had never yet been pierced by morning ray,<br>And how the green bird mocked, and talked all day.<br>Imagination thus, in colours new,<br>This distant world presented to my view;<br>Young, and enchanted with the fancied scene,<br>I crossed the toiling seas that roared between,<br>And with ideal images impressed,<br>Stood on these unknown shores a wondering guest.<br>Still to romantic phantasies resigned, <br>I left Callao's crowded port behind,<br>And climbed the mountains which their shadow threw<br>Upon the lessening summits of Peru.<br>Some sheep the armed peasants drove before,<br>That all our food through the wild passes bore,<br>Had wandered in the frost-smoke of the morn,<br>Far from the track; I blew the signal horn--<br>But echo only answered: 'mid the snows,<br>Wildered and lost, I saw the evening close.<br>The sun was setting in the crimson west; <br>In all the earth I had no home of rest;<br>The last sad light upon the ice-hills shone;<br>I seemed forsaken in a world unknown;<br>How did my cold and sinking heart rejoice,<br>When, hark! methought I heard a human voice!<br>It might be some wild Indian's roving troop,<br>Or the dread echo of their distant whoop;<br>Still it was human, and I seemed to find<br>Again some commerce with remote mankind.<br>The voice comes nearer, rising through the shade-- <br>Is it the song of some rude mountain-maid?<br>And now I heard the tread of hastening feet,<br>And, in the western glen, a Llama bleat.<br>I listened--all is still; but hark! again<br>Near and more near is heard the welcome strain;<br>It is a wild maid's carolling, who seeks<br>Her wandering Llama 'midst the snowy peaks:<br>Truant, she cried, thy lurking place is found!<br>With languid touch I waked the cittern's sound,<br>And soon a maid, by the pale light, I saw <br>Gaze breathless with astonishment and awe:<br>What instant terrors to her fancy rose,<br>Ha! is it not the Spirit of the snows!<br>But when she saw me, weary, cold, and weak,<br>Stretch forth my hand (for now I could not speak),<br>She pitied, raised me from the snows, and led<br>My faltering footsteps to her father's shed;<br>The Llama followed with her tinkling bell;<br>The dwelling rose within a craggy dell,<br>O'erhung with icy summits. To be brief, <br>She was the daughter of an aged chief;<br>He, by her gentle voice to pity won,<br>Showed mercy, for himself had lost a son.<br>The father spoke not; by the pine-wood blaze,<br>The daughter stood, and turned a cake of maize;<br>And then, as sudden shone the light, I saw<br>Such features as no artist hand might draw.<br>Her form, her face, her symmetry, her air,<br>Father! thy age must such recital spare:--<br>She saved my life; and kindness, if not love, <br>Might sure in time the coldest bosom move!<br>Mine was not cold; she loved to hear me sing,<br>And sometimes touched with playful hand the string;<br>And when I waked some melancholy strain,<br>She wept, and smiled, and bade me sing again.<br>So many a happy day, in this deep glen,<br>Far from the noise of life, and sounds of men,<br>Was passed! Nay, father, the sad sequel hear:<br>'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year--<br>Ambition called me: true, I knew to part <br>Would break her generous, warm, and trusting heart;<br>True, I had vowed, but now estranged and cold,<br>She saw my look, and shuddered to behold:--<br>She would go with me, leave the lonely glade<br>Where she grew up, but my stern voice forbade;<br>She hid her face and wept: Go then away,<br>(Father, methinks, ev'n now, I hear her say)<br>Go to thy distant land, forget this tear,<br>Forget these rocks, forget I once was dear;<br>Fly to the world, o'er the wide ocean fly, <br>And leave me unremembered here to die!<br>Yet to my father should I all relate,<br>Death, instant death, would be a traitor's fate!<br>Nor fear, nor pity moved my stubborn mind,<br>I left her sorrows and the scene behind;<br>I sought Valdivia on the southern plain,<br>And joined the careless military train;<br>Oh! ere I sleep, thus, lowly on my knee,<br>Father, I absolution crave from thee!<br>Anselmo spoke, with look and voice severe: <br>Yes, thoughtless youth, my absolution hear.<br>First, by deep penitence the wrong atone,<br>Then absolution ask from God alone!<br>Yet stay, and to my warning voice attend,<br>And hear me as a father, and a friend.<br>Let Truth severe be wayward Fancy's guide,<br>Let stern-eyed Conscience o'er each thought preside;<br>The passions, that on noblest natures prey,<br>Oh! cast them, like corroding bonds, away!<br>Disdain to act mean falsehood's coward part, <br>And let religion dignify thine art.<br>If, by thy bed, thou seest at midnight stand<br>Pale Conscience, pointing, with terrific hand,<br>To deeds of darkness done, whilst, like a corse,<br>To shake thy soul, uprises dire Remorse;<br>Fly to God's mercy, fly, ere yet too late--<br>Perhaps one hour marks thy eternal fate;<br>Let the warm tear of deep contrition flow,<br>The heart obdurate melt, like softening snow,<br>The last vain follies of thy youth deplore, <br>Then go, in secret weep, and sin no more!<br>The stars innumerous in their watches shone--<br>Anselmo knelt before the cross alone.<br>Ten thousand glowing orbs their pomp displayed,<br>Whilst, looking up, thus silently he prayed:--<br>Oh! how oppressive to the aching sense,<br>How fearful were this vast magnificence,<br>This prodigality of glory, spread<br>Above a poor and dying emmet's head,<br>That toiled his transient hour upon the shore <br>Of mortal life, and then was seen no more;<br>If man beheld, on his terrific throne,<br>A dark, cold, distant Deity, alone!<br>Felt no relating, no endearing tie,<br>That Hope might upwards raise her glistening eye,<br>And think, with deep unutterable bliss,<br>In yonder radiant realm my kingdom is!<br>More glorious than those orbs that silent roll,<br>Shines Heaven's redeeming mercy on the soul--<br>Oh, pure effulgence of unbounded love! <br>In Thee, I think--I feel--I live--I move;<br>Yet when, O Thou, whose name is Love and Light,<br>When will thy Dayspring on these realms of night<br>Arise! Oh! when shall severed nations raise<br>One hallelujah of triumphant praise,<br>Tibet on Fars, Andes on Atlas call,<br>And 'roll the loud hosannah' round the ball!<br>Soon may Thy kingdom come, that love, and peace,<br>And charity, may bid earth's chidings cease!<br>Meantime, in life or death, through good or ill, <br>Thy poor and feeble servant, I fulfil,<br>As best I may, Thy high and holy will,<br>Till, weary, on the world my eyelids close,<br>And I enjoy my long and last repose!</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=538655" data-title="The Missionary - Canto Third de William Lisle Bowles" data-description="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 wished not to reveal it;--thoughts that dwell Deep in the lonely ..."></div> </div> </div>

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