The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 29

With lifted arm, and towering stature high, And aspect frowning to the middle sky 40 (Its misty form dilated in the wind), The phantom stood,--till, less and less defined, Into thin air it faded from the sight, Lost in the ambient haze of slow-returning light.

Its feathery-seeming crown, its giant spear, Its limbs of huge proportion, disappear; And the bare mountains to the dawn disclose The same long line of solitary snows.

The morning s.h.i.+nes, the military train Streams far and wide along the tented plain; 50 And plaited cuira.s.ses, and helms of steel, Throw back the sunbeams, as the hors.e.m.e.n wheel: Thus, with arms glancing to the eastern light, Pa.s.s, in review, proud steeds and cohorts bright; For all the host, by break of morrow's gray, Wind back their march to Penco's northern bay, Valdivia, fearful lest confederate foes, Ambushed and dark, his progress might oppose, Marshals to-day the whole collected force, File and artillery, cuira.s.sier and horse: 60 Himself yet lingers ere he joins the train, That moves, in ordered march, along the plain, While troops, and Indian slaves beneath his eye, The labours of the rising city ply:[208]

Wide glows the general toil; the mole extends, The watch-tower o'er the desert surge ascends; And battlements, and rising ramparts, s.h.i.+ne Above the ocean's blue and level line.

The sun ascended to meridian height, And all the northern bastions shone in light; 70 With hoa.r.s.e acclaim, the gong and trumpet rung, The Moorish slaves aloft their cymbals swung, When the proud victor, in triumphant state, Rode forth, in arms, through the portcullis' gate.

With neck high-arching as he smote the ground, And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound,-- With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders spread, And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,-- The coal-black steed, in rich caparison Far trailing to the ground, went proudly on. 80 Proudly he tramped, as conscious of his charge, And turned around his eye-b.a.l.l.s, bright and large, And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain; And tossed the flakes, indignant, off his mane; And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressed Proudly against the barb his heaving breast.

The fate of empires glowing in his thought, Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought.

On the left side his poised s.h.i.+eld he bore, With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er; 90 Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone, Castile's imperial crest ill.u.s.trious shone; Blue in the wind the escutcheoned mantle flowed, O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode.

The barred vizor raised, you might discern His clime-changed countenance,[209] though pale, yet stern, And resolute as death,--whilst in his eye Sat proud a.s.surance, Fame, and Victory.

Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride, Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side, 100 In Spanish mantle gracefully arrayed; Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played: His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace, Shaded the noonday sunbeams on his face.

Though pa.s.sed in tears the dayspring of his youth, Valdivia loved his grat.i.tude and truth: He, in Valdivia, owned a n.o.bler friend; Kind to protect, and mighty to defend.

So, on he rode; upon his youthful mien A mild but sad intelligence was seen; 110 Courage was on his open brow, yet care Seemed like a wandering shade to linger there; And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright, It beamed with humid, melancholy light When now Valdivia saw the embattled line, Helmets, and swords, and s.h.i.+elds, and matchlocks, s.h.i.+ne; Now the long phalanx still and steady stand, Fixed every eye, and motionless each hand; Then slowly cl.u.s.tering, into columns wheel, Each with the red-cross banners of Castile; 120 While trumps, and drums, and cymbals, to his ear Made music such as soldiers love to hear; While hors.e.m.e.n checked their steeds, or, bending low With levelled lances, o'er the saddle-bow, Rode gallantly at tilt; and thunders broke, Instant involving van and rear in smoke, Till winds the obscuring volume rolled away, And the red file, stretched out in long array, More radiant moved beneath the beams of day; While ensigns, arms, and crosses, glittered bright,-- 130 Philip![210] he cried, seest thou the glorious sight?

And dost thou deem the tribes of this poor land Can men, and arms, and steeds, like these, withstand?

Forgive!--the youth replied, and checked a tear,-- The land where my forefathers sleep is dear!-- My native land!--this spot of blessed earth, The scene where I, and all I love, had birth!

What grat.i.tude fidelity can give Is yours, my lord!--you s.h.i.+elded--bade me live, When, in the circuit of the world so wide, 140 I had but one, one only friend beside.

I bowed resigned to fate; I kissed the hand, Red with the best blood of my father's land![211]

But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know, Though Cortes' desolating march laid low The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico; With carcases, though proud Pizarro strew The Sun's imperial temple in Peru, Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave, And the last spot they lose will be their grave! 150 A moment's crimson crossed Valdivia's cheek-- Then o'er the plain he spurred, nor deigned to speak, Waving the youth, at distance, to retire; None saw the eye that shot terrific fire.

As their commander sternly rode along, Troop after troop, halted the martial throng; And all the pennoned trumps a louder blast Blew, as the Southern World's great victor pa.s.sed.

Lautaro turned, scarce heeding, from the view, And from the noise of trumps and drums withdrew; 160 And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell, Seeks the gray Missionary's humble cell.

Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken Of public view, and sounds of murmuring men, Of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood, A small and rustic oratory stood; Upon its roof of reeds appeared a cross, The porch within was lined with mantling moss; A crucifix and hour-gla.s.s, on each side-- One to admonish seemed, and one to guide; 170 This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er; And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more.

O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray, The cl.u.s.tering copu weaved its trellis gay; Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove Their aged and fantastic arms above.

In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers, A dial counted the departing hours, On which the sweetest light of summer shone,-- A rude and brief inscription marked the stone: 180 To count, with pa.s.sing shade, the hours, I placed the dial 'mid the flowers; That, one by one, came forth, and died, Blooming, and withering, round its side.

Mortal, let the sight impart Its pensive moral to thy heart!

Just heard to trickle through a covert near, And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, A fount, like rain-drops, filtered through the stone, And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. 190 Intent his fairy pastime to pursue, And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue, The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song Heedlessly murmured, all the summer long; And when the winter came, retired to rest, And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.

No sounds of a conflicting world were near; The noise of ocean faintly met the ear, That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast, But dying sounds of pa.s.sions that were past; 200 Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire The lessening echoes of the distant choir.

Here, every human sorrow hushed to rest, His pale hands meekly crossed upon his breast, Anselmo sat: the sun, with westering ray, Just touched his temples, and his locks of gray.

There was no worldly feeling in his eye; The world to him was "as a thing gone by."

Now, all his features lit, he raised his look, Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasped the book; 210 And whilst the hour-gla.s.s shed its silent sand, A tame opossum[212] licked his withered hand.

That sweetest light of slow-declining day, Which through the trellis poured its slanting ray, Resting a moment on his few gray hairs, Seemed light from heaven sent down to bless his prayers.

When the trump echoed to the quiet spot, He thought upon the world, but mourned it not; Enough if his meek wisdom could control, And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul; 220 Enough, if, while these distant scenes he trod, He led one erring Indian to his G.o.d.

Whence comes my son? with kind complacent look He asked, and closed again the embossed book.

I come to thee for peace, the youth replied: Oh, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride, In this sad Christian world! My native land Was happy, ere the soldier, with his band Of fell destroyers, like a vulture, came, And gave its peaceful scenes to blood and flame. 230 When will the turmoil of earth's tempests cease?

Father, I come to thee for peace--for peace!

Seek peace, the father cried, with G.o.d above: In His good time, all will be peace and love.

We mourn, indeed, mourn that all sounds of ill, Earth's fairest scenes with one deep murmur fill; That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky, Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery; The course of wide destruction to withstand, We lift our feeble voice--our trembling hand; 240 But still, bowed low, or smitten to the dust, Father of mercy, still in Thee we trust!

Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth, In joy or woe, in sickness or in health, Meek Piety thy awful hand surveys, And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise!

We know--whatever evils we deplore-- Thou hast permitted, and we know no more!

Behold, ill.u.s.trious on the subject plain, Some tow'r-crowned city of imperial Spain! 250 Hark! 'twas the earthquake![213] clouds of dust alone Ascend from earth, where tower and temple shone!

Such is the conqueror's dread path: the grave Yawns for its millions where his banners wave; But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh, With sullen acquiescence gaze and die?

Alas, how little of the mighty maze Of Providence our mortal ken surveys!

Heaven's awful Lord, pavilioned in the clouds, Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds; 260 And, far beyond the tempest and the night, Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless light.

[208] The city Baldivia.

[209] He had served in the wars of Italy.

[210] Lautaro had been baptized by that name.

[211] Valdivia had before been in Chili.

[212] A small and beautiful species, which is domesticated.

[213] No part of the world is so subject to earthquakes as Peru.

CANTO THIRD.

ARGUMENT.

_Evening and Night of the same Day._

Anselmo's story--Converted Indians--Confession of the Wandering Minstrel--Night-Scene.

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 bosom's inmost cell Unnoticed, and unknown, too painful wake, And, like a tempest, the dark spirit shake, When, starting from our slumberous apathy, We gaze upon the scenes of days gone by. 10 Yet, if a moment's irritating flush, Darkens thy cheek,[214] as thoughts conflicting rush, When I disclose my hidden griefs, the tale May more than wisdom or reproof prevail.

Oh, may it teach thee, till all trials cease, To hold thy course, though sorrowing, yet in peace; Still looking up to Him, the soul's best stay, Who Faith and Hope shall crown, when worlds are swept away!

Where fair Seville's Morisco[215] turrets gleam On Guadilquiver's gently-stealing stream; 20 Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide, Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side, My youth was pa.s.sed. Oh, days for ever gone!

How touched with Heaven's own light your mornings shone Even now, when lonely and forlorn I bend, My weary journey hastening to its end, A drooping exile on a distant sh.o.r.e, I mourn the hours of youth that are no more.

The tender thought amid my prayers has part, And steals, at times, from Heaven my aged heart. 30 Forgive the cause, O G.o.d!--forgive the tear, That flows, even now, o'er Leonora's bier; For, 'midst the innocent and lovely, none More beautiful than Leonora shone.

As by her widowed mother's side she knelt, A sad and sacred sympathy I felt.

At Easter-tide, when the high ma.s.s was sung, And, fuming high, the silver censer swung; When rich-hued windows, from the arches' height, Poured o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light; 40 From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear, When "Adoremus" swelled upon the ear.

(Such as to Heaven thy rapt attention drew First in the Christian churches of Peru), She seemed, methought, some spirit of the sky, Descending to that holy harmony.

But wherefore tell, when life and hope were new, How by degrees the soul's first pa.s.sion grew!

I loved her, and I won her virgin heart; But fortune whispered, we a while must part. 50 The minster tolled the middle hour of night, When, waked to agony and wild affright, I heard those words, words of appalling dread-- "The Holy Inquisition!"--from the bed I started; s.n.a.t.c.hed my dagger, and my cloak-- Who dare accuse me!--none, in answer, spoke.

The demons seized, in silence, on their prey, And tore me from my dreams of bliss away.

How frightful was their silence, and their shade, In torch-light, as their victim they conveyed, 60 By dark-inscribed, and ma.s.sy-windowed walls, Through the dim twilight of terrific halls; (For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stain Of pure religion, and the rights of Spain;) Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold blast, And echoed to the foot-fall as we pa.s.sed!

They left me, faint and breathless with affright, In a cold cell, to solitude and night; Oh! think, what horror through the heart must thrill When the last bolt was barred, and all at once was still! 70 Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom, Sadder than darkness, wrapped the living tomb.

Some bread and water, nature to sustain, Duly was brought when eve returned again; And thus I knew, hoping it were the last, Another day of lingering life was pa.s.sed.

Five years immured in that deep den of night, I never saw the sweet sun's blessed light.

Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was barred, And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarred, 80 Methought I heard, as clanged the iron door, A dull and hollow echo from the floor; I stamped; the vault, and winding caves around, Returned a long and melancholy sound.

With patient toil I raised a ma.s.sy stone, And looked into a depth of shade unknown; The murky twilight of the lurid place Helped me, at length, a secret way to trace: I entered; step by step explored the road, In darkness, from my desolate abode; 90 Till, winding through long pa.s.sages of night, I saw, at distance, a dim streak of light:-- It was the sun--the bright, the blessed beam Of day! I knelt--I wept;--the glittering stream Rolled on beneath me, as I left the cave, Concealed in woods above the winding wave.

I rested on a verdant bank a while, I saw around the summer landscape smile; I gained a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave, Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve. 100 Remembering still affection's fondest hours, I turned my footsteps to the city towers; In pilgrim's dress, I traced the streets unknown: No light in Leonora's lattice shone.

The morning came; the busy tumult swells; Knolling to church, I heard the minster bells; Involuntary to that scene I strayed, Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid.

I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand, And yield, half-shrinking, her reluctant hand; 110 She turned her head; she saw my hollow eyes, And knew me, wasted, wan, in my disguise; She shrieked, and fell;--breathless, I left the fane In agony--nor saw her form again; And from that day her voice, her look were given, Her name, her memory, to the winds of heaven.

Far off I bent my melancholy way, Heart-sick and faint, and, in this gown of gray, From every human eye my sorrows hid, Unknown, amidst the tumult of Madrid. 120 Grief in my heart, despair upon my look, With no companion save my beads and book, My morsel with Affliction's sons to share, To tend the sick and poor, my only care, Forgotten, thus I lived; till day by day Had worn nigh thirteen years of grief away.

One winter's night, when I had closed my cell, And bid the labours of the day farewell, An aged crone approached, with panting breath, And bade me hasten to the house of death. 130 I came. With moving lips intent to pray, A dying woman on a pallet lay; Her lifted hands were wasted to the bone, And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone; Beside the bed a pious daughter stands Silent, and, weeping, kisses her pale hands.

Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head, Forgive, forgive!--they told me he was dead!-- But in the suns.h.i.+ne of that dreadful day, That gave me to another's arms away, 140 I saw him, like a ghost, with deadly stare; I saw his wasted eye-b.a.l.l.s' ghastly glare; I saw his lips (oh, hide them, G.o.d of love!) I saw his livid lips, half-muttering, move, To curse the maid--forgetful of her vow:-- Perhaps he lives to curse--to curse me now!

He lives to bless! I cried; and, drawing nigh, Held up the crucifix; her heavy eye She raised, and scarce p.r.o.nounced--Does he yet live?

Can he his lost, his dying child forgive? 150 Will G.o.d forgive--the Lord who bled--will He?-- Ah, no, there is no mercy left for me!

Words were but vain, and colours all too faint, That awful moment of despair to paint.

She knew me; her exhausted breath, with pain, Drawing, she pressed my hand, and spoke again: By a false guardian's cruel wiles deceived, The tale of fraudful falsehood I believed, And thought thee dead; he gave the stern command, And bade me take the rich Antonio's hand. 160 I knelt, implored, embraced my guardian's knees; Ruthless inquisitor, he held the keys Of the dark torture-house.[216] Trembling for life, Yes, I became a sad, heart-broken wife!

Yet curse me not; of every human care Already my full heart has had its share: Abandoned, left in youth to want and woe, Oh! let these tears, that agonising flow, Witness how deep ev'n now my heart is rent!

Yet one is lovely--one is innocent! 170 Protect, protect, (and faint in death she smiled) When I am dead, protect my orphan child!

The dreadful prison, that so long detained My wasting life, her dying words explained.

The wretched priest, who wounded me by stealth, Bartered her love, her innocence for wealth!

I laid her bones in earth; the chanted hymn Echoed along the hollow cloister dim; I heard, far off, the bell funereal toll, And sorrowing said: Now peace be with her soul! 180 Far o'er the Western Ocean I conveyed, And Indiana called the orphan maid; Beneath my eye she grew, and, day by day, Seemed, grateful, every kindness to repay.

Renouncing Spain, her cruelties and crimes, Amid untutored tribes, in distant climes, 'Twas mine to spread the light of truth, or save From stripes and torture the poor Indian slave.

I saw thee, young and innocent, alone, Cast on the mercies of a race unknown; 190 I saw, in dark adversity's cold hour, Thy virtues blooming, like a winter's flower; From chains and slavery I redeemed thy youth, Poured on thy mental sight the beams of truth; By thy warm heart and mild demeanour won, Called thee my other child--my age's son.

I need not tell the sequel;--not unmoved Poor Indiana heard thy tale, and loved; Some sympathy a kindred fate might claim; Your years, your fortunes, and your friend the same; Both early of a parent's care bereft, 201 Both strangers in a world of sadness left; I marked each slowly-struggling thought; I shed A tear of love paternal on each head; And, while I saw her timid eyes incline, Blessed the affection that had made her thine!

Here let the murmurs of despondence cease: There is a G.o.d--believe--and part in peace!