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And, 'mid the cedars' darksome boughs, illumes,
With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes.
So smiles the scene;-but can its smiles impart
Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart?
He heeds not now, when, beautifully bright,
The humming-bird is circling in his sight;
Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still,
Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill;
But, gazing on the rocks and mountains wild,
Rock after rock, in glittering masses, pil'd
To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high
Grey smoke, whose column stains the cloudless sky,
He cries, "Oh! if thy spirit yet be fled
To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead,-
In yonder track of purest light above,
Dear, long-lost object of a father's love,
Dost thou abide? or, like a shadow come,
Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home,
And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam
Of evening, light the desert mountain-stream?
Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard,
In the sad notes of that melodious bird,
Which, as we listen with mysterious dread,
Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead?

Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away,
Thine eyes yet view the living light of day;
Sad, in the stranger's land, thou mayst sustain
A weary life of servitude and pain,

With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,

And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream,

Never to hear the summer cocoa wave,
Or weep upon thy father's distant grave."

YE, who have wak'd, and listen'd with a tear, When cries confus'd, and clangours roll'd more near; With murmur'd prayer, when Mercy stood aghast,

As War's black trump peal'd its terrific blast,
And o'er the wither'd earth the armèd giant pass'd.
YE, who his track with terror have pursued,
When some delightful land, all blood-imbued,
He swept; where silent is the champaign wide.
That echo'd to the pipe of yester-tide,

Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong
The last deep echoes of his parting gong;

Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot
Where trail'd the smoke of many a peaceful cot,

Save livid corses that unburied lie,

And conflagrations, reeking to the sky;
Come listen, whilst the causes I relate
That bow'd the warrior to the storms of fate,
And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate.
In other days, when, in his manly pride,
Two children for a father's fondness vied,-
Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield
His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield.
Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade,
Lightsome of heart, as gay of look, they play'd,
Brother and sister: She, along the dew,

Blithe as the squirrel of the forest, flew;

Blue rushes wreath'd her head; her dark brown hair
Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare;

Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made,
That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade.
Light was her form; a clasp of silver brac'd
The azure-dyed ichella round her waist;
Her ancles rung with shells, as, unconfin'd,
She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind.
With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye,-
So, beautiful in youth, she bounded by.

Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland,—
The tame alpaca stood and lick'd her hand;
She brought him gather'd moss, and lov'd to deck
With flow'ry twine his tall and stately neck,

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Whilst he with silent gratitude replies,
And bends to her caress his large blue eyes.

These children danc'd together in the shade,
Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade;

Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee,
The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree;
Or through the forest's wildest solitude,
From glen to glen the marmozet pursued;
And thought the light of parting day too short,
That call'd them, ling'ring, from their daily sport.

In that fair season of awak'ning life,

When dawning youth and childhood are at strife;
When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands
Tip-toe, with glist'ning eye and outspread hands;
With airy look, and form and footsteps light,
And glossy locks, and features berry-bright,
And eye like the young eaglet's to the ray
Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away;
A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung,
A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung,
With slender lance, and feathers blue and red,
That like the heron's crest wav'd on his head,—
Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy,
LAUTARO was the loveliest Indian boy:
Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow,
Or track'd the jaguar on the morning snow;
Startled the condor on the craggy height;
Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight,
Lessening in ether to a speck of white.

But when th' impassioned Chieftain spoke of war,
Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar,--
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main,
And the proud banners of insulting Spain,-
Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke,
And his red gods, that, wrapp'd in rolling smoke,
Roar'd from the guns,-the Boy, with still-drawn breath,
Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death;
Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried,


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As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast-
Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide
That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the grey battlement
Of yon forsaken tower that TIME has rent;
The lifted oar far off with transient gleam
Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep,

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