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O'er-spent; oh! when on wakeful Memory's breast Shall stillness steal like this, and kindred rest? Then some sweet harmonies might soothe her sleep, Harmonies, on the wandering minstrel's lyre, Like airs of parting day, that, as they breathe, expire.
THE Indian, sad and still,
Pac'd on from wood to vale, from vale to hill;
Her infant, tir'd, and hush'd awhile to rest,
Smil'd, in a dream, upon its mother's breast;
The pensive mother grey Anselmo led:
Behind, Lautaro bore his Father dead.
Beneath the branching palms they slept at night;
The small birds wak'd them ere the morning light.
Before their path, in distant view, appear'd
The mountain-smoke, that its dark column rear'd
O'er ANDES' summits, in the pale blue sky,
Lifting their icy pinnacles so high.
Four days they onward led their eastern way:
On the fifth rising morn before them lay
CHILLAN'S lone glen, amid whose windings green
The Warrior's lov'd and last abode was seen.
No smoke went up,-stillness was all around,
Save where the waters fell with soothing sound,
Save where the Thenca sung so loud and clear,
And the bright humming-bird was spinning near.
Yet here all human tumults seem'd to cease,
And sunshine rested on the spot of peace;
The myrtles bloom'd as fragrant and as green
As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene,-
And in his ear the falling water's spray
Seem'd swelling with the sounds of yesterday.-
"Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, There shall my father's bones in peace be laid.”
Beneath the cedars' shade they dug the ground; The small and sad communion gather'd round. Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel,
And broke the spear, and cried, "Farewell!—farewell!"
Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd "Adieu!"
As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw.
The little child, that to its mother clung,
With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung,
Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound,
And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground.
The Alpaca, grown old, and almost wild,
Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child,
Came from the mountains, and, with earnest gaze,
Seem'd as rememb'ring those departed days,
When his tall neck he bent, with aspect bland,
And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand!
And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclin'd,
The Warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd
With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee,
"ETERNAM PACEM DONA, DOMINE."
Then, rising up, he clos'd the holy book,
And lifting in the beam his lighted look,
(The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,)— "Here, too," he cried, "my bones in peace shall rest! Few years remain to me, and never more Shall I behold, O Spain, thy distant shore!
Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave
O'er the poor CHRISTIAN'S and the INDIAN'S grave.
Then may it (when the sons of future days
Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze)—
Then may it teach, that charity should bind,
Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind!
The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear
Thy voice, O CHRIST! and drop the slaught'ring spear."
'Tis dawn-the distant Andes' rocky spires,
One after one, have caught the orient fires.
Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight,
His wings are touch'd with momentary light.
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads,
A boundless ocean of grey vapour spreads,
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below,
Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising slow,
Till all the living landscape is display'd
In various pomp of colour, light, and shade;
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain,
Less'ning in sunshine to the southern main.
The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew;
The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew;
And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride,
The tall flamingo, by the river's side,
Stalks, in his richest plumage bright array'd,
With snowy neck superb, and legs of length'ning shade.
MARK yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd.
The mould'ring gateway shows the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new,
And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew.
See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd,
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest-
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.
Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest,
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we chas'd the slipper by the sound;
And turn'd the blind-fold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring;
And Fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing.