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Her infant raised his hands, with glistening eye, Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel, To reach a large and radiant butterfly,
| And broke the spear, and cried, “ Farewell fareThat futter'd near his face; with looks of love,
well !-" And truth and tenderness, Lautaro strove
Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd “ Adieu !" To calm her wounded heart; the holy sire, As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw, His eyes faint lighted with a transient fire, The little child, that to its mother clung, Hung o'er them, and to Heaven his prayer addrest, With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung, While, with uplifted hands, he wept and blest. Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound, An Indian came, with feathers crown'd,
And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground. And knelt before Lautaro on the ground.
The alpaca, now grown old, and almost wild, “ What tidings, Indian ?"
Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child,
Came from the mountains, and with earnest gaze, INDIAN
Seem'd as remembering those departed days, “When I led thy sire, When his tall neck be bent, with aspect bland, Whom late thou saw'st upon his shield expire,
And lick’d, in silence, the caressing hand! Son of our ulmen, didst thou mark no trace,
And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclined, In these sad looks, of a remember'd face?
The warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd Dost thou remember Izdabel? Look, here!
With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee, It is thy father's hatchet and his spear.”
“ Eternam pacem dona, Domine.” “ Friend of my infant days, how I rejoice," Then rising up, he closed the holy book; Lautaro cried, “ once more to hear that voice!
And lifting in the beam his lighted look, Life like a dream, since last we met, has fed (The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,) 0! my beloved sister, thou art dead !"
“ Here, too,” he cried, “ my bones in peace shall
Few years remain to me, and never more “I come to guide thee, through untrodden ways,
Shall I behold, 0 Spain! thy distant shore ! To the lone valley, where thy father's days
Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave
O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave. Were pass'd; where every cave, and every tree, From morn to morn, remember'd him of thee !"
| Then may it--(when the sons of future days Lautaro cried, “Here, faithful Indian, stay;
Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze,) I have a last sad duty yet to pay,
Then may it teach, that charity should bind, A little while we part :- Thou here remain :".
Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind ! He spake, and pass'd like lightning o'er the plain.
The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear
| Thy voice, () Christ! and drop the slaughtering * Ah, cease, Castilian maid! thy vain alarms! See where he comes—his father in his arms!”
spear. * Now lead,” he cried. The Indian, sad and still,
* Yet, we condenın not him who bravely stood, Paced on from wood to vale, from vale to hill;
| To seal his country's freedom with his blood; Her infant tired, and hush'd a while to rest,
And if, in after-times, a ruthless band
Of fell in vaders sweep my native land,
May she, by Chili's stern example led,
Hurl back his thunder on th' assailant's head;
Sustain'd by freedom, strike th' avenging blow, Beneath the branching palms they slept at night;
| And learn one virtue from her ancient foe !" The small birds waked them ere the morning
light. Before their path, in distant view, appear'd
EPILOGUE. The mountain smoke, that its dark column rear'd These notes I sung when strove indignant Spain O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky,
To rend th' abhorr'd invader's iron chain ! Lifting their icy pinnacles so bigb.
With beating heart, we listen’d from afar Four days they onward held their eastern way: To each faint rumour of the various war ; On the fifth rising morn before them lay
Now trembled, lest her fainting sons should yield; Chillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green Now follow'd thee to the ensanguined field; The warrior's loved and last abode was seen. Thee, most heroic Wellington, and cried, No smoke went up -stillness was all around, When Salamanca's plain in shouts replied, Save where the waters fell with soothing sound, “All is not lost! The scatter'd eagles fly-Save where the thenca sung so loud and clear, All is not lost! England and victory!” And the bright humming-bird was spinning near. Hark! the noise hurtles in the frozen north! Yet here all human tumults seem'd to cease, France pours again her banner'd legions forth, And sunshine rested on the spot of peace ;
With trump, and plumed horsemen! Whence that The myrtles bloom'd as fragrant and as green
cry? As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene,
Lo! ancient Moscow naming to the sky! And in his ear the falling water's spray
Imperial fugitive! back to the gates Seem'd swelling with the sounds of yesterday. Of Paris ! while despair the tale relates,
“ Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, Of dire discomfiture, and shame, and flight, There shall my father's bones in peace be laid.” And the dead, bleaching on the snows of night
Beneath the cedar's shade they dug the ground; Shout! for the heart ennobling transport fills ! The small and sad communion gather'd round. Conquest's red tanner floats along the hills
That gird the guilty city! Shout amain,
| Mountains of inmost Afric, where no ray For Europe,-England,-for deliver'd Spain ! Hath ever pierced, from Beth’lem's star of day, Shout, for a world avenged !
Savages, fierce with clubs, and shaggy hair,
The toil is o'er, Who woods and thickets with the lion share, Enough wide earth hath reek'd with human gore Hark! the glad echoes of the cliffs repeat, At Waterloo, amidst the countless dead,
“ How beauteous, in the desert, are the feet The war-fiend gave his last loud shriek, and fled. Of them, who bear, o'er wastes and trackless sands, Thou stood'st in front, my country! on that day Tidings of mercy to remotest lands !" Of horrors; thou more awful didst display
Patiently plodding, the Moravian mild Thy long-tried valour, when from rank to rank Sees stealing culture creep along the wild Death hurrying strode, and that vast army shrank And twice ten thousand leagues o'er ocean's roar, Soldiers of England, the dread day is won! And far from friends whom he may see no more, Soldiers of England, on, brave comrades, on! Constructs the warmer but, or delves the sod; Pursue them! Yes, ye did pursue, till night Cheerful, as still beneath the eye of God. Hid the foul rout of their disastrous flight.
Where, muttering spoil, or death, the Caffre prowl'd, Halt on this hill-your wasted strength repair, Or moonlight wolves, a gaunt assembly, howľa, And close your labours, to the well known air, No sounds are heard along the champaign wide, Which e'en your children sing, "O Lord, arise !" But one small chapel bell, at eventide, Peals the long line, " Scatter his enemies !" Whilst notes unwonted linger in the air, Back to the scenes of home, the evening fire, The songs of Sion, or the voice of prayer! Or May-day sunshine on the village spire,
And thou, the light of God's eternal word, The blissful thought by that loved air is led, Record, and Spirit of the living Lord, Here heard amidst the dying and the dead.* Hid and unknown from half the world, at length,
'Twas when affliction with cold shadow hung Rise like the sun, and go forth in thy strength! On half the wasted world, these notes I sung. Already towering o'er old Ganges stream, Thus pass'd the storm, and o’er a night of woes 4 The dark pagoda brightens in thy beam: More beautiful the morn of freedom rose.
And the dim eagles, on the topmost height Now with a sigh, I close, alas ! the strain,
Of Jaggernaut, shine as in morning light! And mourn thy fate, abused, insulted Spain ! Beyond the snows of savage Labrador When, for stern Valour, baring his bold breast, The ray pervades pale Greenland's wintry shoreI see wan Bigotry, in monkish vest,t
The demon spell, that bound the slumbering sense,
As the gray rock of ice, a shapeless heap,
Let Atlas shout with Andes, and proclaim
Till angel voices in the sound shall blend,
And one hosanna from all worlds ascend!
SONG* OF THE CID.+
The Cid is sitting, in martial state,
Within Valentia's wall; Are faded, like the landscapes of the sky.
And chiefs of high renown attend Yet may the moral still remain impress'd
The knightly festival. To warm the patriot, or the pious breast.
Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop Where'er aggression marches, may the brave
Of gallant men, were there; Rush unappall’d their father's land to save!
And there came Donna Ximena, Where sounds of glad salvation are gone out
His wife and daughters fair.
When the foot-page bent on his knee,
What tidings brought he then ??
“Morocco's king is on the seas, Isles, o'er the waste of desert ocean strown,
With fifty thousand men.” Rivers, that sweep through shades and sands unknown,
“ Now God be praised !" the Cid he cried,
* Let every hold be stored :
Let fly the holy gonfalon, * Alluding to a most interesting fact in the history of
And give 'St. James,' the word.” that eventful struggle, closed by the national air of God save the King.
† Alluding to the unjust treatment of those brave men * Referred to in p. 505. who saved the life and the throne of a bigoted and un-' + Compare with Southey's admirable translation of the grateful prince.
Cid. The Inquisition.
Banner consecrated by the pope.
And ambush with three hundred men,
Ere the first cock does crow : “ And when against the Moorish men
The Cid leads up his powers,-
Will fall on them with ours."
He said, it should be so;
Ere the first cock did crow.
At cock-crow all appear
And holy mass to hear :
To hear them and to save;
Great absolution gave. “Fear not,” he cried, “ when thousands bleed,
When horse on man shall roll! Whoever dies, I take his sips,
And God shall save his soul.
And now, upon the turret high,
Was heard the signal drum;
And cried, “ They come! they come !"
And by God's mother swore,
Or bathe their base in gore.
Nay, hang not thus your head;
How soldiers earn their bread.
And crush them in your sight;" And all the Christians shouted loud,
“May God defend the right !”
So resolute was he,
That overlooks the sea.
Came sailing o'er the brine;
The Moorish crescents shine.
As heart-struck with dismay;
They turn’d their head away.
The sun was shining bright,
“ This is a glorious sight!"
These fearful ladies stood,
* All this is for your good.
If God assist the right,
Shall sound for your delight.”
Now “ Allah! Allah !" sung; Each Christian knight his broad-sword drew,
And loud the trumpets rung. Then up, the noble Cid bespoke
“Let each brave warrior go, And arm himself, in dusk of morn,
Ere chanticleer shall crow;
On Santiago call, -
Shall there absolve you all.
In this eventful hour :
They are a mighty power.”
“We will deceive the foe,
“ A boon! a boon !” the bishop cried,
“ I have sung mass to-day; Let me be foremost in the fight,
And lead the bloody fray." Now Alvar Fanez and his men
Had gain’d the thicket's shade; And, with hush'd breath and anxious eye,
Had there their ambush laid.
Forth issued from the gate;
On Baviéca sate.
And march'd o'er dale and down,
Betwixt them and the town.
The battle in array.
Which Pero bore that day
“Allah !” began their cry:
As they would rend the sky.
• The common phraseology of the old metrical nallad
| That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
And yon forsaken tower* that time has rent:
Soothed by the scene, thus on tired nature's breast
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest; While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep, Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre, Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire !
AT BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.
Now Alvar Fanez, and his men,
Who crouch'd in thickets low,
Rush'd on the wavering foe.
All waving in the wind,
A greater host behind.
Haste-spur along the plain!
Never to rise again.”
Came forth in armour bright,
To tell the tale at night.
And thus was heard to say,
My noble horse! to-day.”
Let none my Cid condemn;
And the surge went over them.
All day shall sit and weep;
Shine on the northern deep.
Shall pace the sounding shore,
Whom she shall see no more.
Upon thy billowy bed;
O'er thousands of the dead.
Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep! For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,
Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat,
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
TO THE RIVER WENSBECK.
WHILE slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,
Wensbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
* Tynemouth priory and castle, Northumberland. - The
remains of this monastery are sitnated on a high rocky SONNETS WRITTEN CHIEFLY DU- point, on the north side of the entrance into the river
Tyne, about a mile and a half below North-Shields. The RING VARIOUS JOURNEYS.*
exalted rock on which the monastery stood rendered it
visible at sea a long way off, in every direction, whence IN TWO PARTS.
it presented itself as if exhorting the seamen in danger to
make their vows, and promise masses and presents to the Cantantes, licet usque, minus via lædet, eamus.
Virgin Mary and St. Oswin for their deliverance.
† This very ancient castle, with its extensive domains,
Virgil Still let us soothe our travel with a strain.
heretofore the property of the family of Forster, whose Warton.
heiress married Lord Crewe, bishop of Durham, is appropriated by the will of that pious prelate to many benero.
lent purposes; particularly that of ministering instant PART 1.
relief to such shipwrecked mariners as may happen to be
cast on this dangerous coast, for whose preservation, and SONNET
that of their vessels, every possible assistance is contrived, WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND, AFTER and is at all times ready. The whole estate is vested in A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE,
the hands of trustees, one of whom, Dr. Sharp, archdeacon
of Northumberland, with an active zeal well suited to the As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
nature of the humane institution, makes this castle his Much musing on the track of terror past,
chief residence, attending with unwearied diligence to When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
the proper application of the charity.
The Wensbeck is a romantic and sequestered river Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
in Northumberland. On its banks is situated our Lady's
Chapel. “The remains of this small chapel, or oratorys * His favourite horse.
(says Grose.) stand in a shady solitude, on the north bank + These sonnets were dedicaied "To the Rev. Newton of the Wensbeck, about three-quarters of a mile west of Ogle, D D., Dean of Winchester.-Donhead, Wilts, Nov, Bothall, in a spot admirably calculated for meditation. 1797 »
| It was probably built by one of the Barons Ogle." This
To bend o'er some enchanted spot; removed
ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND. O'er the forsaken tomb of one she loved ! Fair scenes ! ye lend a pleasure, long unknown, CEYSDALE, as thy romantic vales I leave, To him who passes weary on his way
And bid farewell to each retiring hill, The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, 1 Where fond attention seems to linger still, Shall thank you ;--and whene'er of pleasures flown | Tracing the broad bright landscape ; much I grieve His heart some long-lost image would renew, | 'That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more Delightful haunts ! he will remember you.
I may return your varied views to mark,
Of rocks amid the sunshine towering dark,
Of rivers winding wild,* and mountains hoar, SONNET.
Or castle gleaming on the distant steep
For this a look back on thy hills I cast,
And many a soften'd image of the past
Pleased I combine, and bid remembrance keep, O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet
To soothe me with fair views and fancies rude, O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile
When I pursue my path in solitude.
TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON. Delightful stream ! though now along thy shore,
ITChin,t when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the selfsame tints still seem'd to rest, Yet here with pensive peace could I abide,t
Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain ? Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
Is it—that many a summer's day has past To muse upon thy banks at eventide.
Since, in life's morn, I carolld on thy side ?
Is it-that oft, since then, my heart has sigh’d,
As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast ? SONNET.
Is it--that those, who circled on thy shore, EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend, The lonely battlement, and farthest hill
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, And wood, I think of those that have no friend, | As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure
Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind | Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft,
Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, Thy brow that hope's last traces long have left, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery!
| Vain fortune's feeble sons with terror fly; Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the I love thy solitary haunts to seek :while
For pity, reckless of her own distress; Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! And patience, in the pall of wretchedness,
That turns to the bleak storin her faded cheek; river is thus beautifully characterized by Akenside, who And piety, that never told her wrong; was horn near it:
And meek content, whose griess no more rebel ; " ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook
And genius, warbling sweet her saddest song;
And sorrow, listening to a lost friend's knell,
Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng;
With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell.
* There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of in silence by some powerful hand unseen."
the river from Stirling Castle, the course of which is seen Written on passing the Tweed at Kelso, where the for many miles, making a thousand turnings. scenery is much more picturesque than it is near Berwick, † The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to the more general route of travellers into Scotland. It was Southampton, the banks of which have been the scene of a beautiful and still autumnal eve when we passed. many a holiday sport. The lines were composed on an
simple and affecting pastoral strains evening in a journey from Oxford to Southam for which Scotland has seen so long celebrated. I need time I had seen the Itchin since I left school. not mention Lochaber, the braes of Ballendine, Tweed- We remember them as friends from whom we were side etc.
sorry ever to have parted. --Smith's Theory.