Indian

Oh! did he love thee, then? Let death betide,Yes, from this cavern I will be thy guide.Nay, do not shrink! from Caracalla's bay,Ev'n now, the Spaniards wind their march this way.As late in yester eve I paced the shoreI heard their signal-guns at distance roar.Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,--The Christian's God,--through passes dark and wildHe will direct thy way! Come, follow me;Oh, yet be loved, be happy, and be free!But I, an outcast on my native plain,The poor Olola ne'er shall smile again!So guiding from the cave, when all was still,And pointing to the furthest glimmering hill,The Indian led, till, on Itata's side,The Spanish camp and night-fires they descried:Then on the stranger's neck that wild maid fell,And said, Thy own gods prosper thee, farewell!The owl is hooting overhead; below,On dusky wing, the vampire-bat sails slow.Ongolmo stood before the cave of night,Where the great wizard sat:--a lurid lightWas on his face; twelve giant shadows frowned,His mute and dreadful ministers, around.Each eye-ball, as in life, was seen to roll,Each lip to move; but not a living soulWas there, save bold Ongolmo and the seer.The warrior half advanced his lifted spear,Then spoke: Dread master of the mighty lore!Say, shall the Spaniards welter in their gore?Let these dark ministers the answer tell,Replied the master of the mighty spell.Then every giant-shadow, as it stood,Lifted on high a skull that dropped with blood.Yet more, the impatient warrior cried; yet more!Say, shall I live, and drink the tyrant's gore?'Twas silence. Speak! he cried: none made reply.At once strange thunder shook the distant sky,And all was o'er; the grisly shapes are flown,And the grim warrior stands in the wild woods alone.St Pedro's church had rung its midnight chimes,And the gray friars were chanting at their primes,When winds, as of a rushing hurricane,Shook the tall windows of the towered fane;--Sounds more than earthly with the storm arose,And a dire troop are passed to Andes' snows,Where mighty spirits in mysterious ringTheir dread prophetic incantations sing,Round Chillan's crater-smoke, whose lurid lightStreams high against the hollow cope of night.Thy genius, Andes, towering o'er the rest,Rose vast, and thus a phantom-shape addressed:Who comes so swift amid the storm?Ha! I know thy bloodless form,I know thee, angel, who thou art,By the hissing of thy dart!'Tis Death, the king! the rocks around,Hark! echo back the fearful sound;--'Tis Death, the king! away, away!The famished vulture scents its prey.Spectre, hence! we cannot die--Thy withering weapons we defy;Dire and potent as thou art!Then spoke the phantom of the uplifted dart:Spirits who in darkness dwell,I heard far off your secret spell!Enough, on yonder fatal shore,My fiends have drank your children's gore;Lo! I come, and doom to fateThe murderers, and the foe you hate!Of all who shook their hostile spears,And marked their way through blood and tears,(Now sleeping still on yonder plain)But one--one only shall remain,Ere thrice the morn shall shine again.Then sang the mighty spirits. Thee, they sing,Hail to thee, Death, all hail to Death, the king!The penguin flaps her wings in gore,Devoted Spain, along the shore.Whence that shriek? with ghastly eyes,Thy victor-chief abandoned lies!Victor of the southern world,Whose crimson banners were unfurledO'er the silence of the waves,--O'er a land of bleeding slaves!Victor, where is now thy boast;Thine iron steeds, thy mailed host?Hark! hark! even now I hear his cries!--Spirits, hence!--he dies! he dies!