Warrior

Three hundred brandished spears shone to the sky:We perish, or we leave our country free;Father, our blood for Chili and for thee!The mountain-chief essayed his club to wield,And shook the dust indignant from the shield.Then spoke:--

O Thou! that with thy lingering lightDost warm the world, till all is hushed in night;I look upon thy parting beams, O sun!And say, ev'n thus my course is almost run.When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave,And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave,Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire,Below the deep, to unknown worlds of fire!Yet though thou sinkest, awful, in the main,The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the trainOf stars, that shine with soft and silent light,Making so beautiful the brow of night.Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed,The light of after-fame around shall spread;The sons of distant Ocean, when they seeThe grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree,And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave,Shall pause and say, There sleep in dust the brave!All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled!Stern Guecubu, angel of the dead,Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire;Whose dwelling is beneath the central fireOf yonder burning mountain; who hast passedO'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blastScattered my summer-leaves that clustered round,And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground;Angel of dire despair, oh! come not nigh,Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie;But thou, O mild and gentle spirit! stand,Angel of hope and peace, at my right hand,(When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guideMy pathless voyage o'er the unknown tide,To scenes of endless joy, to that fair isle,Where bowers of bliss, and soft savannahs smile:Where my forefathers oft the fight renew,And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue;Where, ceased the struggles of all human pain,I may behold thee--thee, my son, again!He spoke, and whilst at evening's glimmering closeThe distant mist, like the gray ocean, rose,With patriot sorrows swelling at his breast,He sank upon a jagguar's hide to rest.'Twas night: remote on Caracalla's bay,Valdivia's army, hushed in slumber, lay.Around the limits of the silent camp,Alone was heard the steed's patroling trampFrom line to line, whilst the fixed sentinelProclaimed the watch of midnight--All is well!Valdivia dreamed of millions yet untold,Villrica's gems, and El Dorado's gold!What different feelings, by the scene impressed,Rose in sad tumult o'er Lautaro's breast!On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept,Thoughtful he turned his waking eyes, and wept,And whilst the thronging forms of memory start,Thus holds communion with his lonely heart:Land of my fathers, still I tread your shore,And mourn the shade of hours that are no more;Whilst night-airs, like remembered voices, sweep,And murmur from the undulating deep.Was it thy voice, my father! Thou art dead,The green rush waves on thy forsaken bed.Was it thy voice, my sister! Gentle maid,Thou too, perhaps, in the dark cave art laid;Perhaps, even now, thy spirit sees me standA homeless stranger in my native land;Perhaps, even now, along the moonlight sea,It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me!Land of my fathers! yet, oh yet forgive,That with thy deadly enemies I live:The tenderest ties (it boots not to relate)Have bound me to their service, and their fate;Yet, whether on Peru's war-wasted plain,Or visiting these sacred shores again,Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be,Land of my fathers, it shall beat for thee!

The chrysomela is a beautiful insect of which the young women ofChili make necklaces.

The way in which the warriors are summoned, is something like the"running the cross" in Scotland, which is so beautifully described byWalter Scott. The scouts on this occasion bear an arrow bound with redfillets.