SONG OF THE ARAUCANS DURING A
THUNDER STORM.
"Respecting storms, the people of Chili are of opinion that the departed souls are returning from their abode beyond the sea to assist their relations and friends.. Accordingly, when it thunders over the mountains, they think that the souls of their forefathers are taken in an engagement with those of the Spaniards. The roaring of the winds they take to be the noise of horsemen attacking one another, the howling of the tempest for the beating of drums, and the claps of thunder for the discharge of muskets and cannons. When the wind drives the clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the souls of their forefathers have repulsed those of their enemies, and call out aloud to them to give them no quarter. When the contrary happens, they are troubled and dejected, and encourage the yielding souls to rally their forces, and summon up the last remains of their strength."-Meiner.
THE storm cloud grows deeper above,
Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky,
Our forefathers come from their islands of bliss,
They come to the war of the winds.
The souls of the strangers are there,
In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven, The cloud that so lurid rolls over the hill,
Is red with their weapons of fire.
Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind
The shout of the battle-the clang of their drums-
The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight
Is the blast, that disbranches the wood.
Behold from the clouds of their power
The lightning-the lightning is lanced at our sires,
And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of heaven,
And the darkness that shadows the day!
Ye souls of our fathers be brave!
Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth,
Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire,
Brave spirits ye tremble not now!
We gaze on your warfare in hope,
We send up our shouts to encourage your arms!
Lift the lance of your vengeance, O fathers! with force,
For the wrongs of your country strike home!
Remember the land was your own
When the sons of destruction came over the seas,
That the old fell asleep in the fulness of days,
And their children wept over their graves.
Till the strangers came into the land
With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire,
Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off
And the father wept over his son.
It thickens-the tumult of fight,
Loud and louder the blast of the battle is heard-
Remember the wrongs that your country endures
Remember the fields of your fame.
Joy! joy! for the strangers recoil
They give way-they retreat to the land of their life! Pursue them! pursue them! remember your wrongs! Let your lances be drunk with their wounds.
The souls of your wives shall rejoice
As they welcome you back to your islands of bliss, And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow Waft thither the song of your praise.
A MONODRAMA-FOUNDED ON AN EVENT IN THE
MEXICAN HISTORY.
Scene, the Temple of Mexitli.
SUBJECTS! friends! children! I
For I have ever borne a father's love
Towards you; it is thirteen years since first
You saw me in the robes of royalty,
Since here the multitudes of Mexico
Hail'd me their king. I thank you friends that now In equal numbers and with equal love
You come to grace my death.
What I have been, ye know: that with all care,
That with all justice and all gentleness
Seeking your weal I govern'd. Is there one
Whom I have injured? one whose just redress
I have denied, or baffled by delay?
Let him come forth, that so no evil tongue
Speak shame of me hereafter. O my people,
Not by my deeds have I drawn down upon me
The wrath of heaven.
The wrath is heavy on me!
Heavy! a burthen more than I can bear!
I have endured contempt, insult and wrongs
From that Acolhuan tyrant! should I seek
Revenge? alas, my people, we are few,
Feeble our growing state! it hath not yet
Rooted itself to bear the hurricane;
It is the lion-cub that tempts not yet
The tiger's full-aged fury. Mexicans,
He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe;-
When was the day that ever I look'd back
In battle? Mexicans, the wife I loved,
To faith and friendship trusted, in despite
Of me, of heaven, he seized, and spurned her back
Polluted!-coward villain! and he lurks
Behind his armies and his multitudes,
And mocks my idle wrath !—it is not fit
It is not possible that I should live!
Live! and deserve to be the finger-mark
Of slave-contempt! his blood I cannot reach,
But in my own all stains shall be effaced,
It shall blot out the marks of infamy,
And when the warriors of the days to come
Shall speak of Chimalpoca, they shall say
He died the brave man's death!
Unworthy, do I seek his altar thus,
A voluntary victim. And perchance
The sacrifice of life may profit you,
My people, though all living efforts fail'd
By fortune, not by fault.
And if your ill-doomed king deserved your love,
Say of him to your children, "he was one
Who bravely bore misfortune; who when life
Became dishonour, shook his body off,
And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead."
Yes! not in Miclanteuctli's* dark abode
With cowards shall your king receive his doom;
Not in the icy caverns of the north
Suffer through endless ages! he shall join
The spirits of the brave, with them at morn
Shall issue from the eastern gate of heaven,
And follow through his fields of light the sun,
With them shall raise the song and weave the dance,
Sport in the stream of splendour, company
Down to the western palace of his rest
The prince of glory, and with equal eye
Endure his centered radiance. Not of you
Forgetful, O my people, even then,
But often in the amber cloud of noon
Diffused, will I o'erspread your summer fields,
And on the freshened maize and brightening meads
Shower plenty.
Spirits of my valiant sires,
I come! Mexitli, never at thy shrine
Flow'd braver blood! never a nobler heart
Steam'd up its life to thee! priests of the god,
Perform your office!
LINES WRITTEN IN THE 16TH CENTURY.
FOR aye be hynce ye vayne delyghts
So short as seeme the guiltie nyghtes
Yatte men forweare inne folie!
This lowlie world hath nothyng swote
Hadde mortals onlie wytte to know yt
But halie melancholie.
Then welcome armes yatte folded lye
From heavie breste the long-drawn sye,
*The Mexican god of hell.
The purses of the browe,
The loke yrooted to the growne,
The tong ychaynde withouten sowne,
Unguided steps and slowe.
The moonlight walk in pathless grove
Where aye pale passion yearnes to rove,
The well hede-kele and still.
The midnyghte howre when all the fowles
Are housde and hushte save battes and owles
Yatte screche theyre bodynges shrille.
The fadyng clink of dystaunt bell
Whose knell the tale of dethe doth tell,
The grone of partyng ghoste,
These sownes aleyne the sowle doth feede
Yatte of a higher world hath hede,
Forlettying erthlie loste.
PARODIED IN THE 18th CENTURY.
HITHER frolics and delights!
Day is dying, and by nights
my years would number;
What have earth and time to give
But the when that pleasures live
Toil and trouble slumber?
Welcome arms asunder thrown,
Lifted chin, and locks adown
The forehead sleek and free,
Crimson cheek and glancing eye,
Lips where smiles aye lurking lie,
The tiptoe tread of glee.
The taper'd hall that music haunts,
Where sparkles wine, where beauty pants,
And feast and dance abound;
The midnight hour when sages sour
Are hush'd abed or hous'd in bower,
But wit runs giggling round.
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