THE OLD CHICKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON.

Now go to the battle, my boy!
Dear child of my son,

There is strength in thine arm, there is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labours of war.

Thy sire was a stripling like thee
When he went to the first of his fields.
He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd,
Before him his trophies were borne;

These scalps that have hung till the sun and the rain
Have rusted their raven locks.

Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived,
The day of the warrior's reward,

When the banners sun-beaming were spread,
And all hearts were dancing in joy

To the sound of the victory drum.

The heroes were met to receive their reward,
But distinguish'd among the young heroes that day,
The pride of his nation thy father was seen:

The swan-feathers hung from his neck,
His face like the rainbow was tinged,
And his eye-how it sparkled in pride!
The elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow
The crown that his valour had won,

And they gave him the old honour'd name.
They reported the deeds he had done in the war,
And the youth of the nation were told
To respect him, and tread in his path.

My boy! I have seen, and with hope,
The courage that rose in thine eye
When I told thee the tale of his death.
His war-pole now is grey with moss,
His tomahawk red with rust,

His bow-string whose twang was death
Now sings as it cuts the wind,

But his memory is fresh in the land,

And his name with the names that we love.
Go now and revenge him, my boy!

That his spirit no longer may hover by day
O'er the hut where his bones are at rest,
Nor trouble our dreams in the night.
My boy, I shall watch for the warrior's return,
And my soul will be sad

Till the steps of thy coming I see.

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE BODY OF HIS FATHER.

REST in peace, my father, rest!
With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse
From the stranger's field of death.
I bless thee, Ŏ wife of the sun,
For veiling thy beams with a cloud,
While at the pious task

Thy votary toil'd in fear.
Thou badest the clouds of night
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from man;
But didst thou not see my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,
O wife of the visible god?

Wretched, my father, thy life!
Wretched the life of the slave!
All day for another he toils;
Overwearied at night he lies down

And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy'd.
Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth,
My father! for then thou wert free.
In the fields of the nation thy hand
Bore its part of the general task;
And when, with the song and the dance,
Ye brought the harvest home,
As all in the labour had shared,
So justly they shared in the fruits.

Thou visible lord of the earth,

Thou god of my fathers, thou god of my heart,
O giver of light and of life!

When the strangers came to our shores,
Why didst thou not put forth thy power?
Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd,
The fires should in lightnings have flash'd!—
Visible god of the earth,

The strangers mock at thy might!

To idols and beams of wood
They force us to bow the knee!

They plunge us in caverns and dens,
Where never thy blessed light
Shines on our poisonous toil!
But not in the caverns and dens,
O sun, are we mindless of thee!
We pine for the want of thy beams,
We adore thee with anguish and groans.

My father, rest in peace!
Rest with the dust of thy sires!
They placed their cross in thy dying grasp;-
They bore thee to their burial place,
And over thy breathless frame
Their bloody and merciless priest
Mumbled his mystery words.
Oh! could thy bones be at peace
In the fields where the strangers are laid?-
Alone, in danger and in pain,
My father, I bring thee here:
So may our god, in reward,
Allow me one faithful friend

To lay me beside thee when I am released!
So may he release me soon,

That my spirit may join thee there,
Where the strangers never shall come!

SONG OF THE CHICKASAH WIDOW.

'Twas the voice of my husband that came on the gale. The unappeased spirit in anger complains!

Rest, rest, Ollanahta, be still!

The day of revenge is at hand.

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die
To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear,
To-morrow thy widow shall wield

The knife and the fire;--be at rest!

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course,The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow,—

I will think, Ollanahta! of thee,

Will remember the days of our love.

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat,
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung;
I gazed on the bow of thy strength

As it waved on the stream of the wind.

The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there,
And the musket that never was levell'd in vain,-
What a leap has it given to my heart

To see thee suspend it in peace.

When the black and blood-banner was spread to the gale,
When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard,
I remember thy terrible eyes

How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy.

I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek
As thy hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud

Ere the thunder and lightning are born.

He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams,
Kindred spirits of him who is holy and great!
And where was thy warning, O bird,

The timely announcer of ill?

Alas! when thy brethren in conquest return'd;
When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads,
And the pine-boughs of triumph before,
Where the scalps of their victory swung.—

The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not there
I call'd thee,-alas, the white deer-skin was brought;
And thy grave was prepared in the tent
Which I had made ready for joy!

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit,-
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave!
To-morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge.

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!