XXXVIII.

And as connubial, so parental love Obey'd unerring Nature's order here, For now no force of impious custom strove Against her law;-such as was wont to sear The unhappy heart with usages severe, Till harden'd mothers in the grave could lay Their living babes with no compunctious tear, " So monstrous men become, when from the way Of primal light they turn thro' heathen paths astray.

ΧΧΧΙΧ.

Deliver'd from this yoke, in them henceforth The springs of natural love may freely flow: New joys, new virtues with that happy birth Are born, and with the growing infant grow. Source of our purest happiness below Is that benignant law which hath entwined Dearest delight with strongest duty, so That in the healthy heart and righteous mind Ever they co-exist, inseparably combined.

XL.

Oh! bliss for them when in that infant face
They now the unfolding faculties descry,
And fondly gazing, trace-or think they trace
The first faint speculation in that eye,
Which hitherto hath roll'd in vacancy!
Oh! bliss in that soft countenance to seek
Some mark of recognition, and espy

The quiet smile which in the innocent cheek
Of kindness and of kind its consciousness doth speak!

XLI.

For him, if born among their native tribe, Some haughty name his parents had thought good, As weening that therewith they should ascribe The strength of some fierce tenant of the wood, The water, or the aërial solitude, Jaguar or vulture, water wolf or snake, The beast that prowls abroad in search of blood, Or reptile that within the treacherous brake Waits for the prey, upcoil'd, its hunger to aslake.

XLII.

Now soften'd as their spirits were by love, Abhorrent from such thoughts they turn'd away; And with a happier feeling, from the dove, They named the child Yeruti. 12 On a day When smiling at his mother's breast in play, They in his tones of murmuring pleasure heard A sweet resemblance of the stock-dove's lay, Fondly they named him from that gentle bird, And soon such happy use endear'd the fitting word.

XLIII.

Days pass, and moons have wax'd and waned, and still This dovelet nestled in their leafy bower Obtains increase of sense, and strength and will, As in due order many a latent power Expands, humanity's exalted dower : And they while thus the days serenely fled Beheld him flourish like a vigorous flower Which lifting from a genial soil its head By seasonable suns and kindly showers is fed.

XLIV.

Ere long the cares of helpless babyhood
To the next stage of infancy give place,
That age with sense of conscious growth endued,
When every gesture hath its proper grace :
Then come the unsteady step, the tottering pace;
And watchful hopes and emulous thoughts appear;
The imitative lips essay to trace

Their words, observant both with eye and ear,
In mutilated sounds which parents love to hear.

XLV.

Serenely thus the seasons pass away;
And, oh! how rapidly they seem to fly
With those for whom to-morrow like to-day
Glides on in peaceful uniformity!

Five years have since Yeruti's birth gone by,
Five happy years;-and ere the Moon which then
Hung like a Sylphid's light canoe on high
Should fill its circle, Monnema again

Laying her burthen down must bear a mother's pain.
XLVI.

Alas, a keener pang before that day,

Must by the wretched Monnema be borne!
In quest of game Quiara went his way

To roam the wilds as he was wont, one morn;

She look'd in vain at eve for his return.
By moonlight thro' the midnight solitude

She sought him; and she found his garment torn,
His bow and useless arrows in the wood,
Marks of a jaguar's feet, a broken spear, and blood.

O THOU who listening to the Poet's song
Dost yield thy willing spirit to his sway,
Look not that I should painfully prolong
The sad narration of that fatal day
With tragic details: all too true the lay!
Nor is my purpose e'er to entertain
The heart with useless grief; but as I may,
Blend in my calm and meditative strain
Consolatory thoughts, the balm for real pain.
II.

O Youth or Maiden, whosoe'er thou art,
Safe in my guidance may thy spirit be!
I wound not wantonly the tender heart :
And if sometimes a tear of sympathy
Should rise, it will from bitterness be free,—
Yea, with a healing virtue be endued,
As thou in this true tale shalt hear from me
Of evils overcome, and grief subdued,
And virtues springing up like flowers in solitude.

For now her hour is come: a girl is born,
Poor infant, all unconscious of its fate,
How passing strange, how utterly forlorn!
The genial season served to mitigate
In all it might their sorrowful estate,
Supplying to the mother at her door

From neighbouring trees which bent beneath their weight,

A full supply of fruitage now mature,

So in that time of need their sustenance was sure.
VIII.

Nor then alone, but alway did the Eye
Of Mercy look upon that lonely bower.

Days past, and weeks; and months and years went by,
And never evil thing the while had power
To enter there. The boy in sun and shower
Rejoicing in his strength to youthhead grew ;
And Mooma, that beloved girl, a dower
Of gentleness from bounteous nature drew,
With all that should the heart of womankind imbue.

IX.

The tears which o'er her infancy were shed
Profuse, resented not of grief alone :
Maternal love their bitterness allay'd, `
And with a strength and virtue all its own
Sustain'd the breaking heart. A look, a tone,
A gesture of that innocent babe, in eyes
With saddest recollections overflown,

Would sometimes make a tender smile arise,
Like sunshine breaking thro' a shower in vernal skies.

X.

No looks but those of tenderness were found

To turn upon that helpless infant dear; And as her sense unfolded, never sound Of wrath or discord brake upon her ear. Her soul its native purity sincere Possess'd, by no example here defiled; From envious passions free, exempt from fear, Unknowing of all ill, amid the wild Beloving and beloved she grew, a happy child.

XI.

Yea, where that solitary bower was placed,
Though all unlike to Paradise the scene,
(A wide circumference of woodlands waste,)
Something of what in Eden might have been
Was shadowed there imperfectly, I ween,
In this fair creature: safe from all offence,
Expanding like a shelter'd plant serene,

Evils that fret and stain being far from thence, Her heart in peace and joy retain'd its innocence.

XII.

At first the infant to Yeruti proved A cause of wonder and disturbing joy. A stronger tie than that of kindred moved His inmost being, as the happy boy Felt in his heart of hearts without alloy The sense of kind: a fellow creature she, In whom when now she ceased to be a toy For tender sport, his soul rejoiced to see Connatural powers expand, and growing sympathy.

XIII.

For her he cull'd the fairest flowers, and sought Throughout the woods the earliest fruits for her. The cayman's eggs, the honeycomb he brought To this beloved sister,-whatsoe'er, To his poor thought, of delicate or rare The wilds might yield, solicitous to find. They who affirm all natural acts declare Self-love to be the ruler of the mind, Judge from their own mean hearts, and foully wrong mankind.

XIV.

Three souls in whom no selfishness had place
Were here: three happy souls, which undefiled,
Albeit in darkness, still retain'd a trace

Of their celestial origin. The wild
Was as a sanctuary where Nature smiled

Upon these simple children of her own,
And cherishing whate'er was meek and mild,
Call'd forth the gentle virtues, such alone,
The evils which evoke the stronger being unknown.

XXVII.

On tales of blood they could not bear to dwell,
From such their hearts abhorrent shrunk in fear.
Better they liked that Monnema should tell

Of things unseen; what power had placed them here, 13

And whence the living spirit came, and where
It past, when parted from this mortal mold;
Of such mysterious themes with willing ear
They heard, devoutly listening while she told
Strangely-disfigured truths, and fables feign'd of old.
XXVIII.

By the Great Spirit man was made, she said;
His voice it was which peal'd along the sky,

And shook the heavens and fill'd the earth with dread.
Alone and inaccessible, on high

He had his dwelling-place eternally,

And Father was his name. 14 This all knew well; But none had seen his face: and if his eye Regarded what upon the earth befell, Or if he cared for man, she knew not-who could tell?

XXIX.

But this, she said, was sure, that after death
There was reward and there was punishment:
And that the evil doers, when the breath
Of their injurious lives at length was spent,
Into all noxious forms abhorr'd were sent,
Of beasts and reptiles; so retaining still
Their old propensities, on evil bent,

They work'd where'er they might their wicked will, The natural foes of men, whom we pursue and kill.

XXX.

Of better spirits, some there were who said That in the grave they had their place of rest. Lightly they laid the earth upon the dead, Lest in its narrow tenement the guest Should suffer underneath such load opprest. But that death surely set the spirit free, Sad proof to them poor Monnema addrest, Drawn from their father's fate; no grave had he Wherein his soul might dwell. This therefore could

not be.

XXXI.

Likelier they taught who said that to the Land
Of Souls the happy spirit took its flight,

A region underneath the sole command

Of the Good Power; by him for the upright
Appointed and replenish'd with delight;
A land where nothing evil ever came,
Sorrow, nor pain, nor peril, nor affright,

Nor change, nor death; but there the human frame, Untouch'd by age or ill, continued still the same.

XXXII.

Winds would not pierce it there, nor heat and cold
Grieve, nor thirst parch and hunger pine; but there
The sun by day its even influence hold

With genial warmth, and through the unclouded air
The moon upon her nightly journey fare :
The lakes and fish-full streams are never dry;
Trees ever green perpetual fruitage bear;
And, wheresoe'er the hunter turns his eye,

O happy time, when ingress thus was given
To the upper world, and at their pleasure they
Whose hearts were strong might pass from earth to
heaven

By their own act and choice! In evil day
Mishap had fatally cut off that way,

And none may now the Land of Spirits gain,
Till from its dear-loved tenement of clay,
Violence or age, infirmity and pain

Divorce the soul which there full gladly would remain.
XXXV.

Such grievous loss had by their own misdeed
Upon the unworthy race of men been brought.
An aged woman there who could not speed
In fishing, earnestly one day besought
Her countrymen, that they of what they caught
A portion would upon her wants bestow.
They set her hunger and her age at nought,
And still to her entreaties answered no,

And mock'd her, till they made her heart with rage o'erflow.

XXXVI.

But that old woman by such wanton wrong
Inflamed, went hurrying down; and in the pride
Of magic power wherein the crone was strong,
Her human form infirm she laid aside.
Better the Capiguara's limbs supplied

A strength accordant to her fierce intent:

These she assumed, and, burrowing deep and wide Beneath the Tree, with vicious will, she went, To inflict upon mankind a lasting punishment.

XXXVII.

Downward she wrought her way, and all around
Labouring, the solid earth she undermined
And loosen'd all the roots; then from the ground
Emerging, in her hatred of her kind,

Resumed her proper form, and breathed a wind
Which gather'd like a tempest round its head:
Eftsoon the lofty Tree its top inclined
Uptorn with horrible convulsion dread,
And over half the world its mighty wreck lay spread.

XXXVIII

But never scion sprouted from that Tree,
Nor seed sprang up; and thus the easy way,
Which had till then for young and old been free,
Was closed upon the sons of men for aye.
The mighty ruin moulder'd where it lay
Till not a trace was left; and now in sooth
Almost had all remembrance past away.
This from the elders she had heard in youth;

XXXIX.

Nathless departed spirits at their will
Could from the land of souls 16 pass to and fro;
They come to us in sleep when all is still,
Sometimes to warn against the impending blow,
Alas! more oft to visit us in woe:

Though in their presence there was poor relief!
And this had sad experience made her know,
For when Quiara came, his stay was brief,
And waking then, she felt a freshen'd sense of grief.
XL.

Yet to behold his face again, and hear
His voice, though painful was a deep delight:
It was a joy to think that he was near,
To see him in the visions of the night,—
To know that the departed still requite

The love which to their memory still will cling:
And though he might not bless her waking sight
With his dear presence, 't was a blessed thing
That sleep would thus sometimes his actual image
bring.

XLI.

Why comes he not to me? Yeruti cries: And Mooma echoing with a sigh the thought, Ask'd why it was that to her longing eyes No dream the image of her father brought? Nor Monnema to solve that question sought In vain, content in ignorance to dwell; Perhaps it was because they knew him not; Perhaps but sooth she could not answer well; What the departed did, themselves alone could tell.

XLII.

What one tribe held another disbelieved,
For all concerning this was dark, she said;
Uncertain all, and hard to be received.

The dreadful race, from whom their fathers fled,
Boasted that even the Country of the Dead
Was theirs, and where their Spirits chose to go,
The ghosts of other men retired in dread
Before the face of that victorious foe;

No better, then, the world above, than this below!

XLIII.

What, then, alas! if this were true, was death? Only a mournful change from ill to ill! And some there were who said the living breath Would ne'er be taken from us by the will Of the Good Father, but continue still To feed with life the mortal frame he gave, Did not mischance or wicked witchcraft kill;Evils from which no care avail'd to save, And whereby all were sent to fill the greedy grave.

XLIV.

In vain to counterwork the baleful charm By spells of rival witchcraft was it sought, Less potent was that art to help than harm. No means of safety old experience brought: Nor better fortune did they find who thought From Death, as from some living foe, to fly: 17 For speed or subterfuge avail'd them nought, But wheresoe'er they fled they found him nigh: None ever could elude that unseen enemy.

XLV.

Bootless the boast, and vain the proud intent Of those who hoped, with arrogant display Of arms and force, to scare him from their tent, As if their threatful shouts and fierce array Of war could drive the Invisible away! Sometimes, regardless of the sufferer's groan, They dragg'd the dying out 18 and as a prey Exposed him, that content with him alone Death might depart, and thus his fate avert their own.

XLVI.

Depart he might,-but only to return

In quest of other victims, soon or late;

When they who held this fond belief, would learn,
Each by his own inevitable fate,

That in the course of man's uncertain state
Death is the one and only certain thing.

Oh folly then to fly or deprecate

That which at last Time, ever on the wing, Certain as day and night, to weary age must bring!

XLVII.

While thus the Matron spake, the youthful twain Listen'd in deep attention, wistfully; Whether with more of wonder or of pain Uneath it were to tell. With steady eye Intent they heard; and when she paused, a sigh Their sorrowful foreboding seem'd to speak: Questions to which she could not give reply Yeruti ask'd; and for that Maiden meek,— Involuntary tears ran down her quiet cheek.

XLVIII.

A different sentiment within them stirr'd, When Mounema recall'd to mind one day, Imperfectly, what she had sometimes heard In childhood, long ago, the Elders say: Almost from memory had it past away,— How there appear'd amid the woodlands men Whom the Great Spirit sent there to convey His gracious will; but little heed she then Had given, and like a dream it now recurr'd again.

XLIX.

But these young questioners from time to time
Call'd up the long-forgotten theme anew.
Strange men they were, from some remotest clime
She said, of different speech, uncouth to view,
Having hair upon their face, and white in hue:
Across the world of waters wide they came
Devotedly the Father's work to do,

And seek the Red Men out, and in his name
His merciful laws, and love, and promises proclaim.

L.

They served a Maid more beautiful than tongue Could tell, or heart conceive. Of human race, All heavenly as that Virgin was, she sprung; But for her beauty and celestial grace, Being one in whose pure elements no trace Had e'er inhered of sin or mortal stain, The highest Heaven was now her dwelling-place; There as a Queen divine she held her reign, And there in endless joy for ever would remain.