ページの画像
PDF
ePub

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE

BODY OF HIS FATHER.

1. 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, O 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?

2.
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.

3. 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,
Thy fires should in lightnings have flash'd l..

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.

4.
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 magic hastily.

Oh! could thy bones be at peace
In the field 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 summon me soon, That my Spirit may join thee there, 'Where the strangers never shall come!

[blocks in formation]

SONG OF THE ARAUCANS

DURING A THUNDER STORM.

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; Yon cloud that rolls luridly 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 quenches 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

w!

We gaze on your warfare in hope, We send up our shouts to encourage your arms ! Lift the lance of your vencance, 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 fullness 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 ! Louder 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,.. they are routed, ..

they fly; 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. Westbury, 1799.

« 前へ次へ »