Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I've been a traveller in my time:
And aince in a far foreign clime,
Where rows the Amazon sublime
Through mony a grand Savannah,
I spied the knuckles o' a hand
Projectin' fra' the seaside sand;—
Thinks I, the banes have aince been awn'd
By some puir quadrumana.

Ye see, the region roun' was rife
Wi' a' the forms o' puggy life:
It's fa'en, quo' I, in battle strife,
Or died for want o' pheesic;
Or aiblins he had built a raft—
An ape the neebors counted daft—
Syne ventured seaward in his craft,
An' fa'en owreboard when sea-sick!

Or, maybe, crost in love, a' hope
Gaed fra' him; he begoud to mope

Becam' a monkey misanthrope,
An' lived an' died a hermit.
Nae doot the cratur's howf was near,
Where he would sit the lee-lang year,
An' row the saut melodious tear,
—As human poets term it.

Howe'er it happened nane can tell;
But here at last the puggy fell,
Wi' tranquil sob or frantic yell,
Beside the lanely ocean:
An' now, said I—when back I sprang,
As, glowerin' doun, I saw them gang,
Five fleshless fingers, workin' thrang
Wi' ane uncanny motion!

There was a drappie in my e'e,
Or aiblins twa—I winna lee;
But, sirs, it sobered me awee,
This ghaistly sicht an' eerie.
The lang-hour'd tropic day was dune,
There was a far-awa' dim mune,
An' clouds were driftin' wild abune,
An' win's were whistlin' dreary.

I set my staff, an' glowerin' stude:—
Five fingers void o' flesh an' blude;
Five rattlin' banes! an' how they gaed!
Lang yellow spangs, an' ghastly!
I glowered again wi' steadier view:
Less quick the pulseless fingers flew,
The joints gaed slower yet, an' grew
As stiff as iron lastly.

I didna mair than weet my teeth,
Pu'd doun my bannet, drew my breath,
Syne to mysel' I swuir an aith
To shak' hands wi' the ferlie.
Sae doun my loof I rax'd fu' bauld,
An' seized the banes: my bluid ran cauld—
The fingers roun' my fingers fauld,
An' hud the grip richt sairly!

I swat wi' terror an' affricht,
An' tugg'd an' pu'd wi' a' my micht,
Till, fra' the sand, an awesome sicht
Rase up in roosty armour!
The figure sich'd an' ga'e a grane,
But as it let my hand alane—

“I doot ye've wauken'd fully sune,”
Quo' I, “my sprichtly charmer!”

It rax'd an' gaunted, rubbed its e'en,
Or rather where they aince had been;
At length quo' I, “My waukrife frien',
Ye're mine by richt o' captur'.”
The strange thocht through my noddle ran
That in a painted caravan
I'd mak' a fortune wi' the man,
An' raise in Fife a raptur'.

Wi' that he raised his helm awee,
An' there, abune his richt e'ebree,
There was a clour richt sair to see
Deep in his skull indented;
His hand gaed roun' the place an' roun',
Like ane just waukenin' fra' a stoun';
Quo' I, “My man, a crackit croon
'S the best nichtcap invented!

But, noo ye've waukened fra' your snooze,
Come, lowse your pack, an' gie's your news—
Hoo cam' ye by your iron trews?”
And oot I pu'd my bottle.

It tried to speak: wae's me! the soun'
Cam' fra' the cratur's wame far doun;
“Na, na!” quo' I, “the drink's no' brewn
Would moistify that throttle!”

He stacher'd to the ocean bank,
At ilka stap the mail played clank
Against his ribs, and doun ilk flank
The pourin' sand ran rattlin'.
Wi' mony a pech upon a stane
He sat him doun, an' graned a grane:
“Ye've sleepit lang,” I spak' again,
“In that nichtgoon o' yetlin!”

Sudden he spak'—“Three hundred years.”
Quo' I, “It's no' a bairn 'at speirs;
An' then, ye ken the gate o' leers.
Come, come! nae tricks on travellers!”
“Three hundred years,” he spak' again
In sic a sad dooms-earnest strain,—
“Weel, weel!” quo' I, “gif ye'se be plain,
We'se no' be carpin' cavillers.”

“Hearken!” quo' he—his voice was hale—
“And see thou tell some priest my tale.”

“I will,” quo' I, “withooten fail,
I'll tak' it tae the Session.”
“Too long unshriven have I lain
Beside the lone oblivious main,
And if I now renew my pain,
It is to make confession!

I was among that daring band
That left the conquered Inca's land,
And marched beneath the proud command
Of the great chief Gonzalo:
Stranger, if ever human head
Alive deserved a crown, or dead
Was worthier of the glory shed
Round heroes by the halo,

It was, it is Gonzalo's brow!
And here my treason I avow—
I broke to him my knightly vow,
And leagued with Orell(a
)na!
I was with that disloyal crew
The first this river-sea to view,
Down whose fleet stream our pinnace flew
Through Selva and Savanna.

One New Year's morning from Quito,
Three hundred years and more ago,
We started for the hills of snow,
The steep untrodden Andes;
Three hundred gentlemen of Spain,
All clad in mail, were in our train;
Caciques and Incas mixed amain
With cavaliers and grandees.

Strange rumours of a realm of gold
Blew o'er those mountains high and cold,
Whispering of marvels manifold
Beyond the far Nevada;
So forth with adios unsaid,
And scarce a preparation made,
We leapt one morning from our bed
To search for El Dorado!

We scaled those peaks, untrod before,
Where whirlwinds round volcanoes roar,
And icicles, descending frore,
Defend the embattled ridges.
We had no lack of hardihood,
Yet if our hearts were unsubdued

It was with shattered ranks we stood
Upon the loftieȝt ledges.

One treacherous bridge of frozen snow
Concealed an awful chasm below—
Down through the wreath we saw them go,
The foremost of our heroes!
But who shall count the many lost
From famine and the piercing frost?
Rare battening had the condor host
That flapped and revelled near us!

To torrid heat from Arctic snow
We stept into a clime below,
Where Summer in perpetual glow
Keeps Eden in the valley:
Fair on the meadows shone the flowers,
And fruited hung the forest bowers,
But all was lonely, all was ours,
Llano and woodland alley!

Through unsown fields of flowering rice,
Through groves of cinnamon and spice,
We hurried from this Paradise,—
Our own without resistance.

'Twas empire that we sought, renown,
The glory of a fallen town,
Some Cuzco to be beaten down,
And hiding in the distance!

At last we struck the mighty stream
Whose belt of shining waters gleams
From Andes to the far extreme
Of the remotest ocean!
Along its level marshy banks
Our muster-roll had many blanks;
Nor fever only thinned our ranks,
But hunger's slow corrosion.

Now came our sorrows thick and fast:
First menaced by the distant blast,
The dreaded deluge broke at last,
And poured for months, nor failed us.
With ague-fits of cold and hot,
Continual dampness, sweats, what not,
Our clothes—our very skins did rot,
And sleepless thoughts assailed us.

'Twas then a hostile tribe appeared;
'Twas little for their darts we feared,

Though with the cobra's poison smeared,
But for their lying story:
They told us of a realm beyond
Their marshy tract of bog and pond,
By some great borla'd pagan own'd
In solitary glory.

It lured us onwards to our fate,—
Nay, on we rushed with hopes elate;
We built a brig—we could not wait
To journey on together.
Strange sight it was to see a mast
Rising amid that forest vast,
And Spaniards toiling in the blast
And naked to the weather!

On palm and pine our axes rung,
Our forge-fire o'er the waters flung
The red reflection of its tongue,
While groaned the labouring bellows.
And foremost at the work was he,
Our gallant captain, felling tree,

Or lifting timber knee to knee
Beside his meanest fellows.

Dear was that river ship to all,
For, though but slimly built and small,
She carried in her wooden wall
The hopes our breast inspiring;
Besides that, in our want extreme,
Our linen caulked her every seam,
And every bolt gave out the gleam
Of gold among the iron!

But fifty of us leapt on board,
All well-approved with spear and sword,
And each man pledged his knightly word
In fealty to Gonzalo.
'Tis to the everlasting shame
And ignominy of our name
We broke that oath: No after fame
Our perjury could hallow!

As swept our pinnace down the tide,
‘A quick return!’ our comrades cried;
‘Good luck the little bark betide!
Good fortune!’ cried Pizarro.

We left them wasting on the shore,—
Our comrades, whom we saw no more,—
And onward swift as bird we bore,
Or unreturning arrow.

One only of our faithless crew,
Of all the fifty, one was true;
Him on an islet-rock we threw,
The brave young Hernan Sanchez.
Then, whither the swift current led,
For weeks without a pause we sped;
The heavens swept westward o'er our head,
Past whirled the forest branches;

Till on the far horizon's verge
One morn we saw the sun emerge
From the salt ocean's restless surge,
And knew our course was ended.
And here, where sea and stream unite,
I perished in an Indian fight,
And to the caves of endless night
My guilty soul descended.

Yet still, each night till cock-crow freed,
Hither I post with anxious speed

If by best chance some one will heed
And hear my sad confession.
Stranger, three hundred years and more
My ghost has walked this lonely shore,
A dreary weird!—now haply o'er
If good my intercession.

I charge thee to convey my tale
With all the speed of horse or sail
To Mother Church: And if thou fail—!”
The curse remained unspoken.
But sic a lowe glared in his een
As ne'er in human head was seen;—
It's no a chancy thing, my frien',
This supernat'ral trokin'!

I doot I maun ha'e swarfed awa';
But what's the strangest thing o' a',
Neist mornin' ghaist nor banes I saw,
But just an empty bottle!
I took the story to a priest,
A Popish loon; but at the least
My saul was fra' its voo released.
An' noo ye ha'e the total!

The ‘borla’ was the imperial crown worn by the chief Inca.