University of Virginia Library

Such was the song that foamed along the rocks,
And echoed from the thunder-rifted blocks,
In many tongues. Such was the festal song
Of the Bandits.
The rugged cliffs among
They had their camp. On every side uplifted
Precipitous mountains, hoary with white foam sifted
Eternally upon their barren crowns
For ever braving the fierce Storm-God's frowns,
And the Sun's laugh. No foot, in all the time
Since the world's making, had essayed to climb
The mountains there, so steep and rough were they.
And here, encircled so on all sides lay
Sleeping within, an oval, verdant vale,
From which descended but one narrow trail,
A rocky pass, leading to where, below,
The plains spread out;—and through that crooked pass,
Fed in the vale by fountains brimmed with grass
And golden flowers, a silver streamlet ran.
The mountain-breezes never failed to fan
That narrow pass, and that most fertile vale.

The sun was down; but heaven had not grown pale,
For over it there flushed the million hues,
In rainbow cradles, of the misty dews.
Here, on the summits of far-reaching hills,
The snow was stained with all those sunset thrills;
And there, thick-shaded, had a dim and gray
And misty look, as though dusk Eve did stray,
Before her time, out from her eastern cave.
Around the mountain-bases thick did wave
Funereal firs; and in the vale there stood
A haughty and magnificent old brood
Of giant pines.
Watch-fires around were built,
And here and there stood, leaning on the hilt
Of his good brand, a bearded sentinel,
Stern and immovable, while thickly fell,
The shouts of revelry upon his ear.
Caution was there, although no sign of fear;
And if the eye glanced round among the crags,
It might perceive, behind projecting jags,
Dark forms, half-hidden, all along the pass,
Still as though portions of the mountain-mass.
Here stood a lance, there lay a spotted blade
Upon the sod,—plain emblems of the trade
Of those who revelled; each of whom yet wore
His pistols in his belt; while, close before
A watch-fire, stood some bulky stacks of arms,
Ready for grasping by the owners' palms.
Some, massive muskets of the Tower stamp,
And some the truer rifle. Through the camp,
There was an air of watchful discipline,
Most stern and strict; such as is rarely seen
With those who have no law but their own will.

[OMITTED]

Above, and where the narrow, flowering vale
Grew narrower, and where a shifting sail
Of mist, was floating up among the rough
And rugged branches of the giant trees;
And where a tall, gray, overhanging bluff
Gave shelter to the dim obscurities,
That cowered beneath, dreading the evening breeze,
Sat the stern chief. A broad and gnarled root
Lent him a seat, where, at the mountains foot,
He rested, hearing not the shouts below,
Wherewith the winds were burdened, that did blow,
Drowning the voice, murmuring and musical,
Of the swift brook and slender waterfall,
That babbled near him, fed by faithful springs,
And by cold waters, dropping from the wings
Of crystalled snow. He had let fall his head
Upon his hands, as though he sadly fed
His memory with almost forgotten dreams,
Or wingéd Hopes, wherewith the Fancy teems.
And so he kept, until the crimson flush
Had vanished, at the Night-God's westward rush,
And the still stars began to tread the sky,
With their white feet, desiring to espy
The gentle moon in the far orient.
Why was the chieftain, like an old man, bent?
Why shook his frame with many a stifled sigh?
Why paled still more that pallid face? His eye,
Why is it dimmed with tears that will not fall,
As if the tenderness that unto all
Will cling, though far within the deepest nook
And inmost chambers of the dark heart, shook
His form, and raised the warm dew from his heart
Into his eyes?
When night and day did part,
Lingeringly, on the occidental marge,
And the sweet moon her silver orb did charge
With the sun's love; and shyly lifting not
Her eye, as yet, up from the shadowy grot
Behind the mountains, still shot up her spirit
Over their crowns; and the fair Star of Love,
Like some ethereal boat, when angels steer it,
Beamed brilliantly through the tall, gloomy grove
Of graceful firs that crowned the western hill;
Like a clear beacon set upon blue waves,
To lighten sailors' hearts that fear cold graves;
He seemed to wander in the tangled maze
Of his own thoughts, as in a wilderness,
And on the glories of the Heavens gaze,
Like one who looks at things, but nothing sees,
Mingling them all in one misshapen blot;
Or, if he sees them, making them a part
Of the one thought, on which the burning heart
Is all concentered, till it is all thought.

[OMITTED]

There is an old walled city standing near
The broad Pacific's curving, sandy verge;
Whose very walls are sometimes, by the surge,
Whitened with foam. Great palaces are there,
That glitter in the clear Peruvian air;
And grand cathedrals, with old towering spires,
Reflecting from gold ornaments the fires
Of the eternal sun. Along the streets
By day and night without cessation beats
The pulse of life, and flows the living tide,
Of pomp and poverty, and woe and pride.
There shaven monk and proud Hidalgo walk,
Or roll in state; and like the lamp-eyed flock
Of Houris that in Paradise are met
By all who truly worship Mahomet,
Fair women congregate, of pleasant eves,
When the bland sea-breeze stirs the orange leaves,
With delicate ankles, round, full, graceful forms,
And eyes as deeply black as midnight storms,
Lighted by lightning; and a gait that shames
Old Andalusia's slender-footed dames.
On all sides of the city, far and near,
Tall mansions, rich with Spanish pomp, appear;
And promenades, o'erarched with flowering trees,
Dropping their blooms at every passing breeze,
Or bent with olives. All the air is sweet,
For the light sea-winds, with their fairy feet,
Go in and out the honeyed orange-blooms,
And through the thick pomegranates' purple glooms,
Becoming partners with the thievish bees,
In bearing off rich odors.
Here was born
Ramon Valverde. Ere his head had worn
The weight of seven summers, he was sent
To gain, upon the mother continent
An education from her ponderous tomes,
And giant intellects, amid the homes
Of his dead ancestors, in fair Seville.
His name was not Valverde then: he bore
A prouder name and title, now no more.
There passed some dozen years, while he did fill
His brain with knowledge, such as few obtain,
And then his father called him home again.
Just when his youth bordered on manhood, ere
One hope, one spark of confidence had fainted
In his young soul; while every scene was painted
With golden hues, he left Seville the fair,
And crossed the ocean to his native land,
Glad on the well-known shores once more to stand.
He stood there at the season when the soul
Is most impassioned; when the brilliant goal
Of hope looms up and seems within our reach;
Ere yet experience has begun to teach
His bitter lessons to the wounded heart:
Ere Time has chilled one feeling, in the mart
Of ruined hopes and shattered destinies.
Just at the time when that strange prism, romance,
Lures the glad soul to sunny reveries,
And makes life seem to youth's bold, ardent glance,
All happiness and joy: when Faith and Trust
Have lost not one of all their sunny plumes;
Before the generous nature has been cursed
With dark suspicion, or the frowning glooms
Of stern misanthropy.
Thus was Ramon:
And when he stepped his native shore upon,
His father was a bankrupt. Men whom he
Had trusted as true friends, had ruined him.
Alas! this friendship and this treachery!
How many an eye doth perjured friendship dim!—
It is the fortune of the honest man
To trust and be deceived. It almost seems
Wiser to float upon the troubled streams
Of the world alone, and give and ask no aid.
Who has not, at some season of his life,
Had hollow friends and false hearts to upbraid?—
Delayed by storms, Ramon did just arrive
In time to embrace his father while alive.
There was an age in that one parting grasp.
He watched his parent's last convulsive gasp,
And buried him, and mourned him many a day.
Thenceforth he struggled on his lonely way,
Friendless and poor. Men coldly looked him down:
For 'tis a virtue in the rich, to frown
Upon the poor, and keep him underneath:
It is beneficence to let him breathe
The same good air as they, and tread the soil
Which they tread daintily.
In constant toil
And wrestling with his fate, Ramon bore up
A year or two, nor murmured at the cup
Of bitterness. 'Twas very hard for one
Whose spring was brilliant with a cloudless sun,
Full of romance, high hopes and splendid dreams,
Proud, ardent feelings, generous impulses,
To be thus dealt with.

[OMITTED]

One starry night,
He told his love.

[OMITTED]

The young Ramon upon Antonia gazed,
As one might on an angel, that could give
Him immortality. He did not live
Beyond her presence; for his other life,
Out in the world, was but an evanescence,
A dream of pain and care, of toil and strife,
Lit with the image of that lovely presence,
That peopled his lone heart, and made its cold,
Dark desert once again a Paradise.
So gazing into her deep earnest eyes,
As I have said, his tale of love he told,
Weaving all thoughts, all wishes, all desire,
All hopes and passion into words of fire,
That fell upon her heart, with the intense
Appealing power of love's own eloquence,
And would have won her, had her heart not been
His own already.
There, amid the green
And living foliage of the sleeping trees,
Their faith was plighted. While the impassive stars,
With their eternal calm monotony,
Seemed the soul's echo, deeply, fervently,
They vowed to be each other's evermore;
A sacred vow, Heaven's primal shrine before.
How long and happy their sweet conference
Of loving words, or of that most intense
And eloquent silence which is only known
To Love and his young votaries! From her throne
The waxing moon had gone before they parted,
Each to delicious slumber, each light-hearted,
Buoyant with hope. Thence forward, day by day,
Their love grew more intense. When morning gray
Awoke, he found her at the window, reading,
And when pale Eve the flowers with dew was feeding,
She still was there, watching to see his form
Among the busy and incessant swarm
That filled the street. She lived in him alone;
He was her life, a twin-soul to her own:
And when to Heaven she kneeled at twilight dim
And sung her matin song or evening hymn,
To Mary Queen, be sure the words of it
Breathed from his soul, and by his pen were writ.

[OMITTED]

Too soon
This dream of hope and happiness was broken:
It would have been by far too great a boon,
For Alvarez, the wealthy, pious-spoken,
Proud Hijo d'algo, to have given to one,
Poor as Ramon, his daughter. For the son
Of an old noble wooed her, through her sire,
And had his promise. Then the latent fire
That slumbers in the meekest bosoms woke,
And a new spirit in Antonia spoke
In resolute accents. She declared her love,
And gloried in 't, and vowed by Him above,
That neither prayers nor force should make her wed,
Save with Ramon, to whom her faith was plighted,
While life remained, unless her reason fled,
And she became like one that gropes, benighted
Along the terror-peopled waste of senseless dreams.

[OMITTED]

Henceforth Ramon was persecuted. He
Was represented by the priests to be
A favorer of things heretical.
Stoutly they toiled, bribed to effect his fall,
And to the councils did accuse the youth,
As one who was no votary of the truth,
But loved strange doctrines, and had learned to hate
The true belief, endangering the State.
By perjury the miscreants gained their ends.
The poor have seldom very many friends;
And he was soon condemned.
They chained him there,
And gave him to their alguazils to bear,
Into the mountains threescore leagues or so,
And leave him on the rocks or frozen snow,
Bound hand and foot, to live as best he might,
Or die and feed the wolves. So did they write
Their stern decree. It fell upon his ear,
But stirred no nerve. He shed no womanish tear,
When 'twas pronounced, or when, next day, he took,
Before they bore him off, his last long look
At the proud palace where his love was kept
As in a cloister; for his eyes had wept
Their last tear now. That was the hour that changed
His inmost nature. That short hour estranged
From him all tender feelings that before
Had fluttered in his heart. The blow that tore
His hopes away, gave him a heart of steel.
Thenceforth he hardly knew what 'twas to feel.
He had been gentle and affectionate,
Most bounteous, though but limited of late,
A shy and modest boy, a genial man:
And his warm blood, although it swiftly ran,
Still throbbed with sympathy, whene'er distress
Called for relief, or wrongs required redress.
But from that hour his heart became austere,
And cold and stern: no passion thence was dear,
Except revenge.

[OMITTED]

One windy afternoon
In chilly autumn, when the full red moon
Stood on the ramparts of the hills, to gaze
At the veiled sun, just setting in thick haze,
They flung Ramon down on the rocky slope
Of a bleak mountain, and rode swift away,
Leaving him, like a helpless clod, to cope
With death and his despair; and so he lay,
While they rode off with many a jeer and jibe,
The common fashion of the vulgar tribe.
And so he lay, silent and speechless, there,
On the wild sky fixing a steady stare
Of utter hopelessness. The sun dropped down,
As a torch is quenched. Night came with heavy frown,
And the gray haze grew thicker in the west,—
Sure indication that the restless ocean
Had sent forth tempest from his teeming breast,
To lash the winds and waters to commotion.
An hour or so the red moon labored through
The heavy masses of gray cloud that grew,
Weltering like billows, over the angry sky
Until these surges, running mountain-high,
Broke over her, and hid her struggling form,
As when a vessel founders in a storm.
The winds awoke, and madly reeled about,
Shrieking amid the cedars, driving out
The hidden darkness from the deepest caves,
To cover the sky: like great engulfing waves,
The fir trees roared and rocked; blue lightning flashed,
Licking the dark crags with its fiery tongue,
And on the cliffs the awful thunder crashed,
And, echoing, to the precipices clung
With a moaning roar. And then the rain broke out,
The sharp white hail, and the great waterspout,
Hurling the rocks down. Swollen rivers bounded
Rejoicingly from crag to crag, surrounded
By crashing trees that fell in splinters there.
Yet he lay helpless. The electric glare
Blinded his eyes; the white hail cut to his bones;
The thunder mocked his agonizéd moans;
And the storm lulled only to rave again.
The scared wolves, issuing from cave and den,
Blinded with fear, howled loudly as they ran;
And eagles flew so low, their wings did fan
His wounded face. All night the mighty Storm
Haunted the mountains; but his eyeless form
Fled when the sun rose. Dimly, in a cloud
That veiled his brightness like a great, black shroud,
He rose; but soon his fiery, flashing rays
Melted the mist, and then his potent blaze
Became a torture;—so that, all that day,
And its chill night, Ramon despairing lay.
The next day came, with thirst, desire of death,
And restless dozing,—dreams of drinking seas,
Parched tongue, sharp headache, strained eyes, feverish breath,
And horrible pangs and spasms; and, by degrees,
Frenzy and madness. So that day crawled by,
And cold Night came with all her icy stars,
Radiant with freezing splendor in the sky,—
Dear to the sailor, when his shattered spars
Sweep by the Orkneys or bleak Hebrides,
Or where into mountains the salt waters freeze,
By the stormy Cape, or Straits of Magellan.
That night passed also. Morning came again,
And with it madness. Then he bruised and beat
His head against the rocks, and tried to eat
His wasted arms, and then would lie and smile
At his poor mangled limbs; and all the while
The hot sun scorched his maddened brain away.
Another night of frost! and then, as day
And sunrise came again, his feeble breath
Flickered upon his lips, and, chilled by Death,
The current of his blood stood still, and he
Lost all sensation. There some robbers found
What seemed a lifeless body. Two or three
Passed on and left him; but a stifled sound,
A faint, low gasp, scarce heard, induced one young,
Compassionate novice, to whose soul still clung
Some feeling of humanity, to pour
Wine in his mouth; and then he ran, and bore
From a cold running spring a draught of water
In his broad hat. His eyes unclosed once more;
And, though their trade was robbery and slaughter,
They raised him, fed him, bore him to their camp.
Who shall say wherefore? Ruffians of their stamp
Will do such things at times. They thought, perchance,
Thus to atone for some of their huge crimes;
For, after they had plied the sword and lance,
They told their beads, and chanted pious rhymes.

[OMITTED]

So life's book opened at another leaf.
Of his preservers he became the chief:
And soon his energy increased the band,
For many joined Valverde the Brigand.
Woe to the priests that met him in the way!
Small time he gave them to repent or pray;
Until his name into a war-cry grew,
Known, hated, dreaded, throughout all Peru.
For four long years he had pursued this trade,
And still victorious shone his flashing blade;
Prompt to resolve, and fitted to command,
Ready to plan, and readier his quick hand;
Cautious and bold, and wakeful as a deer,
He ruled his subjects less by love than fear.

[OMITTED]

Love's white star was down
Behind the hills, when slowly he returned,
And reached the camp. The watchfires brightly burned,
Casting their flickering light upon the trees,—
Those great, grim giants,—and upon the seas
Of darkness-haunted element above.
And still the sentries through the pillared grove
Paced their slow rounds. White tents the trees amid
Gleamed in the torchlight, half in shadow hid,
And brooding on the grass; and here and there
Were rows of huts, built of great limbs of pine;
And one huge tent blazed with the brilliant glare
Of a great light, where merriment and wine
Flashed into shout and song,—a canvass house,
Vast as a palace, where the band carouse.
Valverde was attracted by the din,
And, flinging back the folds, went calmly in.
From tree to tree the snowy canvass spread;
And silver lamps, swinging far overhead,
Fed with perfume from Cathay and Cashmere,
Flooded with light the mountain-atmosphere.
Round one great table thronged a hundred faces,
Stamped with the characters of many races,
Dark-bearded visages, stern, resolute;
The stout old veteran, and the young recruit.
All was rude splendor: massive plates of gold,
Which hoarding monks long since had ceased to hold;
Rich furniture of every costly wood,
Paid for with robber's price, the owner's blood;
Old tapestry of Spain; great gorgeous vases
Of lapis-lazuli and emerald, made to hold
Old wine of Xeres; bottles of beaten gold,
Wrought by quaint hands, embellished with saints' faces;
Tall crucifixes gleaming with costly stones;
Great piles of cushions, softer than kings' thrones;
Casks of old wine, bought for the sacrament,
But lost upon the way; rich armor, sent
By curious artisans to holy shrines,
Now swinging from unconsecrated pines;
Chains of gold beads, taken from devotees,
Now ornamenting sacrilegious trees;
Cups made of solid agate, for the lip
Of holy abbot, whence the robbers sip
The sacred vintage;—everything, in short,
Which art had made and ample wealth had bought,
Was heaped in strange confusion all around.

[OMITTED]

The wild, reckless rhyme,
With its quaint words of old Castilian,
That so Valverde chanted, hardly can
Be well translated in our rougher tongue;
But something so it ran:—

[OMITTED]

The silver horn of the advancing tide
Had ploughed its highest furrow in the sand,
And was retiring. Noon, with hasty stride,
Had passed by forest, beach, and rocky strand,
And golden City, and was on the sea,
Journeying westward. Every leafy tree
Began to cast long shadows to the east,
And from old Ocean's quiet, deep blue breast,
The evening breeze was lifting more and more,
And slowly drifting toward the longing shore.
The sea-fowls lay, like orbs of silver foam,
On the still surface of their hollow home;
And from the deep transparent element,
Like spiritual echoes faintly went
A slow, sad, plaintive psalm, as if it moaned
To the absent stars, and the great sun enthroned
In the empyrean, and its waves had tongues.
In the blue distance lay some misty throngs
Of green isles sleeping on the emerald sea,
Loveliest of Nature's delicate jewelry.
And one great solitary monument
Of the old fires that shook the Continent,
A thunder-shattered peak, shot up afar,
With snowy head that glittered like a star,
Towering above the ocean. Toward the shore
White sails now glided, running free before
The freshening breeze; and, anchored firm and fast,
Great ships their lengthening shadows landward cast.
The nautilus came up, and spread his sail
Proudly awhile before the gentle gale,
And then sank down like a dissolving dream,
Or bubble breaking on a dimpled stream.
Just at the edge of these voluptuous seas,
Ran a green pathway, canopied by trees,
Winding in labyrinthine intricacies,
With nooks amid gray trunks, and open spaces
Where lovers could retire, beneath thick vines
And drooping branches, from the common sight,
And breathe their vows. The rich fruits now were bright
With the sun's spirit, and the grass was green,
Abundant, level, and luxuriant,
And slightly now swept wavingly aslant
By the voluptuous sea-breeze, that began,
Breathing from ocean's cooler bosom, to fan
The forehead of old Tellus, and shake down
The pulpy fruit from the encumbered crown
Of ancient trees, upon the flowery sward.
The sun was slowly verging oceanward,
And, braving now his eye, the dusky shades
Began to gather shyly underneath
Continuous trees. Here amorous, star-eyed maids,
Like lilies floating on blue lakes, enwreath
Their shapely arms, clustering in merry bands,
And interlocking their small, delicate hands,
With tempting looks from the mantilla glancing,
And little feet that never cease their dancing.
And many a one clings to her lover's side
Alone and trustingly; and some even hide
Themselves in natural grots of twisted vines,
Or of great trees that join their ponderous spines,
There listening to and whispering vows of love,
While ever and anon their bright eyes rove,
To see if any watch the stolen kiss,
And the succeeding blush.
In the abyss
Of apathy and care which men call life,
Who hath not passed such hours? Who looks not back
Through long, dull days, and sleepless nights, and strife,
To such sweet hours? Who doth not sometimes track
The pathway of the past, and once more stand
Between life's gates, with Memory hand-in-hand,
And feel that one such dear, delicious hour
Outweighs the rest of life? The heart will cower
With shame, regret, sadness, remorse, and pain,
When Memory calls back other hours again;
That one alone is like a pleasant dream
Long vanished, yet more exquisite. We seem
To catch a faint glimpse of a former life,
Among the stars, before our exile here.

[OMITTED]

Many of these fair maids had tried in vain
To see the face of one who mutely leaned
Against a gnarled old tree, and partly screened
With his full Spanish cloak, his countenance;
And one that somewhat nearer did advance,
A laughing girl, and merrier than wise,
Was so rebuked by his deep mournful eyes,
She shrunk away abashed.

[OMITTED]

There came a gentle, almost noiseless step,
Pressing the green grass softly as the lip
Of virgin love. A fair young girl it was,
With slow and painful gait, and frequent pause,
As if from sickness feeble.
From his face
The dark cloak dropped; a moment more he stood
Irresolute; then with quick footsteps strode
After the maiden. Wearied, she had stopped,
Leaning against an orange tree, that dropped
Its blossoms on her hair. She rose to fly,
With a faint cry of terror; but her eye
Timidly looked in his, her forehead flushed,
Her sweet lips parted, and at once she rushed
Into his arms; her single cry, “Ramon!”
The big tears rained from his full eyes upon
Her wan white cheek and forehead, as he pressed
Her slender form to his broad manly breast.
Her soft eyes closed, and fainting quite away,
Like a fair child upon that breast she lay.
But soon with kisses he brought back her life,
Called her his angel, his delight, his wife;
And, sitting on a rustic chair, long gazed
On her dear-face, till she her sweet eyes raised,
And murmured once again his treasured name,
And kissed his forehead, and his eyes, and laid
Her head again upon his breast, and said:—

“They told me thou wast dead, and I
Believed the cunning, cruel lie.
They said the priests had borne thee, bound
To where the gloomy mountains frowned,
And left thee there, alone, to die;
To watch the dial of the sky
Measure thy fleeting hours of life;
To feel the keen and glittering knife
Of cold hail piercing to thy bones,
And fear to utter dying moans,
Lest to the fierce wolves thou shouldst call.
They told me this; they told me all
That cunning taught them would avail
To render plausible the tale.
I longed to seek thy poor remains,
But like a prisoner in chains,
Within my room was I confined,
Until for want of air I pined,
And wasted to a shadow there.
Like the pale flowers that, growing where
Light never ventures, in deep caves,
Above which thunder the hoarse waves,
Have neither color, scent, or hue,
Thus pale, and weak, and faint I grew;
And then they brought thy mouldering bones,
The liars said so, from the thrones
Of storm and snow; and with a din
Of joy and triumph flung them in
The depths of the eternal sea.
And then they once more set me free.

[OMITTED]

But thou art greatly changed too. Yet
Thy pale cheeks with fresh tears are wet.”

“'Tis true, Antonia, I have wept;
The fountains that so long were dry,
Have overflowed once more, and I
Am young again. Thine eyes still shine
Upon my own, thy lips kiss mine,
And our past agonies now seem
Only a half-remembered dream.
The heart has many mysteries,
For thou hast lived, to taste new bliss;
If it be life, indeed, to crave
A sanctuary in the grave;
To loathe the dawn and hate the sun,
As I did, as thou must have done.
I thought thy woman's heart would break,—
I know not why it has not broken,
With grief, despair, and woe unspoken.
For me, I had a thirst to slake,
Within that deep and burning lake,
Revenge, which would not let me die.”

“Ah, dear Ramon!” she said, “shall I
Love thee again? We will not part,
Will we, Ramon? 'Twould break my heart.
Promise! and I no more shall feel
The sickness that so long doth steal
My life-blood and my life away.
Let us not part! Thou canst not stay
Here, in a city where thy head,
For ancient wrong, hatred half-fed,
And villany's continual fear,
If thou didst openly appear,
Would make a traitor's fortune. No!
Better the mountains and cold snow,
Better a frail canoe at sea,
Than danger, doubt, and treachery.
My stern, cold father entertains
All his old hatred; and the rains
Will sooner melt the dark basalt,
Than thou convince him of his fault,
Or soften him. Oh, let us flee
To some far island in the sea!
From care and pain and sorrow part,
Grow strong as giants at the heart,
With happy days and nights of love;
Build up our house in some thick grove,
And live as lovers lived of old.
Then in my arms will I enfold
And press thee, love; will watch thine eye,
And when thou sighest, I will sigh,
Will kiss thine eyes to placid sleep,
And danger from thy slumbers keep;
In life will I be always near,
Nor will I murmur, love, or fear,
Cold Death himself. We'll die together,
Like clouds that melt in summer weather:
The gentle wind and summer sea
Shall sing our dirge.”

[OMITTED]

The twenty-fifth had come; Peru awoke;
One cry for freedom from her green hills broke,
From her wide plains and valleys; and the ocean
Re-echoed it. It was the first emotion
And pulse of her young heart, for Liberty.

Oh, holy Freedom! When, ah, when, will be
Thy triumph everywhere? When will the moan
Of the chained nations cease? When will there groan
No slave beneath the broad expanse of heaven?
When will all fetters of the oppressed be riven,
And Tyranny flee, howling, to the caves
Of the bleak mountains; or the mighty waves
All vestige of old slavery overwhelm?
When wilt thou sit, fair Freedom! at the helm
Of the whirling earth, and steer that mighty bark
Now manned by mariners austere and dark,
With cruel eyes, and wearing golden crowns,
Through the wild seas of chaos, where the frowns
Of savage clouds cast shadows on the waves,
Threatening the sailors with unwelcome graves?
Beneath those waves will then be seen the ruin
Of thrones and dominations, there bestrewing
The sandy floor of that engulfing sea,
Peopled with Fear, mad Terror, Agony,
And gaunt Destruction; steering over which,
Into calm bays and golden seas, will reach
The wingéd bark, where her storm-shattered sails,
No more will front the lightnings and the gales
Of Tyranny and Kinghood. When? oh, when?—
'Tis sad to read the history of men,
And of men's strife for freedom,—see them rise
From the black gulfs of slavery, and flash
The lightnings of their anger in the eyes
Of trembling kings;—perhaps their tyrants dash,
Bleeding, beneath their feet, amid the crash
Of Bastilles and great palaces; and then
Sink like a wave to anarchy again.
Greece once was free:—how long? Rome, too, that wrote
Her name upon the front of nations, smote
Barbarian empires with unsparing hand,
And bent the world's will to her stern command.
Venice and England, France and Spain, in turn,
Have seen the golden fires of freedom burn,
On hill and plain, on rock and citadel;
In their large light have seen great armies swell,
And dash against the troops of Tyranny.
How often have these waves of Freedom's sea
Been baffled and borne back? How often has
Some stern avenger of the People's cause
On Despotism and Kings, himself become
A sterner lord! How often, from the foam
Of tumult and commotion, red with blood,
Some one has risen to ride the furious flood
Of the roused people's rage! How often hath
Some foreign tyrant, mighty in his wrath,
Swept quite away the ramparts of the free,
And trampled them to dust! Dost thou not see,
Oh, Freedom! in thy scroll of bloody names,
Of tiger-hearted men, whose fearful fames
Were from thy children won, wet with thy tears,
Philip and Cæsar, Cromwell, and that man,
Mightier than all, the wondrous Corsican?
Futurity! hast thou a scourge like these
In store for us? Are stern Fate's dark decrees
Implacable? The cowering tiger-fiends
Are muttering even now, like restless winds,
Within the dim abysses where they brood,—
Tyranny, Priestcraft, Anarchy, and Feud;
And ever and anon they turn and writhe,
Like agonizéd serpents, long and lithe,
Pressed down by mountains. Even now the storm
Of discontent is gathering in the warm
And sunny South. Great clouds the orient clasp,
Rearing their stormy crests, where the white asp
Of lightning quivers, angrily alive:
Freemen are seen too willingly to dive
In the accursed gulf of frantic treason, while
The foes of liberty recline and smile
Within the shadows of old hoary thrones,
Lulled by the music of starved paupers' groans.
Oh, holy Freedom! leave not yet our bark
To drift without a pilot on the dark
And stormy seas of anarchy, and then
To sink for ever from the pleasant ken
Of these fair skies and sunny fields, to the home
Of nations tyrant-wrecked, states overthrown,
Republics self-slain! Our great fathers bled
And died for thee, and thy high altar fed
With the red incense of their own stout hearts;
And ere our rights are sold in the blank marts
And dens of tyranny, there yet are left
Many to die for thee and thy dear gift.

The cause which made Leonidas eterne,
Embalming his great name within the urn
Of the world's heart,—which made Miltiades,
Pelopidas, and Hampden, and of these,
The twice ten thousand brothers, through all time,
Immortal in stern annal and sweet rhyme,—
This cause aroused, and fired all young Peru.
The banner of the Liberators threw
Its eagle shadow on the sunburnt plain,
Now peopled by a small but warlike train
Of Freedom's children. Blas was there, with some
Five hundred men. Bernal had left his home
Amid the mountains, with eight hundred more;
Barbon and Gomez to the plain did pour,
Each with his gallant regiment, of old
And veteran Catalonians, firm and bold.
Alvarez brought a thousand men, a part
Bold mountaineers, skilled in the hunter's art,
A part stout husbandmen, that tilled the plains,
And some old veterans who had stood through rains
Of lead and iron 'gainst Napoleon.
With them had also gathered many a one
Of smaller note; and, in the whole, the force
Amounted to five thousand, foot and horse.
Pepina still was absent, and the band
Held in the mountains by the brave Brigand;
And long and anxiously through all that day,
The leaders looked to see him make his way
Into the plain;—vainly!—for until night
Nothing of him or his appeared in sight;
And when the stars near the young moon were met,
And round the camp the sentinels were set,
Still no troops came, and nothing more was known,
Except that he had failed them; haply, thrown
His weight into the Viceroy's serried ranks,
To obtain thereby pardon, perhaps, and thanks.
For four days all was conference and delay,
But on the thirtieth, just at break of day,
The scouts reported that the foe was near.

There were a few small hillocks in the rear,
Forming a broken ridge that faced the west:
Upon the left, this naked ridge did rest
On a sharp spur of the Andes, that there jutted
Into the plain; and on the right abutted
On a thick wood, protecting that extreme:
Along the front ran a small, boggy stream.
To this ground they retired, and there displayed
Their troops in order for the battle, led
By Alvarez, whose trade it was of old;
And there, like one determined, cool and bold,
He waited for the enemy. Bernal
Was placed upon the right, behind some small
And ragged cedars. Blas was on the left,
His cavalry withdrawn behind a drift
Of granite boulders, from the mountain rent.
The veteran Gomez, with his regiment,
And old Barbon with his, the centre held.
One half the men of Alvarez were placed
With Blas, the other with Bernal. In haste
This being done, Alvarez took his post
Of leader, in the centre of the host.

They came like torrents swelling in the spring,
Those brave and proven servants of the king;
In all the gaudy trappings of their trade,
Gay banners flying, bayonet and blade.
There was the Andalusian Regiment,
With dark green uniform; and near them went
Battalions from Galicia, and the brave
Biscayan cavalry; the old and grave
Artillery from Cordova;—troops, in fine,
From Spain's most eastern to her western line;
Their trumpets sounding an old Moorish tune.
Their leader, an old, gray-haired Catalun,
Who had learned tactics in Napoleon's school,
Threw out his heavy cavalry, to charge
The enemy's centre. Dashing out they came,
Lances and sabres glittering like keen flame.
Charge upon charge they resolutely made,
But were repulsed. Old Gomez, undismayed,
Stood stern as a rock, and poured his heavy fire
Into the squadrons with destruction dire.
And now the heavy infantry marched down,
And charged right on the centre. Brightly shone
The gleaming bayonets, as, still and swift,
It came, the muskeeters' unbroken drift.
Gomez fell wounded, at the first fierce crash,
But still Barbon poured in his steady flash.
Bernal wheeled out, and charged in flank the foe,
And Blas poured down, and did upon them throw
His veteran cavalry, but all in vain.
Bernal was scattered; Blas attacked again,
And still again; and still he was repulsed.
Still the old Catalun urged on his men
Against the centre. Alvarez had fought
Like a mad lion hemmed in his own den;
Provided all that his collected thought
Told him was needed; cheered his faltering troops;
Charged singly on the very thickest groups
Of the enemy: yet all in vain! Still back
And back they pushed him; while his arm grew slack
With constant havoc, and his sight gew dim,
And by his side hung useless his left limb,
Struck by a sword whose owner struck no more.
Over red heaps, through puddles of dark gore,
The foe pressed onward. Hark! behind the hills
A single trumpet! At the echoing thrills
There was a pause; and sword and bayonet
Ceased their fierce work. Another trumpet yet!
And like the roar of a pine forest, came
A thousand horsemen. Many a heart grew tame
With doubt and fear. Not long was the delay,
For, as they came, like the hoarse thunder's bay,
A thousand voices shouted “Libertad!”
Blas and Bernal their shattered squadrons led
To either side, and down the horsemen came.
Alvarez knew that eye of flashing flame
That glittered in the front, and grew again
Strong as a lion maddened by sharp pain.
Two leaders came careering in the front,
Foremost to meet the battle's fiery brunt.
The one he knew: the other, who was he?
On the black squadrons came: that charge of fire
What troops could stand? Not those who there withstood.
That coal-black steed was soon streaked o'er with blood;
Those serried riders rode down horse and man,
As trees are crushed before the hurricane.
In silence did they their fierce work of death,—
No shout, no cry, no wasting idle breath,—
But sudden wheel and fiery charge wherever
Their leader motioned,—he whose sabre never
Struck vainly in that fight,—whose arm ne'er slacked;
Whose course with dead and wounded wide was tracked.
Short was the contest: Alvarez once more
The shattered foe his bayonets drove before;
And Blas had gathered quickly in the rear
Of the black squadrons, and was charging near
Their silent captain; till, like foam and spray,
Melting before the tempest's wrath away,
The routed foe at all points fought no more,
But fled the field, in utter rout, before
The bloody tide of battle.

[OMITTED]

Valverde's day at last had come;
And every hot and hissing bomb,
That flew as if in savage glee,
Into the city of the sea,
Filled with fierce triumph his wild heart.
Shortly that proud and gorgeous mart,
The King's last stronghold in the land,
Was one wide wreck and ruin, and
They took it one bright day by storm.

[OMITTED]

Through the long, dreary solitudes
Of the wide streets all day there fell
The tramp of the stern sentinel,
Who kept his steady pace among
The broken rafters, and the throng,
Of lifeless corpses; and thick smoke,
Which from the smouldering ruins broke,
O'er wounded men, whose piteous moans,
Rose from blood-dabbled pavement stones.
Valverde's victory was won,
And he had wreaked his will upon
The golden city, which had flung
Him out to starve and die among
The icy mountains.
Such, oh War!
Thy triumphs and thy trophies are!
Such are the things that earn men fame.
Oh, it should make Ambition tame,
Cause it to strew its starry crown
With dust and ashes; to sit down
And weep the triumphs it has won.
When will such curse be rained upon
This free and happy land of ours?
When will mad Tumult's thunder-showers
Crush our proud cities to the ground?
When the wild cry of Plunder sound
Along our streets?—our dead be piled
Round burning shrines; our hands defiled
With the abomination of
A brother's gore? Oh, God of love!
Avert the day! Thou hast thus far
Warded from our bright natal star
The clouds of suicidal war.
Desert it not, good God! but let
It still in peaceful heavens be set,
To shine upon our homes, and be
A beacon to the struggling free,
Until the last great fight is won,—
Till kings no more fear Liberty,
Nor men remember Washington.

[OMITTED]

Some days had passed. The city was at rest,
After the tumults that had torn its breast.
Carnage no more through street and palace hurried;
The ruins were removed, the dead were buried.
The living tide of busy human life
Again rolled on. Again the streets were rife
With splendor, wealth, pomp, beauty, as before.
The eagle flag was waving proudly o'er
Its domes and palaces; and here and there,
In the large squares stood the rude barracks, where
The soldiers quartered; and at every turn,
You met a sentinel, grim, silent, stern:
While now and then a sudden trumpet told
The city it was conquered.
From the cold
And snowy hills the golden sun had risen;
His rays rejoiced on dome and spire to glisten,
And danced into Antonia's chamber, through
The painted panes, taking therefrom a hue
Of soft, voluptuous, tender melancholy,
Such as we see within the dim and holy
Monotony of old cathedrals, where
The sanctity seems visible in the air;
Or in those fine old paintings, where you tell
At once the work of Titian or Raffaelle.

In her own room Antonia sate once more
In listless silence. Her pale face still wore
The same sad look of utter desolation,
But there was something of stern elevation
And calm despair in her large, lustrous eyes,
A hopeless calm, that Fate's worst blows defies.
Her maiden dressed her for the bridal there,
And busied in the long, luxuriant hair
Her taper fingers, till she massed it round
A simple comb, and placed a rose or two
Amid the folds, whose white and creamy hue
Made the hair darker. Then Antonia spoke:

“Give over, sweet Rosita! 'Tis enough!
Thy gentle hands, to-night, seem all too rough:
Perhaps it may have been my own poor head
That made me fancy pain. I go to wed
With one who heeds not looks, or else he had
But little judgment in selecting me,
So thin, so wan, so very pale and sad:
He careth not for beauty in a bride.
Nay! let it go so! He hath little pride,
And mighty love,—this future lord of mine.
It needeth not that dextrous art of thine;
When I am married, I shall get good looks,
And health and strength. 'Tis reading in sad books
Makes maidens thin.”

“What books, my lady?”

“Those
Of the deep heart. When wedded, I shall close
The pages up, and will again be well.
I have lost too much sleep of late. The cell
To which I soon shall go hath sleep enough.
Nay, girl! I do not think thy hands are rough:
Weep not at that.”

“Lady, it pains my heart
To see one, sweet and gentle as thou art,
So pale and thin, and using these sad words.
'Tis like the wild note of the anguished birds,
When their hearts break that they have lost their young.”

“Weep on, then! I have wept, but long since flung
The last poor tear-drop from my heart; and now
I cannot weep. Weep on, Rosita! Thou
Art not a bride, or thou wouldst shed no tear.
Nay, thou wouldst laugh, as the glad hour drew near.
See! I can laugh, and do!”

“Dear lady! change
The tenor of thy words! Thy looks are strange;
Thine eyes are brighter, too, than is their wont.
Ah! why do grief and sorrow ever hunt
The best and fairest?”

“Hunted!—yes! 'tis so:—
By many wild-eyed hounds. Rosita! know
I have had strange surmisings in my brain
About my reason; and at times I fain
Could wish for madness, that my utter woe
Might be forgotten in its frenzies. Oh!
Madness would be indeed a very heaven!
For then the sad and tortured heart might even
Moulder away, nor know its swift decline.
Perhaps in frenzy this poor brain of mine
Might entertain sweet dreams, and in them lose
The bitter memory of its many woes.
Oh! I could pray for madness!”

[OMITTED]

He said; and, with one mute obeisance more,
Passed from the Palace, towards the curving shore
Of the great sea turning his thoughtful course.
Night was upon the waters, and the hoarse
Voice of the ocean urged the unquiet winds
To dash upon her like vindictive fiends,
And rend her azure bosom. Far in the west
Tempest and storm sat brooding on her breast;
Clouds lowered along the horizon's gloomy verge,
Like shadowy waves, cresting the thunder-surge,
And constantly the quick, unquiet tongue
Of lightning ran from crest to crest. There rung
No voice of thunder. The white gulls were out,
Wheeling in circles. All betokened storm.

[OMITTED]

Valverde stopped, and, gazing on the waste
Of the great sea, whose waves were shoreward cast,
And now boomed hollowly around his feet,
Uttered his thoughts aloud.

[OMITTED]

What of Antonia, this momentous night?
The waning moon was now some three hours high,
And struggle to unveil her ample eye
From the torn clouds. Through a broad window fell,
At intervals, her gush of silver light
Into Antonia's chamber, through the bright
And varied staining of the gorgeous glass:
Borrowing from it, and from the heavy mass
Of damask curtains, more delicious hues,
And richer tints. There did the maiden muse,
Seated upon the tessellated floor,
In the fickle moonlight. As of one heart-sore,
Her wasted hands were crossed upon her breast,
Thin, and transparent as an amethyst.
Her head hung drooping, like the heavy bud
Of a faint lily. When the abundant flood
Of the rich moonlight fell upon her face
It met in her large eye a changeless gaze,
A ghastly paleness on her brow and cheek,
Which, plainer than all words could do, did speak
Utter despair. Her glossy hair was wet,
And glittered in the moonlight like spun jet.
She had been wandering in the evening dew,
And her rich robes were with it dampened through;
For she had gone at moonrise to the spot
Where Ramon was to be, but found him not.
She waited till she grew heart-sick and faint,
With disappointment, and then sadly bent
Her slow steps homeward. There she sat, and filled
Her soul with strange conjectures, and with wild
And terrible thoughts of what had hindered him.
Then the suspicion, which, at first, a dim
And dreamy idea, undulated through
Her brain, returned, and soon and swiftly grew
Settled conviction;—she believed him gone
To his wild home the distant hills upon.
She shed no tear, when this imagined truth
Came stunningly upon her. For sad youth
Seemed frail old age to her; and calm despair
Had dried the heart's springs; but she gasped for air,
Her aching eyes throbbed, but refused to shed
A single tear. Her bitter woes had led
Her soul to strange, dark, melancholy ways.
There was a slight, but still a palpable haze
Of dull insanity upon her brain.
She shed no tear. Indeed, could one have looked
Into her heart, no single thought rebuked
Her lover for desertion. There she sate,
Utterly crushed, struck down by pitiless fate,
Too crushed for anger. Lightnings glittered through
The painted windows, and their lurid blue
Threw a death color on her pallid face.
The thunder-echoes that did wildly chase
Each other through the sky, smote on her ear
Unheeded, and her eyes closed not in fear,
But glittered in the lightning's blaze, and through
The utter darkness, with a fiery glow.

[OMITTED]

He left the priest at the great altar kneeling,
The organ through the lofty arches pealing,
The bridegroom, cleft to his chin, upon the floor,
The father firmly held outside the door,
Raving as father never raved before.
On one strong arm his lovely mistress lay,
The other opened with his sword a way
Through the dead bridegroom's partisans, to where
His own dark riders in the open air
Waited his coming, ready for the march.

[OMITTED]

The black band left the City of the Sea,
With cheer, and shout, and joyful revelry,
For in the front their Captain slowly rode,
Towards the blue mountains, and their green abode;
And, blushing with delight, his lovely bride
Rode on a gentle palfrey by his side.
And well they understood their Captain's ear,
So occupied, their merriment could not hear,
Though loud and fast and furious it rung:
So, as they rode, this wild descant they sung: