Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

What erring wretch, to Truth and Beauty blind,
Shall dare to satirize the Female Kind,
Since pure affection prompts their anxious care,
Their lovely weakness, and their fond despair?
This fair Barbarian, free from Christian ties,
A noble proof of perfect love supplies,
By kindest words, and floods of tears that roll
From the clear source of her impassion'd soul.

The cheering ardour of the dauntless Chief
Fails to afford her troubled mind relief;
Nor can the ample trench and guarded wall
Preserve her doubtful heart from fear's enthrall:

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Her terrors, rushing with love's mighty force,
Level whatever would impede their course.
She finds no shelter from her cruel doom,
Save the dear refuge of Lautaro's tomb.

Thus their two hearts, where equal passion reign'd,
A fond debate with tender strife maintain'd;
Their differing words alike their love display,
Feed the sweet poison, and augment its sway.

The sleepy soldiers now their stories close,
And stretch'd around their sinking fires repose.
The path in front with centinels was lin'd,
And the high mountain was their guard behind;
But o'er that mountain, with advent'rous tread,
Bold Villagran his silent forces led.
His hasty march with painful toil he made;
Toil is the price that must for fame be paid.
Now near the fort, and halting in its sight,
He waits the coming aid of clearer light.
The stars yet shining, but their fires decay,
And now the reddening East proclaims the day.
Th' advancing troop no Indian eye alarms,
For friendly darkness hover'd o'er their arms;
And on the quarter where the mountain rose,
The careless guard despis'd the thought of foes.
No panting horse their still approach betray'd;
Propitious Fortune lent the Spaniards aid;

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Fortune, who oft bids drowsy Sloth beware,
And lulls to sleep the watchful eye of Care.

When Night's obscure dominion first declines,
And glimmering light the dusky air refines,
The weary guards, who round the wall were plac'd,
Hail the new day, and from their station haste;
Secure of ill, no longer watch they keep,
Quick to forget their nightly toils in sleep:
Thro' all the fort there reign'd a calm profound;
In wine and slumber all its force was drown'd.

The Spanish Chief, who saw the fav'ring hour,
Led on by slow degrees his silent power.
No Indian eyes perceiv'd his near advance;
Fate seem'd to bind them in a cruel trance;
Each in sound slumber draws his easy breath,
Nor feels his slumber will be clos'd by Death.
So blind are mortals to that tyrant's sway,
They deem him distant, while they sink his prey.

Our eager soldiers now no longer halt,
While kind occasion prompts the keen assault;
A shout they raise, terrific, loud, and long,
Swell'd by the voice of all the ardent throng;
Whose ranks, obedient to their Leader's call,
Rush with light ardour o'er th' unguarded wall,
And gain the fort, where Sleep's oppressive weight
Expos'd his wretched victims, blind to fate.

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As villains, conscious of their life impure,
Find in their guilty course no spot secure;
For vice is ever doom'd new fears to feel,
And tremble at each turn of Fortune's wheel;
At every noise, at each alarm that stirs,
Death's penal horror to their mind occurs;
Quick to their arms they fly with wild dismay,
And rush where hasty terror points the way:
So quick the Indians to the tumult came,
With sleep and valour struggling in their frame.
Unaw'd by danger's unexpected sight,
They rouse their fellows, and they rush to fight.
Tho' their brave bosoms are of armour bare,
Their manly hearts their martial rage declare.
No furious odds their gallant souls appal,
But resolute they fly to guard the wall.

It was the season when, with tender care,
Lautaro reason'd with his anxious Fair;
Carest, consol'd, and, in his anger kind,
Mildly reprov'd her weak, mistrusting mind.
Spite of his cheering voice she trembles still;
Severer terrors now her bosom fill:
For sterner sounds their soft debate o'ercome,
Drown'd in the rattle of th' alarming drum.
But not so quick, on Apprehension's wings,
The wretched miser from his pillow springs,

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Whose hoarded gold forbids his mind to rest,
If doubtful noise the nightly thief suggest:
Nor yet so hasty, tho' with terror wild,
Flies the fond mother to her wounded child,
Whose painful cry her shuddering soul alarms,
As flew Lautaro at the sound of arms.
His mantle rapidly around him roll'd,
And, grasping a light sword with hasty hold,
Too eager for his heavier arms to wait,
The fierce Barbarian hurried to the gate.
O faithless Fortune! thou deceitful friend!
Of thy false favours how severe the end!
How quick thou cancell'st, when thy frown appears,
Th' accumulated gifts of long triumphant years!

To aid the Spaniards in their bold emprize,
Four hundred Indians march'd, their firm allies,
Who on the left their line of battle close,
And haste to combat with their painted bows;
Launching adroitly, in their rapid course,
Unnumber'd arrows with unerring force.
As brave Lautaro issued from his tent,
A shaft to meet the sallying Chief was sent;
Thro' his left side (ye valiant, mourn his lot!)
Flew the keen arrow, with such fury shot
It pierc'd his heart, the bravest and the best
That e'er was lodg'd within a human breast.

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Proud of the stroke that laid such valour low,
Death seem'd to glory in th' important blow;
And, that no Mortal might his triumph claim,
In darkness hid the doubtful Archer's name.
Such force the keen resistless weapon found,
It stretch'd the mighty Chieftain on the ground,
And gave large outlet to his ardent blood,
That gush'd apace in a tumultuous flood.
From his sunk cheek its native colour fled;
His sightless eyes roll'd in his ghastly head;
His soul, that felt its glorious hopes o'erthrown,
Retir'd, indignant, to the world unknown.