ART. III: The Missionary; a Poem.

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Boards. Murray. 1813.

Crown 8vo. s. 6d.

OVEL and supremely attractive to the epic muse as is the scene beyond the Atlantic wave, it may at first be a matter of wonder that she has been so tardy in making it the theatre of enterprize. Our recent intercourse with Spain, however, and our generous and magnanimous exertions for her deliverance, have brought her literature into a kind of fashion among us, and led to a more intimate acquaintance with those of her historians and poets who have recorded or sung her exploits in the southern world. Of all the provinces of this vast continent, that of Chili, the scene of the poem before us, stands unrivalled for the picturesque beauty and grandeur of its landscape; and the author, having made himself well acquainted with his subject, has by appropriate descriptions transported us to the flowery glens and stupendous mountains of Spanish America. He states, in a short preface, that the tale, to which he has given the title of the Missionary, is founded on a fact men'tioned in all the histories of that country, and is made the subject of a poem by Alonzo d'Ercilla y Cuniga, a Spanish poet; viz.That, at the battle of Arauco in Chili, the Spaniards, under Valdivia, were destroyed by the Indians, and the victory gained in consequence of the treachery of Valdivia's page, a native of Chili, who, in the most critical moment of the engagement, turned against his master, animated his countrymen, and became afterwards the most renowned leader of the Indians against the invaders of their country.' It is added, The same histories relate, that at this battle, Valdivia, and an old priest, his confessor, who was present, were the only persons taken alive.'-Garcilasso, from whom all other accounts are borrowed, briefly says, "The governor Pedro de Valdivia, and a priest that was with him, they took alive and tied them to trees until they had dispatched all the rest, that they might, in cool blood, consider with what death they should punish them."

The priest mentioned in this extract is the Missionary (Anselmo) of the poem before us; who, having been sent from Spain to the New World, occupied a hermitage in Chili, at the period at which the adventures recorded took place, and who plays a conspicuous part in the drama. By him an old Indian warrior's lost son, Lautaro, now Valdivia's attendant, had been educated, and introduced to the Christian faith, after having been taken by the Spaniards in early youth.

With a description of a beautiful valley at the foot of the Andes, the residence of the old warrior, father of Lautaro,

the

the poem opens; and, from this specimen of the author's powers, the reader will anticipate the entertainment which is

in reserve :

Beneath aërial cliffs, and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain-tribes: high, overhead,
Huge Andes' snows, all desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

And Chillan trail'd its smoke, and smould'ring fires.

A glen beneath,-a lonely spot of rest,-
Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest.
• Summer is in its prime; the parrot-flocks
Darken the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,
Amid the clear blue light are wand'ring by;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs,
With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs,
And all the farther woods and thickets ring,
So loud the cureu+ and the thencat sing.

In such a spot, by frozen summits bound,
That wintry wilds and solitudes surround,
Bidding the world's tempestuous noise farewell,
Meulen, the gentlest fay of earth, might dwell,
And listen only, as the green leaves move,
To sounds which quietude and nature love.
And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;
Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews,
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.

Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon,
And arching the grey rock with wild festoon,

The chrysomela is a beautiful insect, of which the young women of Chili make necklaces.'

+ Birds of Chili, remarkable for the melody, richness, and compass of their notes.'

The thenca (turdus Thenca) is considered by Molina as a variety of the Virginian thrush, (turdus Poliglottus,) called the Four-hundred-tongues, from the variety of its notes.

Every warrior of Chili, according to Molina, has his attendant "nymph" or fairy,-the belief of which is nearly similar to the popular and poetical idea of those beings in Europe.-Meulen is the benevolent spirit.'

Here,

*

Here, its gay net-work and fantastic twine,
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.

There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white,
The sunshine darts its interrupted light,

And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,
With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes.

So smiles the scene;-but can its smiles impart
Aught to console the mourning master's heart?
He heeds not now, when beautifully bright,
The humming-bird is circling in his sight;
Nor e'en, above his head when air is still,
Hears the green wood-pecker's resounding bill;
But gazing on the rocks and mountains wild,
Rock after rock, in glittering masses pil'd
To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high
Grey smoke whose column stains the middle sky,
He cries, "Oh! if thy spirit yet be fled
To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead,
In yonder tract of purest light above,
Dear long-lost object of a father's love,
Dost thou abide ? or in the rainbow come,
Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home,
And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam
Of evening, light the desert mountain-stream?
Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard,
In the sad notes of that melodious bird,
Which, as we listen with mysterious dread,
Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead?

These rocks, these woods, these shades, dost thou behold?
This glen, and me,me, desolate and old?

"Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away,

Thine eyes yet view the living light of day;
Sad, in the stranger's land, thou may'st sustain
A weary life of servitude and pain,

With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,
And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream,
Never to hear the summer cocoa wave,

Or weep upon thy father's distant grave.""

As he is relating his grief, a scout of war appears to inform him of the resolution of the warriors to assemble, and to in

* A most beautiful climbing plant. The vine is of the size of pack-thread: it climbs on the trees without attaching itself to them: when it reaches the top, it descends perpendicularly; and as it continues to grow, it extends itself from tree to tree, until it offers to the eye a confused tissue, exhibiting some resemblance to the rigging of a ship.-Molina.'

vite him to meet the other chiefs at a sacrifice.

On this sum

mons, the old warrior calls together his tribe, and addresses the Setting Sun. The scene then shifts to the Spanish camp, where Lautaro, the lost son of the old warrior, is introduced; who, with the missionary, attends Valdivia in the expedition to Chili, his native country, supposing his father to have been killed. The first canto includes one day and part of a night; the second continues through the night and the following day, the scene being still at the Spanish camp. Here Valdivia is offended by an answer of Lautaro to a question respecting the character of his countrymen; and Lautaro, being commanded to retire, repairs to the old missionary for consolation. Ansel- . mo's hermitage and character form a striking portion of this beautiful poem:

Lautaro turn'd, scarce heeding, from the view,
And from the blair of trumps and drums withdrew;
And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell,
Seeks the grey missionary's humble cell.

Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken
Of public view, and sounds of murm'ring men,
Of unhewn roots compos'd, and knarled wood,
A small and rustic Oratory stood:

Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross,
The porch within was lin'd with mantling moss;
A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side
One to admonish seem'd, and one to guide;
This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er ;
And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more.
O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray,

The clust'ring copu weav'd its trellis gay:

Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove
Their aged and fantastic arms above.
In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers,
A dial counted the departing hours,

On which the sweetest light of summer shone,
A rude and brief inscription mark'd the stone:-

"To count, with passing shade, the hours,
I plac'd the dial 'mid the flowers

That, one by one, came forth, and died,
Blooming, and with'ring, round its side.
Mortal, let the sight impart

Its pensive moral to thy heart!"

Just heard to trickle through a covert near,

And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,

A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd through the stone,—
And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone.
Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,

And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,
REV. APRIL, 1814.

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The

The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song
Heedlessly murmur'd, all the summer long,
And when the winter came, retir'd to rest,
And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.
No sounds of a conflicting world were near;
The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,

That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast,
But dying sounds of passions that were past;
Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire
The lessening echoes of the distant choir.

Here, every human sorrow hush'd to rest,
His pale hands meekly cross'd upon his breast,
Anselmo sat: the sun, with west'ring ray,
Just touch'd his temples, and his locks of grey.
There was no worldly feeling in his eye;-
The world to him "was as a thing gone by."

Now, all his features lit, he rais'd his look,
Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book;
And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand,
A tame opossum lick'd his wither'd hand.
That sweetest light of slow-declining day,
Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray,
Seem'd light from heaven, when angels heard his prayers,
Resting a moment on his few grey hairs.

• When the trump echoed to the quiet spot,
He thought upon the world, but mourn'd it not;
Enough if his meek wisdom could controul,
And bend to mercy one proud soldier's soul;
Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod,
He led one erring Indian to his God.

"Whence comes my son ?" with kind complacent look He ask'd, and clos'd again the emboss'd book.

"I come to thee for peace!" the youth replied:
"Oh, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride,
In all the world! — When will its turmoil cease?-
Father, I come to thee for peace,- for peace!"

"Seek peace," the Father cried, " with God above :
In his good time, all will be peace and love. -

Come, and thy wayward thoughts let me reprove."'

In canto three, which occupies the evening of the same day, the missionary tells his affecting story; and we are introduced in the fourth canto to the assembly of Indian chiefs round the fire of sacrifice, (as summoned in the first canto,) where the different warriors express their determinations to extirpate the Spaniards or perish in the attempt. The whole of this scene is well sustained. As they are sacrificing a Spanish prisoner, two warriors appear, bringing in a white woman and child saved from a wreck on the shore; who are committed to the care of