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النشر الإلكتروني

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE BODY

OF HIS FATHER.

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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 toiled in fear.

Thou badest the clouds of night
Inwrap 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 enjoyed.
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 labor 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 hurled,
Thy fires should in lightnings have flashed !

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!
EXETER, 1799.

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 the 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!

We gaze on your warfare in hope, We send up our shouts to encourage your arms: Lift the lance of your vengeance, 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 fulness 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:

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VOL. II.

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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.

SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW.

'Twas the voice of my husband that came on the

gale;
His unappeased Spirit in anger complains :

Rest, rest, Ollanahta, be still !
The day of revenge is at hand.

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