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YOL. 6.]

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CHAP

XI.

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about to speak, to confess she loved wbich were advancing - Never, me.—How beautiful she appeared !- perhaps, did the two colours which I Come, I exclaimed, let me press thee have just been eulogizing, appear with to my heart, soul of my existence, my so triumphant an effect. Her Aushed second life !-Share with me this de- cheeks, her coral lips, her brilliant white light, this rapture.— The moment was teeth, and her alabaster neck, on a back short, but it was transporting; cold ground of verdure, produced the most Reason speedily resumed her empire, beautiful picture that can be conceived. and in the twinkiing of an eye, I grew a We involuntarily stopped to gaze on whole year older;—my heart was cold, her ;-I say nothing of her blue eyes, frozen, and I sunk to the level of the and her dimpled smiles; that would be indifferent multitude who encumbered wandering from my subject, and besides, the earth.

I wish to think on them as seldom as possible. It is enough that I bave given

an excellent example of the superiority How difficult it is to calculate on of pink and white over all other colours, events !—My eagerness to make the and their influence on the happiness of reader acquainted with my system of man. the soul and body, made me relinquish I shall proceed no further to-day.-the description of my bed sooner than I Every other subject must appear insipid intended ; when that is finished, I will every other idea must vanish before resume my journey from the point this.-Í don't even know when I shall wherr I stopped in the preceding chap be able to sit down to write again. ter.-I must beg the reader to recollect, Should I contioue my narrative, and that we left one half of myself holding should the reader wish to see an end of Madame de Hautcastel's portrait, close it, he must address bimself to the angel to the wall, about three paces from my who presides over thought, and entreat bureau.- Jo alluding to my bed, I that he will not again introduce the forgot to advise every man to have pink image of the hillock, among the multiand wbite bed-curtains, if he can possi- tude of unconnected ideas with which bly procure them ; it is certain, that he every moment fills mind. colours have such an influence over us If this precaution be not taken, there as to raise or depress the spirits, accord- is an end of journey. ing as their tiots are gay or sombre. Pink and white are two colours sacred to pleasure and happiness.--Nature, in bestowing them on the rose, bas granted her the crowo of the empire of Flora; and Heaven, to announce a fine day,

The hillock tinges the clouds with these delightful bues.

One day we were ascending a hill by rather a deep path; the beautiful Rosalie was tripping before us :-her

My efforts are all in vain : I find I natural agility seemed to lend her must give up the contest, and halt, in wings, and we found it impossible to spite of myself ; it is a military stakeep pace with her.-She suddenly

tion. stopped to recover breath, and turning round, smiled at the lingering pace with

my

CHAP. XII.

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CHAP. XIII.

Concluded in our next.

CHARACTER OF BOWLES'S POETRY.

From Blackwood's (Ed.) Magazine, Oct. 1819." NEN TEVER were any two poets more would delight to fing the radiance or

unlike each other than Bowles and the mists of fiction over the most comColeridge ; and we believe that the as- mon tale of life—that of the otber sociating principle of contrast has now would clothe even a tale of fiction with recalled to our remembrance the author the saddest and most mournful colours of so many beautiful strains of mere huo of reality. Fear and wonder are the man affection and sensibility, after we attendant spirits of Coleridge-pity aod have been indulging ourselves in the sadness love to walk by the side of wild and wonderful fictions of that ma- Bowles. We have heard-indeed gician. Coleridge appears before us in they themselves have told us—that his native might, only when walking these poets greatly admire the genius of thro' the mistiness of preternatural fear; each other; nor is it surprising that it and even over his pictures of ordinary should be so ; for how delightful must life, and its ordinary emotions, there is it be for Bowles, to leave, at times, the ever and anon the “ glimmer and the “quiet homestead," where his heart gloom” of an imagination that loves to indulges its melancholy dreams of ho. steal away from the earth we inhabit, man life, and to accompany the “winged and to bring back upon it a lovelier, and bard" on bis wild flights into a far-off richer, and more mysterious light, from land !--and how can it be less deligbtthe haunts of another world. Bowles, ful to Coleridge to return from the or the contrary, looks on human life dreary shadowiness of his own baunted with delighted tenderness and love, and regions, back into the bosom of peace, unreservedly opens all the pure and tenderness, and quiet joy! warm aflections of the most amiable of Wo intend, on an early occasion, to hearts, to all those impulses, and im- take a survey of all Mr. Bowles' poetipressions, and joys, and sorrows, which cal works ; for some of them are, we make up the sum of our mortal happi- suspect, not very generally knowo, and ness or misery. He is, beyond doubt, even those which are established in the one of the most pathetic of our English classical poetry of this age, are not so poets. The past is to bim the source of universally familiar as they ought to be the tenderest inspirations; and while to our countrymen in Scotland. Mr. Coleridge summons froin a world of Bowles was a popular poet before any shadows the imaginary beings of his one of the great poets of the day arose, own wild creation, to seize upon, to except Crabbe and Rogers ; and though fascinate, and to enchain our souls in a the engrossing popularity of some late pleasing dread, -Bowles recalls from splendid productions has throwo his death and oblivion the human friends somewhat into the shade, yet, though whom his heart loved in the days of little talked of, we are greatly mistaken old—the human affections that once if they are not very much read—if they flowed purely, peacefully, and beauti- have not a home and an abiding in the fully between them and trusts, for bis heart of England. The extreme grace dominion over the spirits of his readers, and elegance of bis diction, the sweetto thoughts which all human beings ness and occasional richness of his vermay recognise, for they are thoughts sification, and his fresh and teeming which all human beings must, in a imagery, would of themselves be suffigreater or less degree, have experienced. cient to give him a respectable and Coleridge is rich in fancy and imagina- permanent station among our poets ; tion--Bowles in sensibility and tender- but when to these qualities ate added est passion. The genius of the one a pure, natural, and unaffected pathos, * The Missionary, &c. by Rev. W. Bowles. Lon

a subduing tenderness, and a strain of genuine passion, we need not scruple

don, 1819.

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VOL. 6]
Bowles' Missionary, &c.

383 to say that Mr. Bowles possesses more

He heeds uot now, when beautifully bright

The humming-bird is cireling in his sight; of the poetical character than some who

Nor e'en, above his bead, when air is still, enjoy a more splendid reputation, and

Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill ; that while they sink with sinking fashion Bur gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, and caprice, he will rise with rising Rock after rock, in glittering masses pila

To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high pasure and truth.

Gray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky, preseot we shall content ourselves

He cries, 'Oh! if thy spirit yet be fed with quoting a few passages from Mr. To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy deadBowles' last poem, the Missionary - In yonder tract of purest light above,

Dear long-lost object of a father's love, not that we think it, with all its mani

Dost thou abide ? or like a shadow come, fold beauties, by any means his best, Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home, but because we suspect that it is the And passing with the breeze ? or, in the beam least known of all his productions.

Of evening, light the desert mountain stream? We give the author's words in his Orat deep midnight are thine accents heard,

In the sad notes of that melodious bird, preface, in order to explain the ground. Which, as we listen with mysterious dread, work of the subject. “ The circum- Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead ? stance on which this poem is founded, * Perhaps, beyond those summits far away that á Spanish commander, with his Thine eyes yet view the living light of day;

Sad, in the stranger's land, thou may'st sustain army, io South America, was destroy. A weary life of servitude and pain, ed by the Indians, in consequence of with wasted eye gaze on the orient beam, the treachery of his page, who was a

And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream,

Never to hear the summer cocoa wave, native, and that only a priest was saved,

Or weep upon thy father's distant grave.' is taken from history.”

The poem opens with the following We can conceive nothing more nafine description of the scenery of South tural, nor more affectingly beauti! America,

than the following description of the

children of Atacapac, the mountainBeneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, chief. The rosh-roof of an aged Warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes ; high, overhead,

In other days, when, in his manly pride, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,

Two children for a father's fondness viedWhere cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife to wield And Chillan trail'd its smoke and smouldring fires.

His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield, A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest

Oft in the sun,or the magnolia's shade, Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest.

Lightsome of heart as gay of look, they play'd, Summer was in its prime :-the parrot-flocks

Brother and sister : She, along the dew, Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks ;

Blithe as the squirrel of the forest few; The chrysomel and purple butterfly,

Blue rushes wreath'd her head; her dark brown bair Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by ;

Fell, gently listed, on her bosom bare ; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs,

Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made, With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs,

That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade ; The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,

Light was her form; a clasp of silver brac'd The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.

The azure-dyed ichella round her waist ; And look! the cataract that bursts so high,

Her ankles rung with shells, as, unconfin d, As not to mar the deep tranquillity,

She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind, The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,

With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ;

So beautiful in youth, she bounded by. Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews,

Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.

The tame Alpaca stood and lick d her hand ; Check’ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon, She brought him gather'd mous, and lov'd to deck And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,

With tlow'ry twine his tall and stately neck, Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine,

Whilst he with silent gratitude replies, The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,

And bends to her caress his large blue eyes. And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,

These children danc'd together in the shade, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.

Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade; There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens

Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee, white,

The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree; The sunshine darts its interrupted light,

Or through the forest's wildest solitude, And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,

From glen to glen, the marmozet pursued ; With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes. And thought the light of parting day too short,

So smiles the scene ;---but can its smiles impart That call'd them ling‘ring from their daily sport. Aught to console yon mourning Warrior's heart?

In that fair season of awak’ning kic,

When dawning youth and childhood are at strife;

The Chief is interrupted in his meWhen on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands Tiptoe with glist'ning eye and outspread hands;

lancholy musiog by the call of his With airy look, and form and footstep light, countrymen to arms, and their applyAnd glossy locks, and features berry-bright, iog to him as their leader. His address And eye like the young eaglet's, to the ray to the sun is, we thiok, very poetical, of noon unblenching, as he sails away; A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung,

and the concluding lines are characterA small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung,

ized by Mr. Bowles' usual pathos. With slender lance, and feathers, blue and red, That, like the heron's crest, wavid on his head

The Mountain-chief essayed his elab to wield, Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy,

And shook the dust indignant trom the shield. Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy:

Then spoke :Taught by his sire, ev 'n now he drew the bow,

• Chou ! that with thy ling‘ring light Or track'd the jagguar on the morning snow;

Dost warm the world, till all is hushed in night; Startled the Condor on the craggy height;

I look upon thy parting beams, o Sun: Then silent sat, and marked its upward fight,

And say, 'Even thus my course is almost run." Lessening in ether to a speck of white.

• When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave, But when th' impassion'd Chieftain spoke of war,

And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave, Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar

Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire

Below the deep, to unknown words of fire ?
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main,
And the proud banners of insulting Spain-

Yet, tho' thou sinkest, awful, in the main, of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke,

The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train And his red Gods, that wrapt in rolling smoke,

Of stars, that shine with soft and siltot light, Roar'd from the guns-the Boy, with still-drawn

Making so beautiful the brow of night. breath,

Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed, Hung on the wond'rous tale, as mute as death ;

The light of after-faine around shall spread; Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried,

The sons of distant Ocean, when they see O let me perish by my father's side!'

The grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree,

And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave, The Warrior blesses his

young son,

Shall pause and say, . There sleep in dust the brave." and the family retire to repose, when

• All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled !

Stern Guiecubu, angel of the dead, their slumbers are suddenly broken by Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire, the attack of a fierce band of Spaniards, Whose dwelling is beneath the central fire who, notwithstanding the desperate re.

of yonder burning mountain ; who has passed

O'er sistance of the distracted father, bear off, Scattered my summer-leaves that clustered round,

my poor dwelling, and with one fell blast as their prize, bis young son Lautaro. And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground;

Angel of dire despair, o come not nigh, Seven snows had fallen, and seven green summers Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie: passed,

But thou, O mild and gentie spirit, stand, Since here he heard that son's loved accents last.

Angel of hope and peace, at my right hand. Still his beloved daughter soothed his cares, (When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guide While time began to strew with white his ha irs.

My pathluss voyage o'er the unknown tide, Oft as his painted feathers he unbound,

To scenes of endless joy-to that fair isle, Or gazed upon bis hatchet on the ground,

Where bowers of bliss, and soft savannahs smile; Musing with deep despair, nor strove to speak, Where my forefathers oft the fight renew, Light she approached, and climbed to reach his And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue : cheek,

Where, ceased the struggles of all human pain, Held with both hands his forehead, then her head Inny behold thee-thee-my son, again.' Drew smiling back, and kissed the tear he shed. But late, to grief and hopeless love a prey,

The next image presented is the reShe left his side, and wandered far away. pose of the Spanish general's army, Now in this still and sheltered glen that smiled Beneath the crags of precipices wild,

and the reflections that employed bim Wrapt in a stern yet sorrowful repose,

even in sleep, contrasted with the sad The Warrior half forgot his country's woes,- feelings of his page, Lautaro. Forgot how many, impotent to save, Shed their best blood upon a father's grave ;

On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept, How many, torn from wife and children, pine

Thoughtful he turned his waking eyes, and wep! In the dark caverns of the hopeless mine,

And whilst the thronging forms of mem'ry start, Never to see again the blessed morn

Thus holds communion with his lonely heart: Slaves in the lovely land where they were born;

' Land of my Fathers, still I tread your shore, How many, at sad sun-set, with a tear,

And mourn the sbade of hours that are no more: The distant roar of sullen cannon hear,

Whilst night-airs, like remembered voices, sweep. Whilst evening seems, as dies the sound, to throw

And murmur from the undulating deep.
A deadlier stillness on a nation's woe!

Was it thy voice, my Father ?-thou art dead-
The green rush waves on thy forsaken bed.

tear

VOL. 6]
Bowles's Missionary, &c.

385 Was it thy voice, my Sister 1-gentle maid,

So, on he rode : upon his youthful mien Tbou too perbaps in the dark cave art laid :

A mild but sad intelligence was seen : Perhaps even now, thy spirit sees me stand

Courage was on his open brow, yet Care A homeless stranger in my native land :

Seemed like a wandring shade to linger there: Perhaps, e'en now, along the moonlight sea

And though his eye shone, as the eagie's, bright, It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me.

It beamed with humid, melancholy light.
Land of my Fathers, yet- yet forgive
That with iby deadly enemies I live.

In the exultation of the hour, ValThe tenderest ties (it boots not to relate)

divia addresses the attendant youth, Have bound me to their service and their fate :

asking if he thought it possible that Yet whether on Peru's war-wasted plain,

the Indians could withstand such an Or visiting these sacred shores again... Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be...

army as was now before them. The Land of my Fathers, it shall beat for thee ! following is the answer of Lautaro :

The supposed appearance of the . Forgive !-the Youth replied, and checked a Genius of the Audes, which opens

the

• The land where my forefathers sleep, is dear ;second canto, is extremely well-con

My native land ;-this spot of blessed earth, ceived, and the imagery which dis- The scene where I, and all I love, had birth :misses the Spirit possesses great beauty. What gratitude fidelity can give, The military preparations of Valdivia Is yours, my Lord !-you shielded-bade me live, are described in the same style of gran, I had but one, one only friend beside.

When, in the circuit of the world so wide, deur—in particular the war-horse and I bowed-resigned to Fate; I kissed the hand, dress of the general and his page

Red with the best blood of my Father's land! Lautaro.

But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,

Though Cortez' desolating march laid low
The sun ascended to meridian height,

The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico-
And all the northern bastions shone in light : With carcases though proud Pizarro strew
With hoarse acclaim the gong and trumpet runga The Sun's Imperial temple at Peru-
The Moorish slaves aloft the symbals swung- Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave,
When the proud victor, in triumphant state,

And the last spot they lose will be their grave !' Rode forth, in arms, through the port-cullis gate.

With neek high-arching as he smote the ground- Then first, when Valdivia turns And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound

away in anger, and Lautaro retires With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders spread

from the scene, we are introduced to And nostrils blowing, and dilated red

the Missionary. The scenery, in the The coal-black steed, in rich caparison

midst of which staods his Far-trailing to the ground, went proudly on:

oratory, Proudly he tramp'd, as conscious of his charge

again gives occasion for the exercise of And turned around his eye-balls, bright and large, that power of description, which Mr. And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain :

Bowles possesses in a degree equal to And toss'd the flakes, indignant, of his mane : the best poets of his country. We And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressed Proudly against the barb his heaving breast.

give a part which impressed us with the The fate of empires glowing in his thought- most lively pleasure. Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought. On the left side his poised shield he bore,

Just heard to trickle through a covert near, With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er ;

And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,

A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd thru'the stoneCastile's imperial crest illustrious shone:

And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. Blue in the wind th' escutcheoned mantle flowed

Intent his fairy pastime to pursue, O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode.

And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue, The barred vizor raised, you might discern

The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song His elime-changed countenance, tho' pale, yet stern, Heedlessly murmur'd all the summer long, And resolute as death-whilst in his eye

And when the winter came, retir'd to rest, Sat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory.

And from the myrties bung its trembling nest,

No sounds of a contlicting world were neur;
Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride,
Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side

The noise ofocean faintly met the ear,
In Spanish mantie gracefully arrayed :

That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast, Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played :

But dying sounds of passions that were past; His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace,

Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire
Shaded the noon-day sun-beams on his face.

The lessening echoes of the distant choir.
Though passed in tears the day-spring of his youth,
Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth :

The meek and holy character of He in Valdivia owned a nobler friend;

Anselmo is amply expressed in the Kind to protect and mighty to defend.

liaeg22 ATHENEUM, VOL. 6.

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