With health and weal; treasures that with them bring No guilt for priest and penance to assoil, Nor with their venom arm the awaken'd sting Of conscience at that hour when life is vanishing. 6. But, keen of eye in their pursuit of gain, The conquerors look'd for lucre in this tree: An annual harvest there might they attain, Without the cost of annual industry. 'Twas but to gather in what there grew free, And share Potosi's wealth. Nor thence alone, But gold in glad exchange they soon should see From all that once the Incas called their own, Or where the Zippa's power or Zaque's laws were known. 7. For this, in fact though not in name a slave, And droves on droves were sent to find a grave Yet when we look beyond this world's unrest, More miserable then the oppressors than the oppress'd. 8. Often had Kings essay'd to check the ill By edicts not so well enforced as meant ; A present power was wanting to fulfil Remote authority's sincere intent. To Avarice, on its present purpose bent, The voice of distant Justice spake in vain; False magistrates and priests their influence lent The accursed thing for lucre to maintain : O fatal thirst of gold! O foul reproach for Spain! 9. O foul reproach! but not for Spain alone, Thou who hast half redeem'd thyself from shame, When slavery from thy realms shall disappear, Then from this guilt, and not till then, wilt thou be clear. 10. Uncheck'd in Paraguay it ran its course, Had tamed the horse, in many a warlike band Their force, but in their towns grew pale with fear, If the Mocobio or the Abipon drew near. 11. Bear witness, Chaco, thou, from thy domain With Spanish blood, as erst with Indian, fed! And Corrientes, by whose church the slain And monumental crosses here and there, were ! 12. Nor would with all their power the Kings of Austrian or Bourbon, have at last avail'd Who with the Cross alone, when arms had fail'd, And gave that weary land the blessings of repose. Achieved a peaceful triumph o'er the foes, 13. For whensoe'er the Spaniards felt or fear'd An Indian enemy, they call'd for aid Upon Loyola's sons, now long endear'd To many a happy tribe, by them convey'd From the open wilderness or woodland shade, In towns of happiest polity to dwell. Freely these faithful ministers essay'd The arduous enterprise, contented well If with success they sped, or if as martyrs fell. 14. And now it chanced some traders, who had fell'd The trees of precious foilage far and wide On Empalado's shore, when they beheld The inviting woodlands on its northern side, Cross'd thither in their quest, and there espied Yeruti's footsteps; searching then the shade, At length a lonely dwelling they descried, And at the thought of hostile hordes dismay'd, To the nearest mission sped, and ask'd the Je suit's aid. 15. That was a call which ne'er was made in vain Upon Loyola's sons. In Paraguay Much of injustice had they to complain, Much of neglect; but faithful labourers they In the Lord's vineyard, there was no delay When summon'd to his work. A little band Of converts made them ready for the way; Their spiritual father took a cross in hand To be his staff, and forth they went to search the land. 16. He was a man of rarest qualities, But he to humbler thoughts his heart inclined; From Gratz, amid the Styrian hills, he came, And Dobrizhoffer was the good man's honour'd name. 17. It was his evil fortune to behold The labours of his painful life destroy'd; His flock, which he had brought within the fold, Dispersed; the work of ages render'd void, And all of good that Paraguay enjoy'd By blind and suicidal Power o'erthrown. So he the years of his old age employ'd, A faithful chronicler in handing down Names which he loved, and things well worthy to be known. 18. And thus, when exiled from the dear-loved scene, In proud Vienna he beguiled the pain Of sad remembrance; and the Empress Queen, That great Teresa, she did not disdain In gracious mood sometimes to entertain Discourse with him both pleasurable and sage; And sure a willing ear she well might deign To one whose tales may equally engage The wondering mind of youth, the thoughtful heart of age. 19. But of his native speech because well nigh The old man would have felt as pleased, I ween, As when he won the ear of that great Empress Queen. 20. Little he deem'd when with his Indian band Behold him on his way! the breviary No other lodging these wild woods can yield Than earth's hard lap, and rustling overhead A canopy of deep and tangled boughs far spread. 22. Yet may they not without some cautious care In these thick woods, and therefore must they beat The earth, and trample well the herbs beneath their feet. 23. And now they heap dry reeds and broken wood: The Queen of Angels, merciful and mild! Which makes the heart of charity grow cold! We own one Shepherd, we shall be at last one fold. 25. Thinkest thou the little company who here Pour forth their hymn devout at close of day, Feel it no aid that those who hold them dear, At the same hour the self-same homage pay, Commending them to Heaven when far away? That the sweet bells are heard in solemn chime Through all the happy towns of Paraguay, Where now their brethren in one point of time Join in the general prayer, with sympathy sublime? 26. That to the glorious Mother of their Lord Whole Christendom that hour its homage pays? From court and cottage that with one accord Ascends the universal strain of praise? Amid the crowded city's restless ways, One reverential thought pervades the throng; The traveller on his lonely road obeys The sacred hour, and as he fares along, In spirit hears and joins his household's even-song. 7. What if they think that every prayer enroll'd Shall one day in their good account appear; That guardian Angels hover round and fold Their wings in adoration while they hear; Ministrant Spirits through the ethereal sphere Waft it with joy, and to the grateful theme, Well pleased, the Mighty Mother bends her ear? A vain delusion this we rightly deem: Yet what they feel is not a mere illusive dream. 28. That prayer perform'd, around the fire reclined Against whom strength may cope, or skill prevail ; But art of man against these enemies must fail. 29. Patience itself, that should the sovereign cure For ills that touch ourselves alone, supply, Lends little aid to one who must endure This plague: the small tormentors fill the sky, And swarm about their prey; there he must lie And suffer while the hours of darkness wear; At times he utters with a deep-drawn sigh Some name adored, in accents of despair Breathed sorrowfully forth, half murmur and half prayer. 30. Welcome to him the earliest gleam of light; Welcome to him the earliest sound of day; That, from the sufferings of that weary night Released, he may resume his willing way, Well pleased again the perils to essay Of that drear wilderness, with hope renew'd: Success with all his labours overpay; A quest like his is cheerfully pursued ; The heart is happy still that is intent on good. 31. And now where Empalado's waters creep While in the tottering boat the Father keeps his seat. 32. For three long summer days on every side sued ; For keen upon their pious quest are they As e'er were hunters on the track of blood. Where softer ground or trodden herbs betray The slightest mark of men, they there explore the way. 33. More cautious when more certain of the trace, In silence they proceed; not like a crew Of jovial hunters, who the joyous chase With hound and horn in open field pursue, Cheering their way with jubilant halloo, And hurrying forward to their spoil desired, The panting game before them, full in view; Humaner thoughts this little band inspired, Yet with a hope as high their gentle hearts were fired. 34. Nor is their virtuous hope devoid of fear; Of gifts, will peace or parley entertain. If by such hands their blameless blood should flow To serve the Lamb who for their sins was slain, Blessed indeed their lot, for so to die is gain! 35. Them, thus pursuing where the track may lead, All eyes are turn'd in wonder,-not dismay, away; No nightingale whose brooding mate is nigh, From some sequester'd bower at close of day, No lark rejoicing in the orient sky, Ever pour'd forth so wild a strain of melody. 36. The voice which through the ringing forest floats Is one which having ne'er been taught the skill Of marshalling sweet words to sweeter notes, Utters all unpremeditate, at will, A modulated sequence, loud and shrill, In mute astonishment attent to hear, To check all speech or step that might intrude On that sweet strain. Them leaving, thus spellbound, A little way alone into the wood The Father gently moved toward the sound, Treading with quiet feet upon the grassy ground. 38. Anon advancing thus the trees between, He saw beside her bower the songstress wild, Not distant far, himself the while unseen. Mooma it was, that happy maiden mild, Who, in the sunshine, like a careless child Of nature, in her joy was caroling. A heavier heart than his it had beguiled So to have heard so fair a creature sing The strains which she had learnt from all sweet birds of spring. 39. For these had been her teachers, these alone; At length into a discant of her own In joy had she begun the ambitious song, But when she could no more that pitch sustain, So thrillingly attuned the cadence fell, That with the music of its dying strain She moved herself to tears of pleasurable pain. 41. It might be deem'd some dim presage possess'd The virgin's soul; that some mysterious sense Of change to come, upon her mind impress'd, Had then call'd forth, e'er she departed thence, A requiem to their days of innocence. For what thou losest in thy native shade There is one change alone that may compense, O Mooma, innocent and simple maid, Only one change, and it will not be long delay'd! 42. When now the Father issued from the wood Like one entranced, beholding him, she stood; All that her mother heard had then indeed been true. 43. Nor was the Father fill'd with less surprise; He too strange fancies well might entertain, When this so fair a creature met his eyes. He might have thought her not of mortal strain; Rather, as bards of yore were wont to feign, A nymph divine of Mondai's secret stream; Or haply of Diana's woodland train; For in her beauty Mooma such might seem, Being less a child of earth than like a poet's dream. 44. No art of barbarous ornament had scarr'd And stain'd her virgin limbs, or 'filed her face; Nor ever yet had evil passion marr'd In her sweet countenance the natural grace Of innocence and youth; nor was there trace Of sorrow, or of hardening want and care. Strange was it in this wild and savage place, Which seem'd to be for beasts a fitting lair, Thus to behold a maid so gentle and so fair. 45. Across her shoulders was a hammock flung; By night it was the maiden's bed, by day Her only garment. Round her as it hung, In short, unequal folds of loose array, The open meshes, when she moves, display Her form. She stood with fix'd and wondering eyes; And trembling like a leaf upon the spray, Even for excess of joy, with eager cries She call'd her mother forth to share that glad surprise. 46. At that unwonted call, with quicken'd pace, Came even the accents of her native tongue! But when she saw her countrymen appear, Tears for that unexpected blessing sprung, And once again she felt as if her heart were young. 47. Soon was her melancholy story told, And glad consent unto that Father good Was given, that they to join his happy fold Would leave with him their forest solitude. Why comes not now Yeruti from the wood? Why tarrieth he so late this blessed day? They long to see their joy in his renew'd, And look impatiently toward his way, And think they hear his step, and chide his long delay. 48. He comes at length, a happy man, to find Leaves no regret for him, and all to come 49. O happy day, the Messenger of Heaven Hath found them in their lonely dwelling-place! O happy day, to them it would be given To share in that Eternal Mother's grace, And one day see in Heaven her glorious face, Where Angels round her mercy-throne adore! Now shall they mingle with the human race, Sequester'd from their fellow-kind no more; O joy of joys supreme! O bliss for them in store! 50. Full of such hopes this night they lay them down, But, not as they were wont, this night to rest. Their old tranquillity of heart is gone; The peace wherewith till now they have been blest Hath taken its departure. In the breast Fast following thoughts and busy fancies throng; Their sleep itself is feverish, and possess'd With dreams that to the wakeful mind belong; To Mooma and the youth then first the night seem'd long. 51. Day comes, and now a first and last farewell dwell Emerging from their peaceful solitude, To mingle with the world,-but not to know Its crimes, nor to partake its cares, nor feel its woe. It was a land of priestcraft, but the Priest Preserv'd a salutary faith that wrought, And make the weal of man its first and only care. 11. Nor lack'd they store of innocent delight, Arches and floral bowers beside the way, And festal tables spread for old and young, Gladness in every heart, and mirth on every tongue. 12. Thou who despisest so debased a fate, |