60 Ha! was it not his form--his face--his hair?
Hold, soldier! stern, inhuman soldier, spare! Ha! is it not his blood?
Avenge, he cries, Avenge, my son, these wounds! He faints--he dies! Leave me, dread shadow! Can I then forget My father's look--his voice?
He beckons yet! Now on that glimmering rock I see him stand: Avenge! he cries, and waves his dim-seen hand! Thus mused the youth, distempered and forlorn, When, hark! the sound as of a distant horn 70 Swells o'er the surge! he turned his look around, And still, with many a pause, he heard the sound: It came from yonder rocks; and, list! what strain Breaks on the silence of the sleeping main?
I heard the song of gladness; It seemed but yesterday, But it turned my thoughts to madness, So soon it died away: I sound my sea-shell; but in vain I try To bring back that enchanting harmony! 80 Hark! heard ye not the surges say, Oh! heartless maid, what canst thou do?
O'er the moon-gleaming ocean, I'll wander away, And paddle to Spain in my light canoe! The youth drew near, by the strange accents led, Where in a cave, wild sea-weeds round her head, And holding a large sea-conch in her hand, He saw, with wildering air, an Indian maiden stand.

90 A tattered poncho o'er her shoulders hung; On either side her long black locks were flung; And now by the moon's glimmer, he espies Her high cheek-bones, and bright but hollow eyes.
Lautaro spoke: Oh! say what cruel wrong Weighs on thy heart, maiden, what bodes thy song?
She answered not, but blew her shell again; Then thus renewed the desultory strain: Yes, yes, we must forget! the world is wide; My music now shall be the dashing tide: 100 In the calm of the deep I will frolic and swim-- With the breath of the South o'er the sea-blossom[225] skim.
If ever, stranger, on thy way, Sounds, more than earthly sweet, thy soul should move, It is the youth! Oh! do not say-- That poor Olola died for love.
Lautaro stretched his hand; she said, Adieu! And o'er the glimmering rocks like lightning flew.
He followed, and still heard at distance swell The lessening echoes of that mournful shell.

110 It ceased at once; and now he heard no more Than the sea's murmur dying on the shore.
Olola!--ha! his sister had that name! Oh, horrid fancies! shake not thus his frame! All night he wandered by the desert main, To catch the melancholy sounds again.
No torches blaze in Penco's castled hall That echoed to the midnight festival.
The weary soldiers by their toils oppressed, Had now retired to silence and to rest.

120 The minstrel only, who the song had sung Of noble Cid, as o'er the strings he hung, Upon the instrument had fall'n asleep, Weary, and now was hushed in slumbers deep.
Tracing the scenes long past, in busy dreams Again he wanders by his native streams; Or sits, his evening saraband to sing To the clear Garonne's gentle murmuring.
Cold o'er the fleckered clouds the morning broke Aslant ere from his slumbers he awoke; 130 Still as he sat, nor yet had left the place, The first dim light fell on his pallid face.
He wakes--he gazes round--the dawning day Comes from the deep, in garb of cloudy gray.
The woods with crow of early turkeys ring, The glancing birds beneath the castle sing, And the sole sun his rising orb displays, Radiant and reddening, through the scattered haze.
To recreate the languid sense a while, When earth and ocean wore their sweetest smile, 140 He wandered to the beach: the early air Blew soft, and lifted, as it blew, his hair; Flushed was his cheek; his faded eye, more bright, Shone with a faint but animated light, While the soft morning ray seemed to bestow On his tired mind a transient kindred glow.
As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand, He mused and wandered on the winding strand, At distance tossed upon the tumbling tide, A dark and floating substance he espied.

150 He stood, and where the eddying surges beat, An Indian corse was rolled beneath his feet: The hollow wave retired with sullen sound; The face of that sad corse was to the ground; It seemed a female, by the slender form; He touched the hand--it was no longer warm; He turned its face--O God! that eye, though dim, Seemed with its deadly glare as fixed on him! How sunk his shuddering sense, how changed his hue, When poor Olola in that corse he knew! 160 Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanced; His keen eye, like a startled eagle's glanced: 'Tis she!--he knew her by a mark impressed From earliest infancy beneath her breast.
Oh, my poor sister! when all hopes were past Of meeting, do we meet--thus meet--at last! Then full on Zarinel, as one amazed, With rising wrath and stern suspicion gazed; For Zarinel still knelt upon the sand, And to his forehead pressed the dead maid's hand.