The bugles blew, And high in air the sanguine ensigns flew.
The arbalasters{j} next, with cross-bows slung, Marched, whilst the plumed Moors their cymbals swung.
Auxiliar-Indians here, a various train.
With spears and bows, darkened the distant plain; Drums rolled, and fifes re-echoed shrill and clear, 130 At intervals, as near and yet more near, While flags and intermingled halberds shine, The long battalion drew its passing line.
Last rolled the heavy guns, a sable tier, By Indians drawn, with matchmen in the rear; And many a straggling mule and sumpter-train Closed the embattled order on the plain, Till nought beneath the azure sky appears But the projecting points of scarce-discovered spears, Slow up the hill, with floating vapours hoar, 140 Or by the blue lake's long retiring shore, Now seen distinct, through the disparting haze, The glittering file its bannered length displays; Now winding from the woods, again appears The moving line of matchlocks and of spears.
Part seen, part lost; the long illustrious march Circling the swamp, now draws its various arch; And seems, as on it moves, meandering slow, A radiant segment of a living bow.
Five days the Spaniards, trooping in array, 150 O'er plains and headlands, held their eastern way.
On the sixth early dawn, with shuddering awe And horror, in the last defile they saw Ten pendent heads, from which the gore still run, All gashed, and grim, and blackening in the sun.
These were the gallant troop that passed before, The Indians' vast encampment to explore, Led by Del Oro, now with many a wound Pierced, and a headless trunk upon the ground.
The horses startled, as they tramped in blood; 160 The troops a moment half-recoiling stood.
But boots not now to pause, or to retire; Valdivia's eye flashed with indignant fire: Follow! he cried, brave comrades, to the hill! And instant shouts the pealing valley fill.
And now, up to the hill's ascending crest, With animated look and beating breast, He urged his steed; when, wide beneath his eye, He saw, in long expanse, Arauco's valley lie.
Far as the labouring sight could stretch its glance, 170 One undulating mass of club and lance, One animated surface seemed to fill The many-stirring scene from hill to hill: To the deep mass he pointed with his sword, Banner, advance! give out "Castile!" the word.
Instant the files advance, the trumpets bray, And now the host in terrible array, Ranged on the heights that overlook the plain, Has halted! But the task were long and vain 180 To tell what nations, from the seas that roar Round Patagonia's melancholy shore; From forests, brown with everlasting shades; From rocks of sunshine, white with prone cascades; From snowy summits, where the Llama roams, Oft bending o'er the cataract as it foams; From streams whose bridges[229] tremble from the steep; From lakes, in summer's sweetest light asleep; Indians, of sullen brow and giant limb, With clubs terrific, and with aspects grim, 190 Flocked fearless.
When they saw the Spanish line Arrayed, and front to front, descending shine, Burst, instant burst, the universal cry, (Ten thousand spears uplifted to the sky)-- Tyrants, we come to conquer or to die! Grim Mariantu led the Indian force A-left; and, rushing to the foremost horse, Hurled with unerring aim the involving thong, Then fearless sprang amidst the mailed throng.

200 Valdivia saw the horse, entangled, reel, And shouting, as he rode, Castile! Castile! Led on the charge: like a descending flood, It swept, till every spur was black with blood.
His force a-right, where Harratomac led, A thousand spears went hissing overhead, And feathered arrows, of each varying hue, In glancing arch, beneath the sunbeams flew.
Dire was the strife, when ardent Teucapel Advancing in the front of carnage fell.

210 At once, Ongolmo, Elicura, rushed, And swaying their huge clubs together, crushed Horseman and horse; then bathed their hands in gore, And limb from limb the panting carcase tore.
Caupolican, where the main battle bleeds, Hosts and succeeding hosts undaunted leads, Till, torn and shattered by the ceaseless fire, Thousands, with gnashing teeth, and clenched spears, expire.
Pierced by a hundred wounds, Ongolmo lies, And grasps his club terrific as he dies.

220 With breathless expectation, on the height, Lautaro watched the long and dubious fight: Pale and resigned the meek man stood, and pressed More close the holy image to his breast.
Now nearer to the fight Lautaro drew, When on the ground a warrior met his view, Upon whose features memory seemed to trace A faint resemblance of his father's face; O'er him a horseman, with collected might, Raised his uplifted sword, in act to smite, 230 When the youth springing on, without a word, Snatched from a soldier's wearied grasp his sword, And smote the horseman through the crest: a yell Of triumph burst, as to the ground he fell.
Lautaro{k} shouted, On! brave brothers, on! Scatter them like the snow!--the day is won! Lo, I! Lautaro{k},--Attacapac's son! The Indians turn: again the battle bleeds, Cleft are the helms and crushed the struggling steeds.
The bugle sounds, and faint with toil and heat, 240 Some straggling horsemen to the hills retreat.
Stand, brave companions! bold Valdivia cried, And shook his sword, in recent carnage dyed; Oh! droop not--droop not yet--all is not o'er-- Brave, faithful friends, one glorious sally more.
Where is Lautaro! leaps his willing sword Now to avenge his long-indulgent lord! He waited not for answer, but again Spurred to the centre of the horrid plain.
Clubs, arrows, spears, the spot of death inclose, 250 And fainter now the Spanish shouts arose.
'Mid ghastly heaps of many a bleeding corse, Lies the caparisoned and dying horse.
While still the rushing multitudes assail, Vain is the fiery tube, the twisted mail! The Spanish horsemen faint; long yells resound, As the dragged ensign trails the gory ground: Shout, for the chief is seized!--a thousand cries Burst forth--Valdivia! for the sacrifice! And lo, in silent dignity resigned, 260 The meek Anselmo, led in bonds, behind! His hand upon his breast, young Zarinel Amidst a group of mangled Indians fell; The spear that to his heart a passage found Left poor Olola's hair within the wound.
Now all is hushed, save where, at times, alone, Deep midnight listens to a distant moan; Save where the condors clamour, overhead, And strike with sounding beaks the helmets of the dead.
[226] It may be necessary here to say, that whenever the Spaniards founded a city, after the immediate walls of defence, their first object was to build a church, and to have, with as much pomp as possible, the ecclesiastical services performed.

Hence the cathedrals founded by them in America were of transcendent beauty and magnificence.
[227] Almagro, who first penetrated into Chili, was afterwards strangled.
[228] Pizarro was assassinated.
[229] Rude hanging bridges, constructed by the natives.
CANTO EIGHTH.
ARGUMENT.
Indian festival for victory--Old Warrior brought in wounded-- Recognises his long-lost son, and dies--Discovery--Conclusion with the Old Warrior's funeral, and prophetic oration by the Missionary.
The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shed One ray of glory on the patriot-dead.
Round the dark stone, the victor-chiefs behold! Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold! There stands the brave Caupolican, the pride Of Chili, young Lautaro, by his side! Near the grim circle, pendent from the wood, Twelve hundred Spanish heads are dripping blood.
Shrill sound the notes of death: in festive dance, The Indian maids with myrtle boughs advance; 10 The tinkling sea-shells on their ancles ring, As, hailing thus the victor-youth, they sing:-- SONG OF INDIAN MAIDS.
Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave! The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save, When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain, And the ghosts of our fathers looked down on the slain! 'Twas eve, and the noise of the battle was o'er, Five thousand brave warriors were cold in their gore; When, in front, young Lautaro invincible stood, And the horses and iron-men rolled in their blood! As the snows of the mountain are swept by the blast, The earthquake of death o'er the white men has passed; Shout, Chili, in triumph! the battle is won, And we dance round the heads that are black in the sun! Lautaro, as if wrapt in thought profound, Oft turned an anxious look inquiring round.
He is not here!--Say, does my father live?
15 Ere eager voices could an answer give, With faltering footsteps and declining head, And slowly by an aged Indian led, Wounded and weak the mountain chief appears: Live, live! Lautaro cried, with bursting tears, 20 And fell upon his neck, and, kissing, pressed, With folding arms, his gray hairs to his breast.
Oh, live! I am thy son--thy long-lost child! The warrior raised his look, and faintly smiled; Chili, my country, is avenged! he cried: My son!--then sunk upon a shield--and died.
Lautaro knelt beside him, as he bowed, And kissed his bleeding breast, and wept aloud.
The sounds of sadness through the circle ran, When thus, with lifted axe, Caupolican: 30 What, for our fathers, brothers, children, slain, Canst thou repay, ruthless, inhuman Spain?
Here, on the scene with recent slaughter red, To sooth the spirits of the brave who bled, Raise we, to-day, the war-feast of the dead.
Bring forth the chief in bonds! Fathers, to-day Devote we to our gods the noblest prey! Lautaro turned his eyes, and, gazing round, Beheld Valdivia and Anselmo bound! One stood in arms, as with a stern despair, 40 His helmet cleft in twain, his temples bare, Where streaks of blood that dropped upon his mail, Served but to show his face more deadly pale: His eyebrows, dark and resolute, he bent, And stood, composed, to wait the dire event.
Still on the cross his looks Anselmo cast, As if all thought of this vain world was passed, And in a world of light, without a shade, Ev'n now his meek and guileless spirit strayed.
Where stood the Spanish chief, a muttering sound 50 Rose, and each club was lifted from the ground; When, starting from his father's corse, his sword Waving before his once-triumphant lord, Lautaro cried, My breast shall meet the blow: But save--save him, to whom my life I owe! Valdivia marked him with unmoving eye, Then looked upon his bonds, nor deigned reply; When Harratomac, stealing with slow pace, And lifting high his iron-jagged mace, Smote him to earth; a thousand voices rose, 60 Mingled with shouts and yells, So fall our foes! Lautaro gave to tears a moment's space, As black in death he marked Valdivia's face, Then cried--Chiefs, friends, and thou, Caupolican, Oh, spare this innocent and holy man! He never sailed, rapacious, o'er the deep, The gold of blood-polluted lands to heap; He never gave the armed hosts his aid, But meekly to the Mighty Spirit prayed, That in all lands the sounds of woe might cease, 70 And brothers of the wide world dwell in peace! The victor-youth saw generous sympathy Already steal to every warrior's eye; Then thus again: Oh, if this filial tear Bear witness my own father was most dear; If this uplifted arm, this bleeding steel Speak for my country what I felt and feel; If, at this hour, I meet her high applause, While my heart beats still ardent in her cause;-- Hear, and forgive these tears that grateful flow, 80 Oh! hear, how much to this poor man I owe! I was a child--when to my sire's abode, In Chillan's vale, the armed horsemen rode: Me, whilst my father cold and breathless lay, Far off the crested soldiers bore away, And for a captive sold.