A tale of Paraguay — Canto 1

Jenner! for ever shall thy honour'd nameAmong the children of mankind be blest,Who by thy skill hast taught us how to tameOne dire disease,—the lamentable pestWhich Africa sent forth to scourge the West,As if in vengeance for her sable broodSo many an age remorselessly opprest.For that most fearful malady subduedReceive a poet's praise, a father's gratitude.

Fair promise be this triumph of an ageWhen Man, with vain desires no longer blind,And wise though late, his only war shall wageAgainst the miseries which afflict mankind.Striving with virtuous heart and strenuous mindTill evil from the earth shall pass away.Lo, this his glorious destiny assign'd!For that blest consummation let us pray,And trust in fervent faith, and labour as we may.

The hideous malady which lost its powerWhen Jenner's art the dire contagion stay'd,Among Columbia's sons, in fatal hour.Across the wide Atlantic wave convey'dIts fiercest form of pestilence display'd:Where'er its deadly course the plague beganVainly the wretched sufferer look'd for aid;Parent from child, and child from parent ran.For tyrannous fear dissolved all natural bonds of man.

A feeble nation of Guarani race,Thinn'd by perpetual wars, but unsubdued,Had taken up at length a resting placeAmong those tracts of lake and swamp and wood,Where Mondai issuing from its solitudeFlows with slow stream to Empalado's bed.It was a region desolate and rude;But thither had the horde for safety fled.And being there conceal'd in peace their lives they led.

There had the tribe a safe asylum foundAmid those marshes wide and woodlands dense,With pathless wilds and waters spread around,And labyrinthine swamps, a sure defenceFrom human foes,—but not from pestilence.The spotted plague appear'd, that direst ill,—How brought among them none could tell, or whence;The mortal seed had lain among them still.And quicken'd now to work the Lord's mysterious will.

Alas, it was no medicable griefWhich herbs might reach! Nor could the juggler's powerWith all his antic mummeries bring relief.Faith might not aid him in that ruling hour,Himself a victim now. The dreadful stourNone could escape, nor aught its force assuage.The marriageable maiden had her dowerFrom death; the strong man sunk beneath its rage,And death cut short the thread of childhood and of age.

No time for customary mourning now;With hand close-clench'd to pluck the rooted hair,To beat the bosom, on the swelling browInflict redoubled blows, and blindly tearThe cheeks, indenting bloody furrows there,The deep-traced signs indelible of woe;Then to some crag, or bank abrupt, repair,And giving grief its scope infuriate, throwThe impatient body thence upon the earth below.

Devices these by poor weak nature taught,Which thus a change of suffering would obtain;And flying from intolerable thoughtAnd piercing recollections, would full fainDistract itself by sense of fleshly painFrom anguish that the soul must else endure.Easier all outward torments to sustain.Than those heart-wounds which only time can cure,And He in whom alone the hopes of man are sure.

None sorrow'd here; the sense of woe was sear'd,When every one endured his own sore ill.The prostrate sufferers neither hoped nor fear'd;The body labour'd, but the heart was still:—So let the conquering malady fulfilIts fatal course, rest cometh at the end!Passive they lay with neither wish nor willFor aught but this; nor did they long attendThat welcome boon from death, the never-failing friend.

Who is there to make ready now the pit,The house that will content from this day forthIts easy tenant? Who in vestments fitShall swathe the sleeper for his bed of earth,Now tractable as when a babe at birth?Who now the ample funeral urn shall knead,And burying it beneath his proper hearthDeposit there with careful hands the dead,And lightly then relay the floor above his head?

Unwept, unshrouded, and unsepulchred,The hammock where they hang, for winding sheetAnd grave suffices the deserted dead:There from the armadillo's searching feetSafer than if within the tomb's retreat.The carrion birds obscene in vain essayTo find that quarry: round and round they beatThe air, but fear to enter for their prey.And from the silent door the jaguar turns away.

But nature for her universal lawHath other surer instruments in store,Whom from the haunts of men no wonted aweWithholds as with a spell. In swarms they pourFrom wood and swamp: and when their work is o'erOn the white bones the mouldering roof will fall;Seeds will take root, and spring in sun and shower;And Mother Earth ere long with her green pall,Resuming to herself the wreck, will cover all.

Oh! better thus with earth to have their part,Than in Egyptian catacombs to lie,Age after age preserved by horrid art.In ghastly image of humanity!Strange pride that with corruption thus would vie!And strange delusion that would thus maintainThe fleshly form, till cycles shall pass by,And in the series of the eternal chain.The spirit come to seek its old abode again.

One pair alone survived the general fate;Left in such drear and mournful solitude,That death might seem a preferable state.Not more deprest the Arkite patriarch stood,When landing first on Ararat he view'd,Where all around the mountain summits lay,Like islands seen amid the boundless flood!Nor our first parents more forlorn than they.Thro' Eden when they took their solitary way.

Alike to them, it seem'd in their despair.Whither they wander'd from the infected spot.Chance might direct their steps: they took no care;Come well or ill to them, it matter'd not!Left as they were in that unhappy lot,The sole survivors they of all their race.They reck'd not when their fate, nor where, nor what.In this resignment to their hopeless case.Indifferent to all choice or circumstance of place.

That palsying stupor past away ere long,And as the spring of health resumed its power,They felt that life was dear, and hope was strong.What marvel! 'Twas with them the morning hour,When bliss appears to be the natural dowerOf all the creatures of this joyous earth;And sorrow fleeting like a vernal showerScarce interrupts the current of our mirth;Such is the happy heart we bring with us at birth.

Tho' of his nature and his boundless loveErring, yet tutor'd by instinctive sense.They rightly deem'd the Power who rules aboveHad saved them from the wasting pestilence.That favouring power would still be their defence:Thus were they by their late deliverance taughtTo place a child-like trust in Providence,And in their state forlorn they found this thoughtOf natural faith with hope and consolation fraught.

And now they built themselves a leafy bower,Amid a glade, slow Mondai's stream beside,Screen'd from the southern blast of piercing power:Not like their native dwelling, long and wide,By skilful toil of numbers edified,The common home of all, their human nest.Where threescore hammocks pendant side by sideWere ranged, and on the ground the fires were drest;Alas that populous hive hath now no living guest!

A few firm stakes they planted in the ground,Circling a norrow space, yet large enow;These strongly interknit they closed aroundWith basket-work of many a pliant bough.The roof was like the sides; the door was low,And rude the hut, and trimm'd with little care,For little heart had they to dress it now;Yet was the humble structure fresh and fair,And soon its inmates found that Love might sojourn there.

Quiara could recall to mind the courseOf twenty summers; perfectly he knewWhate'er his fathers taught of skill or force.Right to the mark his whizzing lance he threw,And from his bow the unerring arrow flewWith fatal aim: and when the laden beeBuzz'd by him in its flight, he could pursueIts path with certain ken, and follow freeUntil he traced the hive in hidden bank or tree.

Of answering years was Monnema, nor lessExpert in all her sex's household ways.The Indian weed she skilfully could dress;And in what depth to drop the yellow maizeShe knew, and when around its stem to raiseThe lighten'd soil; and well could she prepareIts ripen'd seed for food, her proper praise;Or in the embers turn with frequent careIts succulent head yet green, sometimes for daintier fare.

And how to macerate the bark she knew,And draw apart its beaten fibres fine,And bleaching them in sun, and air, and dew;From dry and glossy filaments entwineWith rapid twirl of hand the lengthening line;Next interknitting well the twisted thread,In many an even mesh its knots combine,And shape in tapering length the pensile bed,Light hammock there to hang beneath the leafy shed.

Time had been when expert in works of clayShe lent her hands the swelling urn to mould,And fill'd it for the appointed festal dayWith the beloved beverage which the boldQuaff'd in their triumph and their joy of old:The fruitful cause of many an uproar rude,When in their drunken bravery uncontroll'd,Some bitter jest awoke the dormant feud,And wrath and rage and strife and wounds and death ensued.

These occupations were gone by: the skillWas useless now, which once had been her pride.Content were they, when thirst impell'd, to fillThe dry and hollow gourd from Mondai's side;The river from its sluggish bed suppliedA draught for repetition all unmeet;Howbeit the bodily want was satisfied;No feverish pulse ensued, nor ireful heat,Their days were undisturb'd, their natural sleep was sweet.

She too had learnt in youth how best to trimThe honoured Chief for his triumphal day,And covering with soft gums the obedient limbAnd body, then with feathers overlay,In regular hues disposed, a rich display.Well-pleased the glorious savage stood and eyedThe growing work; then vain of his arrayLook'd with complacent frown from side to side,Stalk'd with elater step, and swell'd with statelier pride.

Feasts and carousals, vanity and strife,Could have no place with them in solitudeTo break the tenor of their even life.Quiara day by day his game pursued,Searching the air, the water, and the wood,With hawk-like eye, and arrow sure as fate;And Monnema prepared the hunter's food:Cast with him here in this forlorn estate,In all things for the man was she a fitting mate.

The Moon had gather'd oft her monthly storeOf light, and oft in darkness left the sky,Since Monnema a growing burthen boreOf life and hope. The appointed weeks go by;And now her hour is come, and none is nighTo help: but human help she needed none.A few short throes endured with scarce a cry,Upon the bank she laid her new-born son.Then slid into the stream, and bathed, and all was done.

Might old observances have there been kept,Then should the husband to that pensile bed,Like one exhausted with the birth have crept,And laying down in feeble guise his head,For many a day been nursed and dietedWith tender care, to childing mothers due.Certes a custom strange, and yet far spreadThro' many a savage tribe, howe'er it grew,And once in the old world known as widely as the new.

This could not then be done; he might not layThe bow and those unerring shafts aside;Nor thro' the appointed weeks forego the prey,Still to be sought amid those regions wide,None being there who should the while provideThat lonely household with their needful food:So still Quiara thro' the forest pliedHis daily task, and in the thickest woodStill laid his snares for birds, and still the chace pursued.

But seldom may such thoughts of mingled joyA father's agitated breast dilate,As when he first beheld that infant boy.Who hath not prov'd it, ill can estimateThe feeling of that stirring hour,—the weightOf that new sense, the thoughtful, pensive bliss.In all the changes of our changeful state,Even from the cradle to the grave, I wis,The heart doth undergo no change so great as this.

A deeper and unwonted feeling fill'dThese parents, gazing on their new born son.Already in their busy hopes they buildOn this frail sand. Now let the seasons run,And let the natural work of time be doneWith them,—for unto them a child is born:And when the hand of Death may reach the one,The other will not now be left to mournA solitary wretch, all utterly forlorn.

Thus Monnema and thus Quiara thought,Tho' each the melancholy thought represt;They could not chuse but feel, yet uttered notThe human feeling, which in hours of restOften would rise, and fill the boding breastWith a dread foretaste of that mournful day,When, at the inexorable Power's behest,The unwilling spirit, called perforce away,Must leave, for ever leave its dear connatural clay.

Link'd as they were, where each to each was all,How might the poor survivor hope to bearThat heaviest loss which one day must befall,Nor sink beneath the weight of his despair.Scarce could the heart even for a moment dareThat miserable time to contemplate,When the dread Messenger should find them there,From whom is no escape,—and reckless Fate,Whom it had bound so close, for ever separate.

Lighter that burthen lay upon the heartWhen this dear babe was born to share their lot;They could endure to think that they must part.Then too a glad consolatory thoughtArose, while gazing on the child they soughtWith hope their dreary prospect to delude,Till they almost believed, as fancy taught,How that from them a tribe should spring renew'd,To people and possess that ample solitude.

Such hope they felt, but felt that whatsoe'erThe undiscoverable to come might prove,Unwise it were to let that bootless careDisturb the present hours of peace and love.For they had gain'd a happiness aboveThe state which in their native horde was known:No outward causes were there here to moveDiscord and alien thoughts; being thus aloneFrom all mankind, their hearts and their desires were one.

Different their love in kind and in degreeFrom what their poor depraved forefathers knew,With whom degenerate instincts were left freeTo take their course, and blindly to pursue,Unheeding they the ills that must ensue,The bent of brute desire. No moral tieBound the hard husband to his servile crewOf wives; and they the chance of change might try,All love destroy'd by such preposterous liberty.

Far other tie this solitary pairIndissolubly bound; true helpmates they,In joy or grief, in weal or woe to share,In sickness or in health, thro' life's long day;And reassuming in their hearts her swayBenignant Nature made the burthen light.It was the Woman's pleasure to obey,The Man's to ease her toil in all he might,So each in serving each obtain'd the best delight.

And as connubial, so parental loveObey'd unerring Nature's order here,For now no force of impious custom stroveAgainst her law;—such as was wont to searThe unhappy heart with usages severe,Till harden'd mothers in the grave could layTheir living babes with no compunctious tear,So monstrous men become, when from the wayOf primal light they turn thro' heathen paths astray.

Deliver'd from this yoke, in them henceforthThe springs of natural love may freely flow:New joys, new virtues with that happy birthAre born, and with the growing infant grow.Source of our purest happiness belowIs that benignant law which hath entwinedDearest delight with strongest duty soThat in the healthy heart and righteous mindEver they co-exist, inseparably combined.

Oh! bliss for them when in that infant faceThey now the unfolding faculties descry,And fondly gazing, trace—or think they traceThe first faint speculation in that eye,Which hitherto hath roll'd in vacancy!Oh! bliss in that soft countenance to seekSome mark of recognition, and espyThe quiet smile which in the innocent cheekOf kindness and of kind its consciousness doth speak!

For him, if born among their native tribe,Some haughty name his parents had thought good,As weening that therewith they should ascribeThe strength of some fierce tenant of the wood,The water, or the serial solitude,Jaguar or vulture, water-wolf or snake.The beast that prowls abroad in search of blood,Or reptile that within the treacherous brakeWaits for the prey, upcoil'd, its hunger to aslake.

Now soften'd as their spirits were by love,Abhorrent from such thoughts they turn'd away;And with a happier feeling, from the dove,They named the child Yeruti. On a dayWhen smiling at his mother's breast in play,They in his tones of murmuring pleasure heardA sweet resemblance of the stock-dove's lay,Fondly they named him from that gentle bird,And soon such happy use endear'd the fitting word.

Days pass, and moons have wex'd and waned, and stillThis dovelet nestled in their leafy bowerObtains increase of sense, and strength and will,As in due order many a latent powerExpands,—humanity's exalted dower:And they while thus the days serenely fledBeheld him flourish like a vigorous flowerWhich lifting from a genial soil its headBy seasonable suns and kindly showers is fed.

Ere long the cares of helpless babyhoodTo the next stage of infancy give place,That age with sense of conscious growth endued,When every gesture hath its proper grace:Then come the unsteady step, the tottering pace;And watchful hopes and emulous thoughts appear;The imitative lips essay to traceTheir words, observant both with eye and ear,In mutilated sounds which parents love to hear.

Serenely thus the seasons pass away;And, oh! how rapidly they seem to flyWith those for whom to-morrow like to-dayGlides on in peaceful uniformity!Five years have since Yeruti's birth gone by,Five happy years;—and ere the Moon which thenHung like a Sylphid's light canoe on highShould fill its circle, Monnema againLaying her burthen down must bear a mother's pain.

Alas, a keener pang before that day,Must by the wretched Monnema be borne!In quest of game Quiara went his wayTo roam the wilds as he was wont, one morn;She look'd in vain at eve for his return.By moonlight thro' the midnight solitudeShe sought him; and she found his garment torn,His bow and useless arrows in the wood,Marks of a jaguar's feet, a broken spear, and blood.