A tale of Paraguay — Canto 3

Amid those marshy woodlands far and wideWhich spread beyond the soaring vulture's eye,There grew on Empalado's southern sideGroves of that tree whose leaves adust supplyThe Spaniards with their daily luxury;A beverage whose salubrious use obtainsThro' many a land of mines and slavery,Even over all La Plata's sea-like plains,And Chili's mountain realm, and proud Peru's domains.

But better for the injured Indian raceHad woods of machineel the land o'erspread:Yea in that tree so blest by Nature's graceA direr curse had they inherited,Than if the Upas there had rear'd its headAnd sent its baleful scyons all around,Blasting where'er its effluent force was shed,In air and water, and the infected ground,All things wherein the breath or sap of life is found.

The poor Guaranies dreamt of no such ill,When for themselves in miserable hour,The virtues of that leaf, with pure good willThey taught their unsuspected visitor,New in the land as yet. They learnt his powerToo soon, which law nor conscience could restrain,A fearless but inhuman conqueror,Heart-hardened by the accursed lust of gain.O fatal thirst of gold! O foul reproach for Spain!

For gold and silver had the Spaniards soughtExploring Paraguay with desperate pains,Their way thro' forests axe in hand they wrought;Drench'd from above by unremitting rainsThey waded over inundated plains,Forward by hope of plunder still allured;So they might one day count their golden gains,They cared not at what cost of sin procured,All dangers they defied, all sufferings they endured.

Barren alike of glory and of goldThat region proved to them; nor would the soilUnto their unindustrious hands unfoldHarvests, the fruit of peace,—and wine and oil,The treasures that repay contented toilWith health and weal; treasures that with them bringNo guilt for priest and penance to assoil,Nor with their venom arm the awaken'd stingOf conscience at that hour when life is vanishing.

But keen of eye in their pursuit of gainThe 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 freeAnd share Potosi's wealth. Nor thence alone,But gold in glad exchange they soon should seeFrom all that once the Incas called their own,Or where the Zippa's power or Zaque's laws were known.

For this, in fact tho' not in name a slave,The Indian from his family was torn;And droves on droves were sent to find a graveIn woods and swamps, by toil severe outworn,No friend at hand to succour or to mourn,In death unpitied, as in life unblest.O miserable race, to slavery born!Yet when we look beyond this world's unrest,More miserable then the oppressors than the opprest.

Often had Kings essay'd to check the illBy edicts not so well enforced as meant;A present power was wanting to fulfilRemote 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 lentThe accursed thing for lucre to maintain:O fatal thirst of gold! O foul reproach for Spain!

O foul reproach! but not for Spain aloneBut for all lands that bear the Christian name!Where'er commercial slavery is known,O shall not Justice trumpet-tongued proclaimThe foul reproach, the black offence the same?Hear, guilty France! and thou, O England, hear!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.

Uncheck'd in Paraguay it ran its course,Till all the gentler children of the landWell nigh had been consumed without remorse.The bolder tribes meantime, whose skilful handHad tamed the horse, in many a warlike bandKept the field well with bow and dreadful spear.And now the Spaniards dared no more withstandTheir force, but in their towns grew pale with fearIf the Mocobio, or the Abipon drew near.

Bear witness, Chaco, thou, from thy domainWith Spanish blood, as erst with Indian, fed!And Corrientes, by whose church the slainWere piled in heaps, till for the gather'd deadOne common grave was dug, one service said!Thou too, Parana, thy sad witness bearFrom shores with many a mournful vestige spread.And monumenta crosses here and thereAnd monumental names that tell where dwellings were!

Nor would with all their power the Kings of Spain,Austrian or Bourbon, have at last avail'dThis torrent of destruction to restrain,And save a people every where assail'dBy men before whose face their courage quail'd,But for the virtuous agency of thoseWho with the Cross alone, when arms had fail'd,Achiev'd a peaceful triumph o'er the foes,And gave that weary land the blessings of repose.

For whensoe'er the Spaniards felt or fear'dAn Indian enemy, they call'd for aidUpon Loyola's sons, now long endear'dTo many a happy tribe, by them convey'dFrom the open wilderness or woodland shade,In towns of happiest polity to dwell.Freely these faithful ministers essay'dThe arduous enterprize, contented wellIf with success they sped, or if as martyrs fell.

And now it chanced some traders who had fell'dThe trees of precious forage far and wideOn Empalado's shore, when they beheldThe inviting woodlands on its northern side,Crost thither in their quest, and there espiedYeruti's footsteps: searching then the shadeAt length a lonely dwelling they descried,And at the thought of hostile hordes dismay'dTo the nearest mission sped and ask'd the Jesuit's aid.

That was a call which ne'er was made in vainUpon Loyola's sons. In ParaguayMuch of injustice had they to complain,Much of neglect; but faithful labourers theyIn the Lord's vineyard, there was no delayWhen summon'd to his work. A little bandOf converts made them ready for the way;Their spiritual father took a cross in handTo be his staff, and forth they went to search the land.

He was a man of rarest qualities,Who to this barbarous region had confinedA spirit with the learned and the wiseWorthy to take its place, and from mankindReceive their homage, to the immortal mindPaid in its just inheritance of fame.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.

It was his evil fortune to beholdThe labours of his painful life destroy'd;His flock which he had brought within the foldDispersed; the work of ages render'd void,And all of good that Paraguay enjoy 'dBy blind and suicidal power o'erthrown.So he the years of his old age employ'd,A faithful chronicler in handing downNames which he loved, and things well worthy to be known.

And thus when exiled from the dear-loved scene,In proud Vienna he beguiled the painOf sad remembrance: and the Empress Queen,That great Teresa, she did not disdainIn gracious mood sometimes to entertainDiscourse with him both pleasurable and sage;And sure a willing ear she well might deignTo one whose tales may equally engageThe wondering mind of youth, the thoughtful heart of age.

But of his native speech because well nighDisuse in him forgetfulness had wrought,In Latin he composed his history;A garrulous, but a lively tale, and fraughtWith matter of delight and food for thought.And if he could in Merlin's glass have seenBy whom his tomes to speak our tongue were taught,The old man would have felt as pleased, I ween,As when he won the ear of that great Empress Queen.

Little he deem'd when with his Indian bandHe thro' the wilds set forth upon his way,A Poet then unborn, and in a landWhich had proscribed his order, should one dayTake up from thence his moralizing lay,And shape a song that, with no fiction drest,Should to his worth its grateful tribute pay,And sinking deep in many an English breast,Foster that faith divine that keeps the heart at rest.

Behold him on his way! the breviaryWhich from his girdle hangs, his only shield;That well-known habit is his panoply,That cross, the only weapon he will wield:By day he bears it for his staff afield,By night it is the pillar of his bed;No other lodging these wild woods can yieldThan earth's hard lap, and rushing overheadA canopy of deep and tangled boughs far spread.

Yet may they not without some cautious careTake up their inn content upon the ground.First it behoves to clear a circle there,And trample down the grass and plantage round,Where many a deadly reptile might be found,Whom with its bright and comfortable heatThe flame would else allure: such plagues aboundIn these thick woods, and therefore must they beatThe earth, and trample well the herbs beneath their feet.

And now they heap dry reeds and broken wood;The spark is struck, the crackling faggots blaze,And cheer that unaccustomed solitude.Soon have they made their frugal meal of maize;In grateful adoration then they raiseThe evening hymn. How solemn in the wildThat sweet accordant strain wherewith they praiseThe Queen of Angels, merciful and mild:Hail, holiest Mary! Maid, and Mother undefiled.

Blame as thou mayest the Papist's erring creed,But not their salutary rite of even!The prayers that from a pious soul proceed,Tho' misdirected, reach the ear of Heaven.Us unto whom a purer faith is given,As our best birthright it behoves to holdThe precious charge. But, oh, beware the leavenWhich makes the heart of charity grow cold!We own one Shepherd, we shall be at last one fold.

Thinkest thou the little company who herePour 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 chimeThro' all the happy towns of Paraguay,Where now their brethren in one point of timeJoin in the general prayer, with sympathy sublime?

That to the glorious Mother of their LordWhole Christendom that hour its homage pays?From court and cottage that with one accordAscends the universal strain of praise?Amid the crouded city's restless ways,One reverential thought pervades the throng;The traveller on his lonely road obeysThe sacred hour, and as he fares along,In spirit hears and joins his household's even-song.

What if they think that every prayer enroll'dShall one day in their good account appear;That guardian Angels hover round and foldTheir wings in adoration while they hear;Ministrant Spirits thro' the ethereal sphereWaft it with joy, and to the grateful themeWell pleased, the Mighty Mother bends her ear?A vain delusion this we rightly deem:Yet what they feel is not a mere illusive dream.

That prayer perform'd, around the fire reclinedBeneath the leafy canopy they layTheir limbs: the Indians soon to sleep resign'd;And the good Father with that toilsome dayFatigued, full fain to sleep,—if sleep he may,Whom all tormenting insects there assail;More to be dreaded these than beasts of preyAgainst whom strength may cope, or skill prevail,But art of man against these enemies must fail.

Patience itself that should the sovereign cureFor ills that touch ourselves alone, supply,Lends little aid to one who must endureThis plague: the small tormentors fill the sky,And swarm about their prey: there he must lieAnd suffer while the hours of darkness wear;At times he utters with a deep drawn sighSome name adored, in accents of despairBreathed sorrowfully forth, half murmur and half prayer.

Welcome to him the earliest gleam of light;Welcome to him the earliest sound of day;That from the sufferings of that weary nightReleased, he may resume his willing way,Well pleased again the perils to essayOf that drear wilderness, with hope renew'd;Success will all his labours overpay:A quest like his is cheerfully pursued;The heart is happy still that is intent on good.

And now where Empalado's waters creepThrough low and level shores of woodland wide,They come; prepared to cross the sluggish deep,An ill-shaped coracle of hardest hide,Ruder than ever Cambrian fisher pliedWhere Towey and the salt sea-waters meet,The Indians' launch; they steady it and guide,Winning their way with arms and practised feet,While in the tottering boat the Father keeps his seat.

For three long summer days on every sideThey search in vain the sylvan solitude.The fourth a human footstep is espied,And through the mazes of the pathless woodWith hound-like skill and hawk-like eye pursued;For keen upon their pious quest are theyAs e'er were hunters on the track of blood.Where softer ground or trodden herbs betrayThe slightest mark of man, they there explore the way.

More cautious when more certain of the traceIn silence they proceed; not like a crewOf jovial hunters, who the joyous chaceWith 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.

Nor is their virtuous hope devoid of fear;The perils of that enterprize they know;Some savage horde may have its fastness here,A race to whom a stranger is a foe;Who not for friendly words, nor proffer'd showOf gifts, will peace or parley entertain.If by such hands their blameless blood should flowTo serve the Lamb who for their sins was slain,Blessed indeed their lot, for so to die is gain!

Them thus pursuing where the track may lead,A human voice arrests upon their way.They stop, and thither whence the sounds proceed,All eyes are turn'd in wonder,—not dismay,For sure such sounds might charm all fear away.No nightingale whose brooding mate is nigh,From some sequester'd bower at close of day,No lark rejoicing in the orient skyEver pour'd forth so wild a strain of melody.

The voice which through the ringing forest floatsIs one which having ne'er been taught the skillOf marshaling sweet words to sweeter notes,Utters all unpremeditate, at will,A modulated sequence loud and shrillOf inarticulate and long-breathed sound,Varying its tones with rise and fall and trill,Till all the solitary woods aroundWith that far-piercing power of melody resound.

In mute astonishment attent to hear,As if by some enchantment held, they stood,With bending head, fix'd eye, and eager ear,And hand upraised in warning attitudeTo check all speech or step that might intrudeOn that sweet strain. Them leaving thus spell-bound,A little way alone into the woodThe Father gently moved toward the sound,Treading with quiet feet upon the grassy ground.

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 childOf nature, in her joy was caroling.A heavier heart than his it had beguiledSo to have heard so fair a creature singThe strains which she had learnt from all sweet birds of spring.

For these had been her teachers, these alone;And she in many an emulous essay,At length into a descant of her ownHad blended all their notes, a wild displayOf sounds in rich irregular array;And now as blithe as bird in vernal bower,Pour'd in full flow the unexpressive lay,Rejoicing in her consciousness of power,But in the inborn sense of harmony yet more.

In joy had she begun the ambitious song,With rapid interchange of sink and swell;And sometimes high the note was raised, and longProduced, with shake and effort sensible,As if the voice exulted there to dwell;But when she could no more that pitch sustain,So thrillingly attuned the cadence fell,That with the music of its dying strainShe moved herself to tears of pleasurable pain.

It may be deem'd some dim presage possess'dThe virgin's soul; that some mysterious senseOf change to come, upon her mind impress'd,Had then call'd forth, ere she departed thence,A requiem to their days of innocence.For what thou losest in thy native shadeThere is one change alone that may compense,O Mooma, innocent and simple maid,Only one change, and it will not be long delay'd!

When now the Father issued from the woodInto that little glade in open sight,Like one entranced, beholding him, she stood;Yet had she more of wonder than affright,Yet less of wonder than of dread delight,When thus the actual vision came in view;For instantly the maiden read arightWherefore he came; his garb and beard she knew;All that her mother heard had then indeed been true.

Nor was the Father filled with less surprize;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.

No art of barbarous ornament had scarr'dAnd stain'd her virgin limbs, or 'filed her face:Nor ever yet had evil passion marr'dIn her sweet countenance the natural graceOf innocence and youth; nor was there traceOf 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.

Across her shoulders was a hammock flung,By night it was the maiden's bed, by dayHer only garment. Round her as it hung,In short unequal folds of loose array,The open meshes, when she moves, displayHer form. She stood with fix'd and wondering eyes,And trembling like a leaf upon the spray,Even for excess of joy, with eager criesShe call'd her mother forth to share that glad surprize.

At that unwonted call with quickened paceThe matron hurried thither, half in fear.How strange to Monnema a stranger's face!How strange it was a stranger's voice to hear,How strangely to her disaccustomed earCame 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.

Soon was her melancholy story told,And glad consent unto that Father goodWas given, that they to join his happy foldWould 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.

He comes at length, a happy man, to findHis only dream of hope fulfill'd at last.The sunshine of his all-believing mindThere is no doubt or fear to overcast;No chilling forethought checks his bliss; the pastLeaves no regret for him, and all to comeIs change and wonder and delight. How fastHath busy fancy conjured up a sumOf joys unknown, whereof the expectance makes him dumb!

O happy day, the Messenger of HeavenHath found them in their lonely dwelling place!O happy day, to them it would be givenTo share in that Eternal Mother's grace,And one day see in heaven her glorious faceWhere 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!

Full of such hopes this night they lie 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 blestHath taken its departure. In the breastFast following thoughts and busy fancies throng;Their sleep itself is feverish, and possestWith dreams that to the wakeful mind belong;To Mooma and the youth then first the night seem'd long.

Day comes, and now a first and last farewellTo that fair bower within their native wood,Their quiet nest till now. The bird may dwellHenceforth in safety there, and rear her brood,And beasts and reptiles undisturb'd intrude.Reckless of this, the simple tenants go,Emerging from their peaceful solitude,To mingle with the world,—but not to knowIts crimes, nor to partake its cares, nor feel its woe.