# A tale of Paraguay/Canto 2

A
TALE OF PARAGUAY
CANTO II.
I.
O thou who listening to the Poet's song Dost yield thy willing spirit to his sway, Look not that I should painfully prolong The sad narration of that fatal day With tragic details: all too true the lay! Nor is my purpose e'er to entertain The heart with useless grief; but as I may, Blend in my calm and meditative strain Consolatory thoughts, the balm for real pain.
II.
Youth or Maiden, whosoe'er thou art, Safe in my guidance may thy spirit be! I wound not wantonly the tender heart: And if sometimes a tear of sympathy Should rise, it will from bitterness be free— Yea, with a healing virtue be endued, As thou in this true tale shalt hear from me Of evils overcome, and grief subdued, And virtues springing up like flowers in solitude.
III.
The unhappy Monnema when thus bereft Sunk not beneath the desolating blow. Widow'd she was: but still her child was left; For him must she sustain the weight of woe, Which else would in that hour have laid her low. Nor wish'd she now the work of death complete: Then only doth the soul of woman know Its proper strength, when love and duty meet; Invincible the heart wherein they have their seat.
IV.
The seamen who upon some coral reef Are cast amid the interminable main, Still cling to life, and hoping for relief Drag on their days of wretchedness and pain. In turtle shells they hoard the scanty rain, And eat its flesh, sundried for lack of fire, Till the weak body can no more sustain Its wants, but sinks beneath its sufferings dire Most miserable man who sees the rest expire!
V.
He lingers there while months and years go by: And holds his hope tho' months and years have past. And still at morning round the farthest sky, And still at eve his eagle glance is cast. If there he may behold the far-off mast Arise, for which he hath not ceased to pray. And if perchance a ship should come at last, And bear him from that dismal bank away, He blesses God that he hath lived to see that day.
VI.
So strong a hold hath life upon the soul, Which sees no dawning of eternal light, But subject to this mortal frame's controul, Forgetful of its origin and right, Content in bondage dwells and utter night. By worthier ties was this poor mother bound To life; even while her grief was at the height, Then in maternal love support she found And in maternal cares a healing for her wound.
VII.
For now her hour is come: a girl is born, Poor infant, all unconscious of its fate, How passing strange, how utterly forlorn! The genial season served to mitigate In all it might their sorrowful estate, Supplying to the mother at her door From neighbouring trees which bent beneath their weight, A full supply of fruitage now mature, So in that time of need their sustenance was sure.
VIII.
Nor then alone, but alway did the Eye Of Mercy look upon that lonely bower. Days past, and weeks; and months and years went by, And never evil thing the while had power To enter there. The boy in sun and shower Rejoicing in his strength to youthhed grew: And Mooma, that beloved girl, a dower Of gentleness from bounteous nature drew, With all that should the heart of womankind imbue.
IX.
The tears which o'er her infancy were shed Profuse, resented not of grief alone: Maternal love their bitterness allay'd, And with a strength and virtue all its own Sustain'd the breaking heart. A look, a tone, A gesture of that innocent babe, in eyes With saddest recollections overflown, Would sometimes make a tender smile arise, Like sunshine breaking thro' a shower in vernal skies.
X.
No looks but those of tenderness were found To turn upon that helpless infant dear; And as her sense unfolded, never sound Of wrath or discord brake upon her ear. Her soul its native purity sincere Possess'd, by no example here defiled; From envious passions free, exempt from fear, Unknowing of all ill, amid the wild Beloving and beloved she grew, a happy child.
XI.
Yea, where that solitary bower was placed, Tho' all unlike to Paradise the scene, (A wide circumference of woodlands waste:) Something of what in Eden might have been Was shadowed there imperfectly, I ween, In this fair creature: safe from all offence, Expanding like a shelter'd plant serene, Evils that fret and stain being far from thence, Her heart in peace and joy retain'd its innocence.
XII.
At first the infant to Yeruti proved A cause of wonder and disturbing joy. A stronger tie than that of kindred moved His inmost being, as the happy boy Felt in his heart of hearts without alloy The sense of kind: a fellow creature she, In whom when now she ceased to be a toy For tender sport, his soul rejoiced to see Connatural powers expand, and growing sympathy.
XIII.
For her he cull'd the fairest flowers, and sought Throughout the woods the earliest fruits for her. The cayman's eggs, the honeycomb he brought To this beloved sister,—whatsoe'er, To his poor thought, of delicate or rare The wilds might yield, solicitous to find. They who affirm all natural acts declare Self-love to be the ruler of the mind, Judge from their own mean hearts, and foully wrong mankind.
XIV.
Three souls in whom no selfishness had place Were here: three happy souls, which undefiled. Albeit in darkness, still retain'd a trace Of their celestial origin. The wild Was as a sanctuary where Nature smiled Upon these simple children of her own, And cherishing whate'er was meek and mild, Call'd forth the gentle virtues, such alone, The evils which evoke the stronger being unknown.
XV.
What tho' at birth we bring with us the seed Of sin, a mortal taint,—in heart and will Too surely felt, too plainly shewn in deed,— Our fatal heritage; yet are we still The children of the All Merciful: and ill They teach, who tell us that from hence must flow God's wrath, and then his justice to fulfil, Death everlasting, never-ending woe: O miserable lot of man if it were so!
XVI.
Falsely and impiously teach they who thus Our heavenly Father's holy will misread! In bounty hath the Lord created us, In love redeem'd. From this authentic creed Let no bewildering sophistry impede The heart's entire assent, for God is good. Hold firm this faith, and, in whatever need, Doubt not but thou wilt find thy soul endued With all-sufficing strength of heavenly fortitude!
XVII.
By nature peccable and frail are we, Easily beguiled; to vice, to error prone; But apt for virtue too. Humanity Is not a field where tares and thorns alone Are left to spring; good seed hath there been sown With no unsparing hand. Sometimes the shoot Is choked with weeds, or withers on a stone; But in a kindly soil it strikes its root. And flourisheth, and bringeth forth abundant fruit.
XVIII.
Love, duty, generous feeling, tenderness, Spring in the uncontaminated mind; And these were Mooma's natural dower. Nor less Had liberal Nature to the boy assign'd. Happier herein than if among mankind Their lot had fallen,—oh, certes happier here! That all things tended still more close to bind Their earliest ties, and they from year to year Retain'd a childish heart, fond, simple, and sincere.
XIX.
They had no sad reflection to alloy The calm contentment of the passing day, No foresight to disturb the present joy. Not so with Monnema; albeit the sway Of time had reach'd her heart, and worn away, At length, the grief so deeply seated there, The future often, like a burthen, lay Upon that heart, a cause of secret care And melancholy thought: yet did she not despair.
XX.
Chance from the fellowship of human kind Had cut them off, and chance might reunite. On this poor possibility her mind Reposed; she did not for herself invite The unlikely thought, and cherish with delight The dream of what such change might haply bring; Gladness with hope long since had taken flight From her; she felt that life was on the wing, And happiness like youth has here no second spring.
XXI.
So were her feelings to her lot composed That to herself all change had now been pain. For Time upon her own desires had closed; But in her children as she lived again, For their dear sake she learnt to entertain A wish for human intercourse renew'd; And oftentimes, while they devour'd the strain, Would she beguile their evening solitude With stories strangely told and strangely understood.
XXII.
Little she knew, for little had she seen, And little of traditionary lore Had reach'd her ear; and yet to them I ween Their mother's knowledge seem'd a boundless store. A world it opened to their thoughts; yea more,— Another world beyond this mortal state. Bereft of her they had indeed been poor, Being left to animal sense, degenerate, Mere creatures, they had sunk below the beasts' estate.
XXIII.
The human race, from her they understood, Was not within that lonely hut confined, But distant far beyond their world of wood Were tribes and powerful nations of their kind; And of the old observances which bind People and chiefs, the ties of man and wife, The laws of kin religiously assign'd, Rites, customs, scenes of riotry and strife, And all the strange vicissitudes of savage life.
XXIV.
Wondering they listen to the wonderous tale, But no repining thought such tales excite: Only a wish, if wishes might avail, Was haply felt, with juvenile delight, To mingle in the social dance at night, Where the broad moonshine, level as a flood, O'erspread the plain, and in the silver light, Well-pleased, the placid elders sate and view'd The sport, and seem'd therein to feel their youth renew'd.
XXV.
But when the darker scenes their mother drew, What crimes were wrought when drunken fury raged, What miseries from their fatal discord grew When horde with horde in deadly strife engaged: The rancorous hate with which their wars they waged, The more unnatural horrors which ensued, When, with inveterate vengeance unassuaged, The victors round their slaughtered captives stood, And babes were bro't to dip their little hands in blood:
XXVI.
Horrent they heard; and with her hands the Maid Prest her eyes close as if she strove to blot The hateful image which her mind pourtray'd. The Boy sate silently, intent in thought; Then with a deep-drawn sigh, as if he sought To heave the oppressive feeling from his breast, Complacently compared their harmless lot With such wild life, outrageous and unblest, Securely thus to live, he said, was surely best.
XXVII.
On tales of blood they could not bear to dwell, From such their hearts abhorrent shrunk in fear. Better they liked that Monnema should tell Of things unseen; what power had placed them here, And whence the living spirit came, and where It past, when parted from this mortal mold; Of such mysterious themes with willing ear They heard, devoutly listening while she told Strangely-disfigured truths, and fables feign'd of old.
XXVIII.
By the Great Spirit man was made, she said, His voice it was which peal'd along the sky, And shook the heavens and fill'd the earth with dread. Alone and inaccessible, on high He had his dwelling-place eternally, And Father was his name. This all knew well; But none had seen his face: and if his eye Regarded what upon the earth befell, Or if he cared for man, she knew not:—who could tell?
XXIX.
But this, she said, was sure, that after death There was reward and there was punishment: And that the evil doers, when the breath Of their injurious lives at length was spent, Into all noxious forms abhorr'd were sent, Of beasts and reptiles; so retaining still Their old propensities, on evil bent. They work'd where'er they might their wicked will, The natural foes of men, whom we pursue and kill.
XXX.
Of better spirits, some there were who said That in the grave they had their place of rest. Lightly they laid the earth upon the dead, Lest in its narrow tenement the guest Should suffer underneath such load opprest. But that death surely set the spirit free, Sad proof to them poor Monnema addrest, Drawn from their father's fate; no grave had he Wherein his soul might dwell. This therefore could not be.
XXXI.
Likelier they taught who said that to the Land Of Souls the happy spirit took its flight, A region underneath the sole command Of the Good Power; by him for the upright Appointed and replenish'd with delight; A land where nothing evil ever came, Sorrow, nor pain, nor peril, nor affright, Nor change, nor death; but there the human frame, Untouch'd by age or ill, continued still the same.
XXXII.
Winds would not pierce it there, nor heat nor cold Grieve, nor thirst parch and hunger pine; but there The sun by day its even influence hold With genial warmth, and thro' the unclouded air The moon upon her nightly journey fare: The lakes and fish-full streams are never dry; Trees ever green perpetual fruitage bear; And, wheresoe'er the hunter turns his eye, Water and earth and heaven to him their stores supply.
XXXIII.
And once there was a way to that good land, For in mid-earth a wondrous Tree there grew, By which the adventurer might with foot and hand From branch to branch his upward course pursue; An easy path, if what were said be true, Albeit the ascent was long: and when the height Was gain'd, that blissful region was in view, Wherein the traveller safely might alight, And roam abroad at will, and take his free delight.
XXXIV.
O happy time, when ingress thus was given To the upper world, and at their pleasure they Whose hearts were strong might pass from earth to heaven By their own act and choice! In evil day Mishap had fatally cut off that way, And none may now the Land of Spirits gain, Till from its dear-loved tenement of clay, Violence or age, infirmity and pain Divorce the soul which there full gladly would remain.
XXXV.
Such grievous loss had by their own misdeed Upon the unworthy race of men been brought. An aged woman there who could not speed In fishing, earnestly one day besought Her countrymen, that they of what they caught A portion would upon her wants bestow. They set her hunger and her age at nought, And still to her entreaties answered no, And mock'd her, till they made her heart with rage o'erflow.
XXXVI.
But that old woman by such wanton wrong Inflamed, went hurrying down; and in the pride Of magic power wherein the crone was strong, Her human form infirm she laid aside. Better the Capiguara's limbs supplied A strength accordant to her fierce intent: These she assumed, and, burrowing deep and wide Beneath the Tree, with vicious will, she went, To inflict upon mankind a lasting punishment.
XXXVII.
Downward she wrought her way, and all around Labouring, the solid earth she undermined And loosen'd all the roots; then from the ground Emerging, in her hatred of her kind, Resumed her proper form, and breathed a wind Which gather'd like a tempest round its head: Eftsoon the lofty Tree its top inclined Uptorn with horrible convulsion dread, And over half the world its mighty wreck lay spread.
XXXVIII.
But never scion sprouted from that Tree, Nor seed sprang up; and thus the easy way, Which had till then for young and old been free, Was closed upon the sons of men for aye. The mighty ruin moulder'd where it lay Till not a trace was left; and now in sooth Almost had all remembrance past away. This from the elders she had heard in youth; Some said it was a tale, and some a very truth.
XXXIX.
Nathless departed spirits at their will Could from the land of souls pass to and fro; They come to us in sleep when all is still, Sometimes to warn against the impending blow, Alas! more oft to visit us in woe: Tho' in their presence there was poor relief! And this had sad experience made her know, For when Quiara came, his stay was brief, And waking then, she felt a freshen'd sense of grief.
XL.
Yet to behold his face again, and hear His voice, tho' painful was a deep delight: It was a joy to think that he was near, To see him in the visions of the night,— To know that the departed still requite The love which to their memory still will cling: And tho' he might not bless her waking sight With his dear presence, 'twas a blessed thing That sleep would thus sometimes his actual image bring.
XLI.
Why comes he not to me? Yeruti cries: And Mooma echoing with a sigh the thought, Ask'd why it was that to her longing eyes No dream the image of her father brought? Nor Monnema to solve that question sought In vain, content in ignorance to dwell; Perhaps it was because they knew him not; Perhaps—but sooth she could not answer well; What the departed did, themselves alone could tell.
XLII.
What one tribe held another disbelieved, For all concerning this was dark, she said; Uncertain all, and hard to be received. The dreadful race, from whom their fathers fled, Boasted that even the Country of the Dead Was theirs, and where their Spirits chose to go, The ghosts of other men retired in dread Before the face of that victorious foe; No better, then, the world above, than this below!
XLIII.
What then, alas! if this were true, was death? Only a mournful change from ill to ill! And some there were who said the living breath Would ne'er be taken from us by the will Of the Good Father, but continue still To feed with life the mortal frame he gave, Did not mischance or wicked witchcraft kill;— Evils from which no care avail'd to save, And whereby all were sent to fill the greedy grave.
XLIV.
In vain to counterwork the baleful charm By spells of rival witchcraft was it sought, Less potent was that art to help than harm. No means of safety old experience brought: Nor better fortune did they find who thought From Death, as from some living foe, to fly: For speed or subterfuge avail'd them nought, But wheresoe'er they fled they found him nigh: None ever could elude that unseen enemy.
XLV.
Bootless the boast, and vain the proud intent Of those who hoped, with arrogant display Of arms and force, to scare him from their tent, As if their threatful shouts and fierce array Of war could drive the Invisible away! Sometimes regardless of the sufferer's groan, They dragg'd the dying out and as a prey Exposed him, that content with him alone Death might depart, and thus his fate avert their own.
XLVI.
Depart he might,—but only to return In quest of other victims, soon or late; When they who held this fond belief, would learn, Each by his own inevitable fate, That in the course of man's uncertain state Death is the one and only certain thing. Oh folly then to fly or deprecate That which at last Time, ever on the wing, Certain as day and night, to weary age must bring!
XLVII.
While thus the Matron spake, the youthful twain Listen'd in deep attention, wistfully; Whether with more of wonder or of pain Uneath it were to tell. With steady eye Intent they heard; and when she paused, a sigh Their sorrowful foreboding seem'd to speak: Questions to which she could not give reply Yeruti ask'd; and for that Maiden meek,— Involuntary tears ran down her quiet cheek.
XLVIII.
A different sentiment within them stirr'd, When Monnema recall'd to mind one day, Imperfectly, what she had sometimes heard In childhood, long ago, the Elders say: Almost from memory had it past away,— How there appear'd amid the woodlands men Whom the Great Spirit sent there to convey His gracious will; but little heed she then Had given, and like a dream it now recurr'd again.
XLIX.
But these young questioners from time to time Call'd up the long-forgotten theme anew. Strange men they were, from some remotest clime She said, of different speech, uncouth to view, Having hair upon their face, and white in hue: Across the world of waters wide they came Devotedly the Father's work to do, And seek the Red Men out, and in his name His merciful laws, and love, and promises proclaim.
L.
They served a Maid more beautiful than tongue Could tell, or heart conceive. Of human race, All heavenly as that Virgin was, she sprung; But for her beauty and celestial grace, Being one in whose pure elements no trace Had e'er inhered of sin or mortal stain, The highest Heaven was now her dwelling place; There as a Queen divine she held her reign, And there in endless joy for ever would remain.
LI.
Her feet upon the crescent Moon were set, And, moving in their order round her head, The stars compose her sparkling coronet. There at her breast the Virgin Mother fed A Babe divine, who was to judge the dead, Such power the Spirit gave this awful Child; Severe he was, and in his anger dread, Yet always at his Mother's will grew mild, So well did he obey that Maiden undefiled.
LII.
Sometimes she had descended from above To visit her true votaries, and requite Such as had served her well. And for her love, These bearded men, forsaking all delight, With labour long and dangers infinite, Across the great blue waters came, and sought The Red Men here, to win them, if they might, From bloody ways, rejoiced to profit aught Even when with their own lives the benefit was bought.
LIII.
For trusting in this heavenly Maiden's grace, It was for them a joyful thing to die, As men who went to have their happy place With her, and with that Holy Child, on high, In fields of bliss above the starry sky, In glory, at the Virgin Mother's feet: And all who kept their lessons faithfully An everlasting guerdon there would meet, When Death had led their souls to that celestial seat.
LIV.
On earth they offered, too, an easy life To those who their mild lessons would obey, Exempt from want, from danger, and from strife; And from the forest leading them away, They placed them underneath this Virgin's sway, A numerous fellowship, in peace to dwell; Their high and happy office there to pay Devotions due, which she requited well, Their heavenly Guardian she in whatsoe'er befell.
LV.
Thus, Monnema remember'd, it was told By one who in his hot and headstrong youth Had left her happy service; but when old Lamented oft with unavailing ruth, And thoughts which sharper than a serpent's tooth Pierced him, that he had changed that peaceful place For the fierce freedom and the ways uncouth Of their wild life, and lost that Lady's grace, Wherefore he had no hope to see in Heaven her face.
LVI.
And she remember'd too when first they fled For safety to the farthest solitude Before their cruel foes, and lived in dread That thither too their steps might be pursued By those old enemies athirst for blood; How some among them hoped to see the day When these beloved messengers of good To that lone hiding place might find the way, And them to their abode of blessedness convey.
LVII.
Such tales excited in Yeruti's heart A stirring hope that haply he might meet Some minister of Heaven; and many a part Untrod before of that wild wood retreat, Did he with indefatigable feet Explore; yet ever from the fruitless quest Return'd at evening to his native seat By daily disappointment undeprest,— So buoyant was the hope that fill'd his youthful breast.
LVIII.
At length the hour approach'd that should fulfil His harmless heart's desire, when they shall see Their fellow kind, and take for good or ill The fearful chance, for such it needs must be, Of change from that entire simplicity. Yet wherefore should the thought of change appal? Grief it perhaps might bring, and injury, And death;—but evil never can befall The virtuous, for the Eye of Heaven is over all.