the Spaniards are installing Mendoza, the new governor of Chili, Caupolican celebrates his victory, and lays his trophies at the feet of the beautiful Fresia, who, not less valiant than himself, is delighted at finding, in her lover, the liberator of his country.

Caupolican. Here, beauteous Fresia, rest,
Thy feathered darts resign,

While the bright planet pours a farewell ray,
Gilding the glorious west,

And, as his beams' decline,

Tinges with crimson light th' expiring day.
Lo! where the streamlet on its way,

Soft swelling from its source,

Through flower-enamelled meads

Its murmuring water leads,

And in the ocean ends its gentle course :

Here, Fresia, may'st thou lave

Thy limbs, whose whiteness shames the foaming wave;
Unfold in this retreat

Thy beauties, envied by the queen of night;

The gentle stream shall clasp thee in its arms.

Here bathe thy wearied feet;

The flowerets with delight

Shall stoop to dry them, wondering at thy charms;

The trees a verdant shade shall lend;

From many a songster's throat

Shall swell the harmonious note;

The cool stream to thy form shall bend

Its course, and the enamored sands

Shall yield thee jewels for thy beauteous hands.

All that thou seest around,

My Fresia, is thine own;

This realm of Chili is thy noble dower.

Chased from our sacred ground,

The Spaniard shall for all his crimes atone;

And Charles and Philip's iron reign is o'er;

Hideous and stained with gore,

They fly th' Araucan sword;

Before their ghastly eyes
In dust Valdivia lies;

While, as a god adored,

My bright fame, mounting with the sun, extends Where'er the golden orb his glorious journey bends.

Fresia. Lord of my soul! my bosom's dream!

To thee yon mountains bend

Their proud, aspiring heads;

The nymphs that haunt this stream,

With roses crown'd, their arms extend,

And yield thee offerings from their flow'ry beds.
But ah! no verdant tree that spreads

Its blissful shade, no fountain pure,

No feather'd choir, whose song

Echoes the woods among,

Earth, sea, nor empire, gold nor silver ore,

Could ever to me prove

So rich a treasure as my chieftain's love.

I ask no brighter fame

Than conquest o'er a heart

To whom proud Spain submits her laurelled head; Before whose honored name

Her glories all depart, and victories are fled!

Her terrors all are sped!

The keenness of the sword,
Her arquebuse, whose breath

Flash'd with the fires of death,

And the fierce steed, bearing his steel-clad lord,

A fearful spectre on our startled shore,

Affright our land no more!

Thy spear hath rent the chain

That bound our Indian soil;

Her yoke, so burthen'd by th' oppressor's hand,
That hast thou spurn'd with fierce disdain;
Hast robb'd the spoiler of his spoil,

E

Who sought by craft to subjugate thy land.

Now, brighter days expand!

The joys of peace are ours!

Beneath the branching trees,

Our light-swung hammocks answering to the breeze,
Sweet is our sleep among the leafy bowers;
And, as in ancient times, a calm repose
Attends our blest life to its latest close.

The Indians, however, soon receive intelligence that the Spaniards are advancing against them, and that their god has predicted the approaching defeat of his people. The warriors and chiefs now animate themselves for the combat, by a warlike hymn, of great beauty and spirit, and of a truly original character. At the extremity of the stage, the Spaniards are seen on the ramparts of a fort, where they have sheltered themselves. The Araucanians surround their chiefs; each, in his turn, menaces with vengeance the enemies of his country; the chiefs reply in chorus, and the army interrupts the warlike music by acclamations, shouting the name of their celebrated leader. The wildness and animation that pervade the whole piece, transport us at once into the midst of the savage bands.*

Indian. Hail, chief! twice crown'd by Victory's hands, Victor o'er proud Valdivia's bands,

Conqueror of haughty Villagran.

The Army. Caupolican!

Chorus of Chiefs. New glories wait him with Mendoza's fall,

Triumph and glory wait our battle-call.

*We have modified in our extract the somewhat liberal paraphrase of Roscoe, and brought it closer to the original Spanish.

Indian. The western God, Apo, the Thunderer, comes, Who gave his valiant tribes these fair domains, Spoil'd by the robbers from the ocean-plains, Soon, soon, to fill ignoble tombs,

Slain by the conqueror of Villagran.

The Army. Caupolican!

Chorus. The hero's eye is on thee, tyrant, fly!
No-thou art in his toils and thou must die,

Thou and thine impious, blood-stained clan!
The Army. Caupolican!

Caupolican. yield!

Wretched Castilians! yield,―our victims,

Fate sits upon our arms;

Trust not your walls and towers;-they cannot shield

Your heads from vengeance now,

Your souls from wild alarms!

Indian. See, vengeance on his brow,

The threatening chief of Araucan.

The Army. Caupolican.

Indian. Twine him another laurel crown,

He strikes the Spanish legions down!

The Army. Caupolican!

Tucapel. Bandits! whom treachery and the cruel thirst

Of glittering dust drove to our hapless shores,

Who boast of honor, while your hands are curst
With chains and tortures nature's self deplores;
In iron bondage would ye crush the free,

The martial tribes of Araucan?

Indian. The hero's eye is on ye, tyrants-flee ! Ye tremble at his glance!

The Army. Caupolican!

Reugo. Presumptuous madmen! will ye find The race of Chili weak and blind,

Timorous and crouching, like Peruvian slaves?

Mendoza, who thy flying squadrons saves

When Chilian valor wins the battle-field?

Indian. Arauco's chief shall make the Spaniard yield

And crown his triumph on Andalican.

The Army. Caupolican!