Part 2 (1/2)

”I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done Than to be one of the twenty to follow my own teaching,”

--_Merchant of Venice_.

”Do as I tell you, and not as I do.”

--_Old Saying_.

You say, a ”moral sign-post” I Point out the road towards the sky; And then with glance so very shy You archly ask me, lady, why I hesitate myself to go In the direction which I show?

To answer is an easy task, If you allow me but to ask One little question, sweet, of you:-- 'Tis this: should sign-posts travel too What would bewildered pilgrims do-- Celestial pilgrims, such as you?

A STORY OF THE CARACAS VALLEY.

High-perch'd upon the rocky way, Stands a Posada stern and grey; Which from the valley, seems as if, A condor there had paus'd to 'light And rest upon that lonely cliff, From some stupendous flight; But when the road you gain at length, It seems a ruin'd hold of strength, With archway dark, and bridge of stone, By waving shrubs all overgrown, Which clings 'round that ruin'd gate, Making it look less desolate; For here and there, a wild flower's bloom With brilliant hue relieves the gloom, Which clings 'round that Posada's wall-- A sort of misty funeral pall.

The gulf spann'd by that olden arch Might stop an army's onward march, For dark and dim--far down below-- 'Tis lost amid a torrent's flow; And blending with the eagle's scream Sounds dismally that mountain-stream, That rushes foaming down a fall Which Chamois hunter might appal, Nor shame his manhood, did he shrink In treading on its dizzy brink.

In years long past, ere bridge or wall Had spann'd that gulf and water-fall, 'Tis said--perhaps, an idle tale-- That on the road above the vale Occurred as strange and wild a scene, As ever ballad told, I ween.-- Yes, on this road which seems to be Suspended o'er eternity; So dim--so shadow-like--the vale O'er which it hangs: but to my tale: Once, 'tis well-known, this sunny land Was ravag'd by full many a band Of reckless buccaneers.

Cities were captur'd [2]--old men slain; Trampled the fields of waving cane; Or scatter'd wide the garner'd grain; An hour wrought wreck of years!

Where'er these stern freebooters trod, In hacienda--church of G.o.d-- Or, on the green-enamell'd sod-- They left foot-prints so deep, That but their simple names would start The blood back to each Spanish heart, And make the children weep.

E'en to this day, their many crimes The peasants sing in drowsy rhymes-- On mountain, or on plain; And as they sing, the plaintive song Tells many a deed of guilt and wrong-- Each has a doleful strain!

One glorious morn, it so befell, I heard the tale which I shall tell, At that Posada dark and grey Which stands upon the mountain way, Between Caracas and the sea; So grim--so dark--it seem'd to me Fit place for deed of guilt or sin-- Tho' peaceful peasants dwelt therein.

At midnight we, (my friends and I,) Beneath a tranquil tropic sky, Bestrode our mules and onward rode, Behind the guide who swiftly strode Up the dark mountain side; while we With many a jest and repartee-- With jingling swords, and spurs, and bits-- Made trial of our youthful wits.

Ah! we were gay, for we were young And care had never on us flung-- But, to my tale: the purple sky Was thick overlaid with burning stars, And oft the breeze that murmur'd by, Brought dreamy tones from soft guitars, Until we sank in silence deep.

It was a night for thought not sleep-- It was a night for song and love-- The burning planets shone above-- The Southern Cross was all ablaze-- 'Tis long since it then met my gaze!-- Above us, whisp'ring in the breeze, Were many strange, gigantic trees, And in their shadow, deep and dark, Slept many a pile of mould'ring bones; For tales of murder fell and stark, Are told by monumental stones Flung by the pa.s.ser's hand, until The place grows to a little hill.

Up through the shade we rode, nor spoke, Till suddenly the morning broke.

Beneath we saw in purple shade The mighty sea; above display'd, A thousand gorgeous hues which met In tints that I remember yet; But which I may not paint, my skill, Alas! would but depict it ill-- E'en Claude has never given hints On canvas of such splendid tints!

The mountains, which ere dawn of day I'd liken'd unto friars grey-- Gigantic friars clad in grey-- Stood now like kings, wrapp'd in the fold

[Footnote 2: Panama, Carthagena, Maracaibo, and Chagres, were at various times held by the buccaneers.]

_A Story of the Caracas Valley_.

Of gorgeous clouds around them roll'd-- Their lofty heads all crown'd with gold; And many a painted bird went by Strange to my unaccustom'd eye-- Their plumage mimicking the sky.

O'er many a league, and many a mile-- Crag--pinnacle--and lone defile-- All Nature woke!--woke with a smile-- As tho' the morning's golden gleam Had broken some enchanting dream, But left its soft impression still, On lofty peak and dancing rill.

With many a halt and many a call, At last we saw the rugged wall, And gaz'd upon the ruin'd gate Which even then look'd desolate, For that Posada so forlorn Seem'd sad e'en on so gay a morn!

The heavy gate at length unbarr'd, We rode within the busy yard, Well scatter'd o'er with many a pack; For on that wild, romantic track, The long and heavy-laden trains Toil seaward from the valley's plains.

And often on its silence swells The distant tinkle of the bells, While muleteers' shrill, angry cries From the dim road before you rise; And such were group'd in circles round Playing at monte on the ground; Each swarthy face that met my eye To thought of honesty gave lie.

In each fierce orb there was a spark That few would care to see by dark-- And many a sash I saw gleam thro'

The keen _cuchillo_ into view.

Within; the place was rude enough-- The walls of clay--in color buff-- A pictur'd saint--a cross or so-- A hammock swinging to and fro-- A gittern by the window laid Whereon the morning breezes play'd, And its low tones and broken parts Seem'd like some thoughtless minstrel's arts-- A rugged table in the floor-- Ran thro' this homely _comedor_.

Here, weary as you well may think, An hour or so we made abode, To give our mules both food and drink, Before we took again the road; And honestly, our own repast Was that of monks from lenten fast.

The meal once o'er; our stores replaced; We gather'd where the window fac'd Upon the vale, and gaz'd below Where mists from a mad torrent's flow Were dimly waving to and fro.

Meanwhile, the old guitar replied To the swift fingers of our guide: His voice was deep, and rich, and strong, And he himself a child of song.

At first the music's liquid flow Was soft and plaintive--rich and low; The murmur of a fountain's stream Where sleeping water-lilies dream; Or, like the breathing of love-vows Beneath the shade of orange-boughs; And then more stirring grew his song-- A strain which swept the blood along!

And as he sang, his eyes so sad-- Which lately wore the look of pain, Danc'd with a gleam both proud and glad, Awaken'd by his fervid strain-- His face now flush'd and now grew pale-- The song he sang, was this, my tale.

A fort above Laguayra stands, Which all the town below commands.

The damp moss clings upon its walls-- The rotting drawbridge slowly falls-- Its dreary silentness appalls!