And swear upon the cross, to cast
Oblivion's mantle o'er the past."
No voice replies—the holy bands
Advance to where yon chieftain stands.
With folded arms and brow of gloom
O'ershadow'd by his floating plume
To him they lift the cross—in vain
He turns—oh! say not with disdain,
But with a mien of haughty grief,
That seeks not, e'en from heaven, relief:
He rends his robes—he sternly speaks—
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks.
"Father! not thus the wounds may close
Inflicted by eternal foes.
Deem'st thou thy mandate can efface
The dread volcano's burning trace?
Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene
Be, smiling, as it once hath been?
No!—for the deeds the sword hath done
Forgiveness is not lightly won;
The words, by hatred spoke, may not
Be, as a summer breeze, forgot!
