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 checks:-- “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! ’Tis vain--we deem the war-feud’s rage A portion of our heritage. Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, Bequeath’d us that undying flame; Hearts that have long been still and cold Yet rule us from their silent mould; And voices, heard on earth no more, Speak to our spirits as of yore. Talk not of mercy!--blood alone The stain of bloodshed may atone; Nought else can pay that mighty debt, The dead forbid us to forget.” He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow There beams more lofty grandeur now; His reverend form, his aged hand, Assume a gesture of command; His voice is awful, and his eye Fill’d with prophetic majesty. “The dead!--and deem’st thou _they_ retain Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain? Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by, Aught but the fearful penalty? And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone For deeds of slaughter may atone? There _hath_ been blood--by Him ’twas shed To expiate every crime who bled; Th’ absolving God, who died to save, And rose in victory from the grave! And by that stainless offering given Alike for all on earth to heaven; By that inevitable hour When death shall vanquish pride and power, And each departing passion’s force Concentrate all in late remorse; And by the day when doom shall be Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee-- The doom that shall not be repeal’d, Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d-- I summon thee, O child of clay! To cast thy darker thoughts away, And meet thy foes in peace and love, As thou wouldst join the blest above.” Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing. Oh, not in vain the pleading cries Of anxious thousands round him rise! He yields: devotion’s mingled sense Of faith, and fear, and penitence, Pervading all his soul, he bows To offer on the cross his vows, And that best incense to the skies, Each evil passion’s sacrifice.