The Mountain Road from Laguayra to Caraccas

Morning upon the lone and silent Pampas,   
Those dewless plains of long and stirless grass   
O’erarched by skies unshadowed by a cloud,   
And all unbroken in their sea-like calm,   
Except where, here and there, a parching palm           
Uprears its barren stem, and marks to sight   
Some space between the mingling earth and heaven,   
Or musky odors of the arid ground   
Thicken the air, amid whose torrid heat   
Rise vapory columns like the smoke of fires!           
Solemn and still those vast savannas reach   
Through level solitudes of countless miles,   
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 mingled jest and repartee,   
And jingling spurs, and swords, 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 tranquil sky   
Was thick o’erlaid with burning stars,   
And oft the breeze that murmured by   
Brought dreamy tones of 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 blazing planets shone above,   
The Southern Cross was all ablaze,—   
’T is long since it then met my gaze!—           
Above us, whispering in the breeze;   
Were many strange, gigantic trees,   
And in their shadow, deep and dark,   
Slept many a pile of mouldering bones;   
For tales of murder fell and stark           
Are told by monumental stones   
Flung by the passer’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 displayed   
A thousand gorgeous hues which met   
In tints that I remember yet,   
But which I may not paint, my skill,           
Alas! would but depict them ill!—   
E’en Claude has never given hints   
On canvas of such splendid tints!   
The mountains which ere dawn of day   
I’d likened unto friars gray,           
Gigantic friars clad in gray,   
Now stood like kings wrapped in the fold   
Of gorgeous clouds around them rolled,   
Their lofty heads all crowned with gold.   
And many a painted bird went by,           
Strange to my unaccustomed eye,   
Its 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 though the morning’s golden gleam   
Had broken some enchanting dream,   
Yet left its soft impression still   
On lofty peak and dancing rill.