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— 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 God —

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 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 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