The Telegraph

POETRY.

AYACUCHO.
OR THE PERUVIAN VICTORY.

Oh mother, dearest, weep not now,
When hearts and drums are beating,
When o'er the fair and beautiful brow
The scarf of pride is fleeting.

The scarf of Zaire is on my breast,
From danger's touch to save me
And o'er my polished helmet's crest,
Are fix'd the plumes you gave me.

Oh mother, dearest, while I kneel,
In eager trembling joy
To guard me from the foemen's steel,
Bless thy Peruvian boy.

One foot he in the stirrup placed,
One hand upon the mane—
Sprang lightly to the seat he graced,
And loosed the courser's rein—

And mother, mistress, friend, were soon
In distance left afar :
And e'er on Andes rose the moon,
He fought with Bolivar,

On Ayacucho's glorious field
Man mingled to destroy,
And foremost with his sword and shield
Was Zaire's Peruvian boy.

None saw him at the evening fall,
Nor when the morning came—
A banner was his funeral pall,
: His requiem was his fame.

And one there was who mark'd the plume
His mother's hand had given,
Now dance upon the twilight gloom,
Then from the helmet riven,

And heard a faint expiring cry,
A tone of anguish and of joy,
Oh victory ! the foemen fly !"
From Zaire's Peruvian boy.

Balt. Gazette.