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the steep ramparts of the high Cordillières, Beyond the dun fogs where the black eagle's eyrie 's, Higher, far higher than the bold craters, like funnels, Whence springs out the lava from its deep boiling tunnels, With wings that hang down, jagged, red in some places, The condor looks silent o'er limitless spaces, Across the New World, to the sun that no longer Blazes bright in his eyes. The shadows grow stronger. Night rolls from the east, against mountains in stories, At whose feet the wild pampas display all their glories, She darkens o'er Chili, its town, and the ocean Which slumbers profound, without ripple or motion; On the continent silent her banner is planted, From the sands to the boulders, up gorges high-slanted From crest unto crest, swell, advance her proud surges, A high-tide of darkness, some power upward urges. On the peak which is topmost, where still a red lustre Stains with a blood-streak the glaciers that shimmer, He waits with a courage he knows how to muster, Alone, like a spectre, growing dimmer and dimmer The blackness that threatens like a sea to surround him: It comes—it is near—at last it has bound him. In the depths of the heavens, on a sudden there lightens The Cross of the South—a pale beacon that brightens!