A TRANSLATION.
In 1864, the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin was celebrated with unusual splendor in the Church de la Companiè of Santiago, Chili. In the midst of the ceremonies the draped image of the Virgin caught fire. Almost instantly the flames were communicated to ropes suspending along the ceiling upward of twenty thousand colored lamps. These fell in a rain of fire upon the audience below, burning with the church itself as many as two thousand persons, chiefly young ladies from the higher grades of society.
O’er Santiago’s happy homes
The parting sun delay’d,
And brightly o’er its roofs and domes
In gleams of sunset play’d;
And toward the dome most bright came throngs
Of maidens hastening there;
And from them words more sweet than songs
Went pulsing through the air.
They sought that dome because the home
Of God where sins were shriven;
Now under it with splendor fit
Should prayer to Him be given.
Within, a thousand banners bright
Would wave o’er walls ablaze;
And priests, array’d in gold and white,
Like seraphs chant their praise.
Within, the organ’s ardent strains
Would rise with incense rare;
Ah, then, how sweet would be their gains
Who breathed that sweeter air!
Sent upward so their prayers would flow
Like fountains heavenward driven,
That far away would break in spray,
And fall in blessings given.
And soon those thousand banners bright
Did wave o’er walls ablaze;
And priests, array’d in gold and white,
Like seraphs chant their praise—
When up there flared a flame that glared
Athwart the lamp-strung dome;
And hot as hell its red lights fell
To fright their victims home;
And, o’er and o’er, was heard: “The door!”
And cries where fright had striven.
But oh, no more would swing that door,
On throngs against it driven.
Red lips of fire flew to and fro,
And kiss’d each maiden’s cheek;
They blush’d, but oh, too deep the glow!
They kneel’d, but oh, too meek!
Death wrapt them round in robes of flame,
Let loose their streaming hair,
And, when their souls were won, became,
Ash-white, their couch-mate fair.
Anon, the fire was raging higher.
But these to rest were given,
Long ere the bells had wail’d farewells
When out the belfry driven.
To Santiago’s mourning homes
At morn a stranger stray’d,
And found, where once of all those domes
The brightest sunn’d the shade,
Four hundred carts of corpses charr’d,
Two thousand nameless dead,
And scores of thousands weeping hard
For life so sadly fled.
And all around the smoking ground,
Whence all hope else was driven,
With lifted eye, their dome the sky,
Their prayers to God were given.