THE demon of the earthquake passed
With scourge through Andes' table-lands,
And fertile plains were turned to sands,
Huge mountains down their summits cast,
And Nature into one sad night
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Pressed ruins of a thousand years.
A traveller from a foreign shore
Went curious through the country then
To mark the horrors of that blight,
The thoughts and superstitious fears
Such things might raise in untaught men,
And, more than all, to search for gold
Or art unearthed from cellars old,
And relics of forgotten lore.
Where Llanganatis eastward runs
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A Senior's Souvenir.
