The sachem ceased; the chiefs of every race Lead the bold captives to their destined place; The sun descends, the parting day expires, And earth and heaven display their sparkling fires. Soon the raised altars kindle round the gloom, And call the victims to their vengeful doom; Led to their pyres, in sullen pomp they tread, And sing by turns the triumphs of the dead. Amid the crowd beside his altar stood The youth devoted to the Tiger-god; A beauteous form he rose, of noble grace, The only hope of his illustrious race. His aged sire, for numerous years, had shone The first supporter of the Incan throne; Wise Capac loved the youth, and graced his hand With a fair virgin from a neighboring band; And him the legate prince, in equal prime, Had chose to share his mission round the clime. He mounts the pyre, the flames approach his breath. And thus he wakes the dauntless song of death:
Dark vault of heaven, that greet his daily throne. Where flee the glories of your absent Sun? Ye starry hosts, who kindle from his eye, Can you behold him in the western sky? Or if unseen beneath his watery bed, The wearied God reclines his radiant head, When next his morning steps your courts inflame, And seek on earth for young Azonto's name, Then point these ashes, mark the smoky pile, And say the hero suffer'd with a smile. So shall the Power in vengeance view the place, In crimson clothe his terror-beaming face, Pour swift destruction on these curst abodes, Whelm the grim tribes and all their savage gods.
But ah, forbear to tell my stooping sire His darling hopes have fed a coward fire; Why should he know the tortures of the brave? Why fruitless sorrows bend him to the grave? Nor shalt thou e'er be told, my bridal fair, What silent pangs these panting vitals tear; But blooming still the patient hours employ On the blind hope of future scenes of joy. Now haste, ye fiends of death; the Sire of day In absent slumber gives your malice way; While fainter light these livid flames supply, And short-lived thousands learn of me to die,
He ceased not speaking; when the yell of war Drowns all their death songs in a hideous jar; The cries rebounding from the hillsides pour, And wolves and tigers catch the distant roar. Now more concordant all their voices join, And round the plain they form the festive line; When, to the music of the dismal din, Indignant Zamor bids the dance begin. Dim thro the shadowy fires each changing form Moves like a cloud before an evening storm, When o'er the moon's pale face and starry plain The shifting shades lead on their broken train; The mingling tribes their mazy gambols tread, Till the last groan proclaims the victims dead, Then part the smoky flesh, enjoy the feast, And lose their labors in oblivious rest.