Fanatic fury rears her sullen shrine, 15
Where vultures prey, where venom'd adders twine;
Her savage arm with purple torrents stains
Thy rocking temples, and thy falling fanes;
Her blazing torches flash the mounting fire,
She grasps the sabre, and she lights the pyre; 20
Her voice is thunder, rending the still air,
Her glance the livid light'ning's fatal glare;
Her lips unhallow'd breathe their impious strain,
And pure religion's sacred voice profane;
Whose precepts, pity's mildest deeds approve, 25
Whose law is mercy, and whose soul is love.
Fanatic fury wakes the rising storm--
She wears the stern Valverda's hideous form;
His bosom never felt another's woes,
No shriek of anguish breaks its dark repose. 30
The temple nods--an aged form appears--
He beats his breast--he rends his silver hairs--
Valverda drags him from the blest abode
Where his meek spirit humbly sought its God:
See, to his aid his child, soft Zilia, springs, 35
And steeps in tears the robe to which she clings,
Till bursting from Peruvia's frighted throng,
Two warlike youths impetuous rush'd along;
One, grasp'd his twanging bow with furious air,
While in his troubled eye sat fierce despair.
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