With such pure joy the natives view their lord
To the warm wishes of their souls restor'd, 110
As feels the tender child whom force had torn
From his lov'd home, and bruis'd the flower of morn,
When his fond searching eye again beholds
His mother's form, when in her arms she folds
The long lost child, who bathes with tears her face,
And finds his safety in her dear embrace.--
Soon as Almagro heard applauding fame 115
The triumphs of Peruvia, loud proclaim,
Unconquer'd Chili's vale he swift forsakes,
And his bold course to distant Cusco takes;
Shuns Andes' icy shower, its chilling snows,
The arrowy gale that on its summit blows; 120
A burning desart undismay'd he past,
And meets the ardours of the fiery blast.
Now as along the sultry waste they move,
The keenest pang of raging thirst they prove:
No cooling fruit its grateful juice distils, 125
Nor flows one balmy drop from crystal rills;
For nature sickens in th' oppressive beam,
That shrinks the vernal bud, and dries the stream;
While horror, as his giant stature grows,
O'er the drear void his spreading shadow throws.
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