30
Capac, their gen'rous chief, whose ardent soul
Had sought the rage of battle to controul,
Beheld with keen despair his warriors yield,
And fled indignant from the conquer'd field.
From Cusco now a wretched throng repair, 35
Who tread mid' slaughter'd heaps in mute despair,
O'er some lov'd corse the shroud of earth to spread,
And drop the sacred tear that sooths the dead:
No shriek was heard, for agony supprest
The fond complaints which ease the swelling breast: 40
Each hope for ever lost, they only crave
The deep repose which wraps the shelt'ring grave.
So the meek Lama, lur'd by some decoy
Of man, from all his unembitter'd joy;
Ere while, as free as roves the wand'ring breeze, 45
Meets the hard burden on his bending knees[A];
O'er rocks, and mountains, dark, and waste he goes,
Nor shuns the path where no soft herbage grows;
Till worn with toil, on earth he prostrate lies,
Heeds not the barb'rous lash, but patient dies. 50
Swift o'er the field of death sad Cora flew,
Her infant to his mother's bosom grew;
She seeks her wretched lord, who fled the plain
With the last remnant of his vanquish'd train:
Thro' the lone vale, or forest's sombrous shade 55
A dreary solitude, the mourner stray'd;
Her timid heart can now each danger dare,
Her drooping soul is arm'd by deep despair--
Long, long she wander'd, till oppress'd with toil,
Her trembling footsteps track with blood the soil; 60
In vain with moans her distant lord she calls,
In vain the bitter tear of anguish falls;
Her moan expires along the desert wood,
Her tear is mingled with the crimson flood.
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