PERU.

CANTO THE SECOND.

THE ARGUMENT.

Pizarro, a Spanish Captain, lands with his forces—­his meeting with Ataliba—­its unhappy consequences—­Zorai dies—­Ataliba imprisoned, and strangled—­Alzira’s despair, and madness.

PERU.

CANTO THE SECOND.

Flush’d with impatient hope, the martial band
By stern Pizarro led, approach the land: 
No terrors arm the hostile brow, for guile
Charms to betray, in Candour’s open smile. 
Too artless for distrust, the monarch springs 5
To meet his latent foe on friendship’s wings: 
On as he moves, with glitt’ring splendours crown’d,
His feather’d chiefs the golden throne surround;
The waving canopy its plume displays,
Whose varied hues reflect the morning rays; 10
With native grace he hails the warrior train,
Who stood majestic on Peruvia’s plain,
In all the savage pomp of armour drest,
The radiant helmet, and the nodding crest. 
Yet themes of joy Pizarro’s lips impart, 15
And charm with eloquence the simple heart;
Unfolding to the monarch’s wond’ring thought,
All that inventive arts the rude have taught: 
And now he bids the purer spirit rise
Above the circle of surrounding skies; 20
Presents the page that shed religion’s light
O’er the dark mist of intellectual night;
While thrill’d with awe the monarch trembling stands,
He dropp’d the hallow’d volume from his hands.

[A]Sudden, while frantic zeal each breast inspires, 25
And shudd’ring demons fan the impious fires,
The bloody signal waves, the banners play,
The naked sabres flash their streaming ray;
The martial trumpet’s animating sound,
And thund’ring cannon, rend the vault around; 30
While fierce in sanguine rage the sons of Spain
Rush on Peru’s unarm’d, devoted train;
The fiends of slaughter urg’d their dire career,
And virtue’s guardian spirits dropp’d a tear.—­
Mild Zorai fell, deploring human strife, 35
And clos’d with prayer his consecrated life. 
In vain Peruvia’s chiefs undaunted stood,
Shield their lov’d prince, and bathe his robes in blood;
Touch’d with heroic ardor, rush around,
And high of soul, receive each fatal wound:  40
Dragg’d from his throne, and hurry’d o’er the plain,
The wretched monarch swells the captive train;
With iron grasp, the frantic prince they bear,
And bless the omen of his wild despair.