CANTO THE THIRD.

THE ARGUMENT.

Pizarro takes possession of Cuzco—­the fanaticism of Valverde, a Spanish priest—­its dreadful effects—­A Peruvian priest put to the torture—­his daughter’s distress—­he is rescued by Las Casas, an amiable Spanish ecclesiastic, and led to a place of safety, where he dies—­his daughter’s narration of her sufferings—­her death.

PERU.

CANTO THE THIRD.

Now stern Pizarro seeks the distant plains,
Where beauteous Cusco lifts her golden fanes: 
The meek Peruvians gaz’d in pale dismay,
Nor barr’d the dark oppressor’s sanguine way: 
And soon on Cusco, where the dawning light 5
Of glory shone, foretelling day more bright,
Where the young arts had shed unfolding flowers,
A scene of spreading desolation lowers;
While buried deep in everlasting shade,
Those lustres sicken, and those blossoms fade. 10
And yet, devoted land, not gold alone,
Or wild ambition wak’d thy parting groan;
For, lo! a fiercer fiend, with joy elate,
Feasts on thy suff’rings, and impels thy fate. 
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. 40
But all in vain his erring weapon flies,
Pierc’d by a thousand wounds, on earth he lies. 
His drooping head the heart-struck Zilia rais’d,
And on the youth in speechless anguish gaz’d;
While he, who fondly shar’d his danger, flew, 45
And from his breast a reeking sabre drew. 
“Deep in my faithful bosom let me hide