“The fatal steel, that would our souls divide,”
He quick exclaims—­the dying warrior cries,
“Ah, yet forbear!—­by all the sacred ties, 50
“That bind our hearts, forbear”—­In vain he spoke,
Friendship with frantic zeal impels the stroke: 
“Thyself for ever lost, thou hop’st in vain,
“The youth replied, my spirit to detain;
“From thee, my soul, in childhood’s earliest year, 55
“Caught the light pleasure, and the starting tear;
“Thy friendship then my young affections blest,
“The first pure passion of my infant breast;
“That passion, which o’er life delight has shed,
“By reason cherish’d, and by virtue fed:  60
“And still in death I feel its strong controul;
“Its sacred impulse wings my fleeting soul,
“That only lingers here till thou depart,
“Whose image lives upon my fainting heart.”—­
In vain the gen’rous youth, with panting breath, 65
Pour’d these lost murmurs in the ear of death;
He reads the fatal truth in Zilia’s eye,
And gives to friendship his expiring sigh.—­
But now with rage Valverda’s glances roll,
And mark the vengeance rankling in his soul:  70
He bends his wrinkled brow—­his lips impart
The brooding purpose of his venom’d heart;
He bids the hoary priest in mutter’d strains,
Abjure his faith, forsake his falling fanes,
While yet the ling’ring pangs of torture wait, 75
While yet Valverda’s power suspends his fate. 
“Vain man, the victim cried, to hoary years
“Know death is mild, and virtue feels no fears: 
“Cruel of spirit, come! let tortures prove
“The Power I serv’d in life, in death I love.”—­ 80
He ceas’d—­with rugged cords his limbs they bound,
And drag the aged suff’rer on the ground;
They grasp his feeble form, his tresses tear,
His robe they rend, his shrivell’d bosom bare. 
Ah, see his uncomplaining soul sustain 85
The sting of insult, and the dart of pain;
His stedfast spirit feels one pang alone;
A child’s despair awakes one suff’ring groan—­
The mourner kneels to catch his parting breath,
To sooth the agony of ling’ring death; 90
No moan she breath’d, no tear had power to flow,
Still on her lip expir’d th’ unutter’d woe: 
Yet ah, her livid cheek, her stedfast look,
The desolated soul’s deep anguish spoke—­
Mild victim! close not yet thy languid eyes; 95
Pure spirit! claim not yet thy kindred skies;
A pitying angel comes to stay thy flight,
Las Casas[A] bids thee view returning light: 
Ah, let that sacred drop to virtue dear,
Efface thy wrongs—­receive his precious tear; 100
See his flush’d cheek with indignation glow,
While from his lips the tones of pity flow.