Far other purpose animates his breast: 
For now Peruvia’s nobles he commands
To lead, with silent step, her martial bands
Forth to the destin’d spot, prepar’d to dare
The fiercest shock of dire, unequal war; 60
While every tender, human interest pleads,
And urges the firm soul to lofty deeds. 
Now Capac hail’d th’ eventful morning’s light,
Rose with its dawn, and panted for the fight;
But first with fondness to his heart he prest 65
The tender Cora, partner of his breast;
Who with her lord, had sought the dungeon’s gloom,
And wasted there in grief, her early bloom. 
“No more, he cried, no more my love shall feel
“The mingled agonies I fly to heal; 70
“I go, but soon exulting shall return,
“And bid my faithful Cora cease to mourn: 
“For oh, amid’ each pang my bosom knows,
“What wastes, what wounds it most, are Cora’s woes. 
“Sweet was the love that crown’d our happier hours, 75
“And shed new fragrance o’er a path of flowers;
“But sure divided sorrow more endears
“The tie, that passion seals with mutual tears”—­
He paus’d—­fast-flowing drops bedew’d her eyes,
While thus in mournful accents she replies:  80
“Still let me feel the pressure of thy chain,
“Still share the fetters which my love detain;
“Those piercing irons to my soul are dear,
“Nor will their sharpness wound while thou art near. 
“Oh think not, when in thee alone I live, 85
“This breast can bear the pain thy dangers give,
“Look on our helpless babe in mis’ry nurst—­
“My child—­my child, thy mother’s heart will burst! 
“Methinks I see the raging battle rise,
“And hear this harmless suff’rer’s feeble cries; 90
“I view the blades that pour a sanguine flood,
“And plunge their cruel edge in infant blood.”—­
She could no more; her falt’ring accents die,
Yet her soul spoke expressive in her eye;
Her lord beholds her grief, with tender pain, 95
And leads her breathless, to a shelt’ring fane. 
Now high in air his feather’d standard waves,
And soon from shrouding woods, and hollow caves,
A num’rous host along the plain appear,
And hail their monarch with a gen’rous tear:  100
To Cusco’s gate now rush th’ increasing throngs,
And such their ardor, rouz’d by sense of wrongs,
That vainly would Pizarro’s vet’ran force
Arrest the torrent in its raging course;
In vain his murd’ring bands terrific stood, 105
And plung’d their sabres in a sea of blood;
Danger and death Peruvia’s sons disdain,
And half their captive city soon regain. 
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.—­