The gentle tribe Aciloe’s sire obey’d 35
Who still in wisdom, and in mercy sway’d. 
From him the dear illusions long had fled,
That o’er the morn of life enchantment shed;
Yet virtue’s calm reflections cheer’d his breast,
And life was joy serene, and death was rest. 40
Tho’ sweet the early spring, her blossoms bright,
When first she swells the heart with pure delight,
Yet not unlovely is the sober ray
That meekly beams o’er autumn’s temper’d day;
Dear are her fading beauties to the soul, 45
While scarce perceiv’d the deep’ning shadows roll.

Now the charm’d lovers dress their future years
In forms of joy, then weep delicious tears,
Expressive on the glowing cheek that hung,
And spoke the fine emotions whence they sprung—­ 50
’Twas truth’s warm energy, love’s sweet controul,
’Twas all that virtue whispers to the soul. 
When lo, Iberia’s ruthless sons advance,
Roll the stern eye, and shake the pointed lance: 
Oh Nature! the destroying band oppose, 55
Nature, arrest their course—­they come thy foes—­
Benignant power, where thou with lib’ral care
Hast planted joy, they come to plant despair—­
Peruvia’s tribe beheld the hostile throng
With desolating fury pour along; 60
With horror their ensanguin’d path they trac’d,
And now to meet the murd’ring band they haste;
The hoary chief to the dire conflict leads
His death devoted train—­the battle bleeds.

Aciloe’s searching eye can now no more 65
The form of Zamor, or her sire explore;
She hears the moan of death in every gale,
She sees a purple torrent stain the vale;
While destin’d all the bitterness to prove
Of mourning duty, and of bleeding love, 70
Each name that’s dearest wakes her bursting sigh,
Throbs at her soul, and trembles in her eye. 
Now, pierc’d by wounds, and breathless from the fight,
Her friend, the valiant Omar, struck her sight: 
“Omar (she cried) you bleed, unhappy youth, 75
“And sure that look unfolds some fatal truth: 
“Speak, pitying speak, my frantic fears forgive,
“Say, does my father, does my Zamor live?”
“All, all is lost, (the dying Omar said)
“And endless griefs are thine, dear wretched maid; 80
“I saw thy aged sire a captive bound,
“I saw thy Zamor press the crimson ground”—­
He could no more, he yields his fleeting breath,
While all in vain she seeks repose in death. 
But, oh, how far each other pang above 85
Throbs the wild agony of hopeless love;
That grief, for which in vain shall comfort shed
Her healing balm, or time in pity spread
The veil, that throws a shade o’er other care;
For here, and here alone, profound despair 90
Casts o’er the suff’ring soul a lasting gloom,
And slowly leads her victim to the tomb.