200
He stays her fleeting spirit—­life anew
Warms her cold cheek—­his tears her cheek bedew—­
“Thy Zamor lives, he cried:  as on the ground
“I senseless lay, some child of pity bound
“My bleeding wounds, and bore me from the plain—­ 205
“But thou art lost, and I have liv’d in vain.” 
“Forgive, she cried, in accents of despair,
“Zamor forgive thy wrongs, and oh forbear
“The mild reproach that fills thy mournful eye,
“The tear that wets thy cheek—­I mean to die! 210
“Could I behold my aged sire endure
“The pains his wretched child had power to cure? 
“Still, still my father, stretch’d in death, I see,
“His grey locks trembling, as he gaz’d on me: 
“My Zamor, soft—­breathe not so loud a sigh—­ 215
“Some list’ning foe may pityless deny
“This parting hour—­hark, sure some step I hear,
“Zamor again is lost—­for now ’tis near”—­
She paus’d, when sudden from the shelt’ring wood
A venerable form before them stood:  220
“Fear not, soft maid, he cry’d, nor think I come
“To seal with deeper miseries thy doom;
“To bruise the breaking heart that sorrow rends,
“Ah not for this Las Casas hither bends—­
“He comes to bid those rising sorrows cease, 225
“To pour upon thy wounds the balm of peace. 
“I rov’d with dire Almagro’s ruthless train
“Thro’ scenes of death, to Chili’s verdant plain;
“Their wish, to bathe that verdant plain in gore,
“Then from its bosom drag the golden ore; 230
“But mine, to check the stream of human blood,
“Or mingle drops of anguish with the flood. 
“When from those fair unconquer’d vales they fled,
“This frame was stretch’d upon the languid bed
“Of pale disease:  when helpless, and alone, 235
“The Chilese spy’d their friend, the murd’rers gone,
“With eager fondness round my couch they drew,
“And my cold hand with gushing tears bedew;
“By day, they sooth my pains with sweet delight,
“And give to watchings the chill hours of night; 240
“For me their tender spirits joy to prove
“The cares of pity, and the toils of love. 
“Soon as I heard, that o’er this gentle scene,
“Where peace and virtue mingled smile serene,
“The foe, like clouds that fold the tempest, hung, 245
“I hither flew, my breast with anguish wrung. 
“A Chilese band the pathless desert trac’d,
“And softly bore me o’er its dreary waste;
“Then parting, at my feet they bend, and clasp
“These aged knees—­my soul yet feels their grasp. 250
“Now o’er the vale with painful step I stray’d,
“And reach’d the shelt’ring grove:  there, hapless maid,
“My list’ning ear has caught thy piercing wail,
“My heart has trembled to thy moving tale.”—­