bloom: 
Yet ling’ring there in tender, pensive grace, 225
The softer lily fills the vacant place;
And ever as her precious tears bedew
Its modest flowers, they shed a paler hue. 
To yon deserted grave, lo swift she flies
Where her lov’d victim, mild Las Casas lies:  230
Light on the hallow’d turf I see her stand,
And slowly wave in air her snowy wand;
I see her deck the solitary haunt,
With chaplets twin’d from every weeping plant. 
Its odours mild the simple vi’let shed, 235
The shrinking lily hung its drooping head;
A moaning zephyr sigh’d within the bower,
And bent the yielding stem of every flower: 
“Hither (she cried, her melting tone I hear
“It vibrates full on fancy’s raptur’d ear) 240
“Ye gentle spirits whom my soul refines,
“Where all its animating lustre shines;
“Ye who can exquisitely feel the glow
“Whose soft suffusion gilds the cloud of woe;
“Warm as the colours varying iris pours 245
“That tinge with streaming rays the chilling showers;
“Ye to whose yielding hearts my power endears
“The transport blended with delicious tears,
“The bliss that swells to agony the breast,
“The sympathy that robs the soul of rest; 250
“Hither with fond devotion pensive come,
“Kiss the pale shrine, and murmur o’er the tomb;
“Bend on the hallow’d turf the tear-full eye
“And breathe the precious incense of a sigh. 
“Las Casas’ tear has moisten’d mis’ry’s grave, 255
“His sigh has moan’d the wretch it fail’d to save! 
“He, while conflicting pangs his bosom tear
“Has sought the lonely cavern of despair;
“Where desolate she fled, and pour’d her thought,
“To the dread verge of wild distraction wrought. 260
“White drops of mercy bath’d his hoary cheek,
“He pour’d by heav’n inspir’d its accents meek;
“In truth’s clear mirror bade the mourner’s view
“Pierce the deep veil which darkling error drew;
“And vanquish’d empire with a smile resign, 265
“While brighter worlds in fair perspective shine.”—­
She paus’d—­yet still the sweet enthusiast bends
O’er the cold turf, and still her tear descends;
The ever-falling tears her beauties shroud,
Till slow she vanish’d in a fleecy cloud. 270

Mild Gasca now, the messenger of peace,
Suspends the storm, and bids the tumult cease. 
Pure spirit! in Religion’s garb he came,
And all his bosom felt her holy flame;
’Twas then her vot’ries glory, and their care 275
To bid oppression’s harpy talons spare;
To bend the crimson banner he unfurl’d,
And shelter from his grasp a suff’ring world: 
Gasca, the guardian minister of woe,
Bids o’er her wounds the balms of comfort flow