The labor’d image of the radiant God.
There dwells the royal priest, whose inner shrine
Conceals his lore; ’tis there his voice divine
Proclaims the laws; and there a cloister’d choir
Of holy virgins keep the sacred fire.
Columbus heard; and curious to be taught
What pious fraud such wondrous changes wrought,
Askt by what mystic charm, in that dark age,
They quell’d in savage souls the barbarous rage,
By leagues of peace combined a wide domain
And taught the virtues in their laws to reign.
Long is the tale; but though their labors rest
By years obscured,18 in flowery fiction drest,
My voice, said Hesper, shall revive their name
And give their merits to immortal fame.
Led by his father’s wars, in early prime
Young Capac left his native northern clime;
The clime where Quito since hath rear’d her fanes,
And now no more her barbarous rites maintains.
He saw these vales in richer blooms array’d
And tribes more numerous haunt the woodland shade,
Saw rival clans their local gods adore,
Their altars staining with their children’s gore,
Yet markt their reverence for the Sun, whose beam
Proclaims his bounties and his power supreme;
Who sails in happier skies, diffusing good,
Demands no victim and receives no blood.
In peace return’d with his victorious sire,
New charms of glory all his soul inspire;
To conquer nations on a different plan
And build his greatness on the good of man.
By nature form’d for hardiest deeds of fame,
Tall, bold and full-proportion’d rose his frame;
Strong moved his limbs; a mild majestic grace
Beam’d from his eyes and open’d in his face;
O’er the dark world his mind superior shone
And seem’d the semblance of his parent Sun.
But though fame’s airy visions lift his eyes,
And future empires from his labors rise,
Yet softer fires his daring views control
And mixt emotions fill his changing soul.
Shall genius rare that might the world improve
Bend to the milder voice of careless love
That bounds his glories and forbids to part
From bowers that woo’d his fluctuating heart?
Or shall the toils, imperial heroes claim,
Fire his brave bosom with a patriot flame,
Bid sceptres wait him on Peruvia’s shore,
And loved Oella meet his eyes no more?
Still unresolved he sought the lonely maid
Who plied her labors in the silvan shade:
Her locks loose rolling mantle deep her breast
And wave luxuriant round her slender waist;
Gay wreaths of flowers her pensive brows adorn
And her white raiment mocks the light of morn;
Her busy hand sustains a bending bough
Where cotton clusters spread their robes of snow,
From opening pods unbinds the fleecy store
And culls her labors for the evening bower.
For she, the first in all Hesperia, fed
The turning spindle with the twisting thread;
The woof, the shuttle follow’d her command,
Till various garments grew beneath her hand.
And now, while all her thoughts with Capac rove
Through former scenes of innocence and love,
In distant fight his fancied dangers share
Or wait him glorious from the finisht war;
Blest with the ardent hope, her sprightly mind
A vesture white had for the prince design’d;
And here she seeks the wool to web the fleece,
The sacred emblem of returning peace.
Sudden his near approach the maid alarms;
He flew enraptured to her yielding arms
And lost, dissolving in a softer flame,
His distant empire and the fire of fame.
At length, retiring through the homeward field,
Their glowing souls to cooler converse yield;
O’er various scenes of blissful life they ran,
When thus the warrior to the maid began:
Long have we markt the inauspicious reign
That waits our sceptre in this rough domain;
A soil ungrateful and a wayward race,
Their game but scanty and confined their space.
Where late my steps the southern war pursued,
The fertile plains grew boundless as I view’d;
More numerous nations trod the grassy wild
And joyous nature more delightful smiled.
No changing seasons there the flowers deform,
No dread volcano and no mountain storm;
Rains ne’er invade nor livid lightnings play
Nor clouds obscure the radiant king of day.
But while his orb, in ceaseless glory bright,
Rolls the rich day and fires his stars by night,
Unbounded fullness flows beneath his reign,
Seas yield their treasures, fruits adorn the plain;
His melting mountains spread their annual flood,
Night sheds her dews, the day-breeze fans the god.
’Tis he inspires me with the vast design
To form those nations to a sway divine;
Destroy the rites of every demon Power,
Whose altars smoke with sacrilegious gore;
To laws and labor teach the tribes to yield
And richer fruits to grace the cultured field.
But great, my charmer, is the task of fame
Their faith to fashion and their lives to tame;
Full many a spacious wild these eyes must see
Spread dreary bounds between my love and me;
And yon bright godhead circle thrice the year,
Each lonely evening number’d with a tear.
Long robes of white19 my shoulders must embrace,
To speak my lineage of ethereal race;
That simple men may reverence and obey
The radiant offspring of the Power of day.
When these my deeds the faith of nations gain,
And happy millions bless thy Capac’s reign,
Then shall he feign a journey to the Sun,
To bring the partner of his well-earn’d throne;
So shall descending kings the line sustain,
Till earth’s whole regions join the vast domain.
Will then my fair, at my returning hour,
Forsake these wilds and hail a happier bower?
Will she consenting now resume her smiles,
Send forth her warrior to his glorious toils,
And, sweetly patient, wait the flight of days
That crown our labors with immortal praise?
Silent the damsel heard; her moistening eye
Spoke the full soul nor could her voice reply,
Till softer accents sooth’d her wounded ear,
Composed her tumult and allay’d her fear.
Think not, heroic maid, my steps would part
While silent sorrows heave that tender heart.
Oella’s peace more dear shall prove to me
Than all the realms that bound the raging sea;
Nor thou, bright Sun, shalt bribe my soul to rest
And leave one struggle in her lovely breast.
Yet think in tribes so vast, my gentle fair,
What millions merit our instructive care;
How age to age leads on their joyless gloom,
Habitual slaughter their poor piteous doom.
No social ties their wayward passions prove,
Nor peace nor pleasure treads the howling grove;
Mid thousand heroes and a thousand fair
No fond Oella meets her Capac there.
Yet, taught by thee domestic joys to prize,
With softer charms the virgin race shall rise,
Awake new virtues, every grace improve
And form their minds for happiness and love.
Ah think, as future years through time descend,
What wide creations
