When first to climes unknown they bent their course; When danger's rising horrors lowr'd afar, The storms of ocean, and the toils of war, The sad remains of wasted life to spare, 175 The shrivell'd bosom, and the silver'd hair:-- But vainly from his lips these accents part, Nor move Pizarro's cold, relentless heart, That never trembled to the suff'rer's sigh, Or view'd the suff'rer's tear with melting eye. 180 Almagro dies--the victor's savage pride To his pale corse funereal rites denied, Chill'd by the heavy dews of night it lay, And wither'd in the sultry beam of day, Till Indian bosoms, touch'd with gen'rous woe, 185 In the pale form forgot the tyrant foe; The last sad duties to his ashes paid, And sooth'd with pity's tear the hov'ring shade. With unrelenting hate the conqu'ror views Almagro's band, and vengeance still pursues; 190 Condemns the victims of his power to stray In drooping poverty's chill, thorny way; To pine with famine's agony severe, And all the ling'ring forms of death to fear; Till by despair impell'd, the rival train 195 Rush to the haughty victor's glitt'ring fane; Swift on their foe with rage impetuous dart, And plunge their daggers in his guilty heart. How unavailing now the treasur'd ore That made Peruvia's rifled bosom poor! 200 He falls--no mourner near to breathe a sigh, Catch the last breath, and close the languid eye; Deserted, and refus'd the holy tear That warm affection sheds o'er virtue's bier; Denied those drops that stay the parting breath, 205 That sooth the spirit on the verge of death; Tho' now the pale expiring form would buy With Andes' glitt'ring mines, one faithful sigh!