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 280 While rich Potosi[B] rolls the copious tide Of wealth, unbounded as the wish of pride; His pure, unsullied soul with high disdain For virtue spurns the fascinating bane; Her seraph form can still his breast allure 285 Tho' drest in weeds, she triumph'd to be poor-- Hopeless ambition's murders to restrain, And virtue's wrongs, he sought Iberia's plain, Without one mean reserve he nobly brings A massive treasure, yet unknown to kings: 290 No purple pomp around his dome was spread No gilded roofs hung glitt'ring o'er his head; Yet peace with milder radiance deck'd his bower, And crown'd with dearer joy life's evening hour; While virtue whisper'd to his conscious heart 295 The sweet reflexion of its high desert. Ah, meek Peruvia, still thy murmur'd sighs Thy stifled groans in fancy's ear arise; Sadd'ning she views thy desolated soul, As slow the circling years of bondage roll, 300 Redeem from tyranny's oppressive power With fond affection's force, one sacred hour; And consecrate its fleeting, precious space, The dear remembrance of the past to trace. Call from her bed of dust joy's buried shade; 305 She smiles in mem'ry's lucid robes array'd, O'er thy creative scene[C] majestic moves, And wakes each mild delight thy fancy loves. But soon the image of thy wrongs in clouds The fair and transient ray of pleasure shrouds; 310 Far other visions melt thy mournful eye, And wake the gushing tear, th' indignant sigh; There Ataliba's sacred, murder'd form, Sinks in the billow of oppression's storm; Wild o'er the scene of death thy glances roll, 315 And pangs tumultuous swell thy troubled soul; Thy bosom burns, distraction spreads her flames, And from the tyrant foe her victim claims.