Long have we mark'd 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 fulness 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 white 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.