Dread Zamor leads the homicidious train, Moves from the clefts and stretches o'er the plain. He gives the shriek; the deep convulsing sound The hosts reecho, and the hills around Retain the rending tumult; all the air Clangs in the conflict of the clashing war; But firm undaunted as a shelvy strand That meets the surge, the bold Peruvians stand, With steady aim the sounding bowstring ply, And showers of arrows thicken thro the sky; When each grim host, in closer conflict join'd, Clench the dire ax and cast the bow behind; Thro broken ranks sweep wide their slaughtering course. Now struggle back, now sidelong swray the force. Here from grim chiefs is lopt the grisly head; All gride the dying, all deface the dead; There scattering o'er the field in thin array, Man tugs with man, and clubs with axes play; With broken shafts they follow and they fly, And yells and groans and shouts invade the sky; Round all the shatter'd groves the ground is strow'd With sever'd limbs and corses bathed in blood. Long raged the strife; and where, on either side, A friend, a father or a brother died, No trace remain'd of what he was before, Mangled with horrid wounds and black with gore. Now the Peruvians, in collected might, With one wide stroke had wing'd the savage flighty But their bright Godhead, in his midday race, With glooms unusual veil'd his radiant face, Quench'd all his beams, tho cloudless, in affright, As loth to view from heaven the finish'd fight. A trembling twilight o'er the welkin moves, Browns the dim void, and darkens deep the groves; The waking stars, embolden'd at the sight, Peep out and gem the anticipated night; Day-birds, and beasts of light to covert fly, And owls and wolves begin their evening cry. The astonish'd Inca marks, with wild surprise, Dead chills on earth, no cloud in all the skies, His host o'ershaded in the field of blood, Gored by his foes, deserted by his God. Mute with amaze, they cease the war to wage, Gaze on their leaders and forget their rage; When pious Capac to the listening crowd Raised high his wand and pour'd his voice aloud: Ye chiefs and warriors of Peruvian race, Some sore offence obscures my father's face; What moves the Numen to desert the plain, Nor save his children, nor behold them slain? Fly! speed your course, regain the guardian town, Ere darkness shroud you in a deeper frown; The faithful walls your squadrons shall defend, While my sad steps the sacred dome ascend, To learn the cause, and ward the woes we fear: Haste, haste, my sons! I guard the flying rear.