The hero spoke; the trembling tribes obey, While deeper glooms obscure the source of day. Sudden the savage bands collect amain, Hang on the rear and sweep them o'er the plain; Their shouts, redoubling with the flying war. Drown the loud groans and torture all the air. The hawks of heaven, that o'er the field had stood, Scared by the tumult from the scent of blood, Cleave the far gloom; the beasts forget their prey, And scour the waste, and give the war its way. Zamor elate with horrid joy beheld The Sun depart, his children fly the field, And raised his rending voice: Thou darkening sky, Deepen thy damps, the fiend of death is nigh; Behold him rising from his shadowy throne, To veil this heaven and drive the conquer'd Sun; The glaring Godhead yields to sacred night, And his foil'd armies imitate his flight. Confirm, infernal Power, thy rightful reign, Give deadlier shades and heap the piles of slain; Soon the young captive prince shall roll in fire, And all his race accumulate the pyre. Ye mountain vultures, here your food explore, Tigers and condors, all ye gods of gore, In these rich fields, beneath your frowning sky, A plenteous feast shall every god supply. Rush forward, warriors, hide the plains with dead; Twas here our friends in former combat bled; Strow'd thro the waste their naked bones demand This tardy vengeance from our conquering hand. He said; and high before the Tiger-train With longer strides hangs forward o'er the slain, Bends like a falling tree to reach the foe, And o'er tall Capac aims a forceful blow. The king beheld the ax, and with his wand Struck the raised weapon from the sachem's hand; Then clench'd the falling helve, and whirling round, Fell'd a close file of heroes to the ground; Nor stay'd, but follow'd where his people run, Fearing to fight, forsaken by the Sun; Till Cusco's walls salute their longing sight, And the wide gates receive their rapid flight. The folds are barr'd, the foes in shade conceal'd, Like howling wolves, rave round the frighted field. The monarch now ascends the sacred dome; The Sun's fixt image there partakes the gloom; Thro all the shrines, where erst on new-moon day Swell'd the full quires of consecrated praise, A tomb-like silence reigns; till female cries Burst forth at last, and these sad accents rise: Was it for this, my son to distant lands Must trace the wilds, and tempt those lawless bands? And does the God obscure his golden throne In mournful darkness for my slaughter'd son? Oh, had his beam; ere that disastrous day That call'd the youth from these fond arms away, Received my spirit to its native sky, That sad Oella might have seen him die!