Where slept thy shaft of vengeance, O my God, When those fell tigers drank his sacred blood? Did not the pious prince, with rites divine, Feed the pure flame in this thy hallow'd shrine; And early learn, beneath his father's hand, To shed thy blessings round the favor'd land? Form'd by thy laws the royal seat to grace, Son of thy son, and glory of his race. Where, my lost Rocha, rests thy lovely head? Where the rent robes thy hapless mother made? I see thee, mid those hideous hills of snow, Pursued and slaughter'd by the wildman foe; Or, doom'd a feast for some pretended god, Drench his black altar with celestial blood. Snatch me, O Sun, to happier worlds of light-- No: shroud me, shroud me with thyself in night. Thou hear'st me not, thou dread departed Power, Thy face is dark, and Rocha lives no more. Thus heard the silent king; his equal heart Caught all her grief, and bore a father's part. The cause, suggested by her tender moan, The cause perchance that veil'd the midday sun, And shouts that spoke the still approaching foe, Fixt him suspense, in all the strength of woe. A doubtful moment held his changing choice; Now would he sooth her, half assumes his voice; But greater cares the rising wish control, And call forth all his energy of soul. Why should he cease to ward the coming fate? Or she be told the foes besiege the gate? He turn'd in haste; and now their image-god High on the spire with newborn lustre glow'd; Swift thro the portal flew the hero's eye, And hail'd the growing splendor in the sky. The troops courageous at return of light Throng round the dome, impatient for the fight; The king descending in the portal stood, And thus addrest the all-delighting God: O sovereign Soul of heaven, thy changing face Makes or destroys the glory of thy race. If from this mortal life my child he fled, First of thy line that ever graced the dead; If thy bright splendor ceased on high to burn For that loved youth who never must return. Forgive thine armies, when in fields of blood They lose their strength and fear the frowning God. As now thy glory, with superior day, Glows thro the field and leads the warrior's way, May our exalted souls, to vengeance driven, Burn with new brightness in the cause of heaven! For thy slain son the murderous horde shall bleed; We mourn the hero, but avenge the deed. He said; and from the battlement on high A watchful warrior raised a sudden cry: "An Inca white on yonder altar tied-- Tis Rocha's self--the flame ascends his side."