In sweeping haste the bursting gates unbar, And flood the champaign with a tide of war; A cloud of arrows leads the rapid train, They shout, they swarm, they hide the dusty plain; Bows, quivers, girdles strow the field behind, And the raised axes cleave the passing wind. The prince, confest to every warrior's sight, Inspires each soul and centres all the fight; Each hopes to snatch him from the kindling pyre, Each fears his breath already flits in fire. Here Zamor ranged his ax-men deep and wide, Wedged like a wall, and thus the king defied: Haste, son of Light, pour fast the winged war, The prince, the dying prince demands your care; Hear how his death song chides your dull delay, Lift longer strides, bend forward to the fray, Ere flames infolding suffocate his groan, Child of your beaming God, a victim to our own. This said, he raised his shaggy shoulders high, And bade the shafts glide thicker thro the sky. Like the broad billows of the lifted main, Rolls into sight the long Peruvian train; A white sail bounding, on the billows tost, Is Capac towering o'er the furious host. Now meet the dreadful chiefs, with eyes on fire; Beneath their blows the parting ranks retire; In whirlwind-sweep their meeting axes bound, Wheel, crash in air, and plow the trembling ground; Their sinewy limbs in fierce contortions bend, And mutual strokes with equal force descend, Parried with equal art, now gyring prest High at the head, now plunging for the breast. The king starts backward from the struggling foe, Collects new strength, and with a circling blow Rush'd furious on; his flinty edge, whirl'd wide, Met Zamor's helve, and glancing grazed his side And settled in his groin; so plunged it lay, That scarce the king could tear his ax away. The savage fell; when thro the Tiger-train The driving Inca turns his force amain; Where still compact they hem the murderous pyre, And Rocha's voice seems faltering to expire. The phrensied father rages, thunders wild, Hews armies down, to save the sinking child; The ranks fall staggering where he lifts his arm, Or roll before him like a billowy storm; Behind his steps collecting warriors close; Deep centred in a circling ridge of foes He cleaves his wasting way; the prince unties, And thus his voice: Dread Sovereign of the skies. Accept my living son, again bestow'd To grace with rites the temple of his God. Move, heroes, move; complete the work begun. Crush the grim race, avenge your injured Sun.