Jenks's Portland Gazette

MUSES.

The Fall of Zarior.

A yon ruin lifts her haggard head,
And madly staring Horror screams,
O'er yonder field, bestrew'd with dead,
See, how the lurid lightning gleams!
Lo! mid the terrors of the storm.
From yonder black brow'd cloud of night.
The mighty Capac's dreadful form
Bursts forth upon my aching sight.
But ah what phantoms flitting round,
Give double horror to the gloom,
Each pointing to the ghastly wound
That sent them shroudless to the tomb.
On me they bend the scowling eye,
For me their airy arms they wave;
Oh stay, nor yet from Zarior fly,
We'll be companions--in the grave.
Dear victims of a Tyrant's rage,
They're gone--each shadowy form is fled,
Yet soon the hoary locks of age
Shall low as their's in dust be laid.
Thou faithless sword that harmless fell
Upon the haughty Spaniard's crest,
Swift to my swelling heart go tell
How deep thou't pierc'd thy master's breast.
But hail proud Spain's destroying son
With transport smiles on Zarior's fate;
No--e'er the deed of Death be done,
The Tyrant's blood shall glut my hate.
Yon forked flash with friendly glare
Points where his crimson'd banners fly—
Look down, ye forms of fleeting air,
I yet shall triumph, e'er I die.
He spoke--and, like a meteor's blaze,
Rush'd on the unguarded Spaniard's Lord :
Around his head the lightning plays,
Reflected from his brandish'd sword.
Great Capac, nerve the arm of age,
And guide it swift to Garcia's breast;
His pangs shall all my pangs assuage,
His death shall give my country rest.
" Ye powers, who thirst for human blood.
" Receive this victim at your shrine."
Aghast the circling warriors stood,
Nor could prevent the Chief's design.
" 'Tis Garcia's crimson streams that flows,
'Tis Zarior hurls him to his fate ;
The author of my country's woes
Now sinks--the victim of my hate."
From Garcia's breast the steel he drew.
And sheath'd it deep within his own ;
" I come, ye Gods of lost Peru!
He said--and dy'd, without a groan.