The Dying INDIAN.

By the Same.

THE dart of Izdabel prevails! 'twas dipt
In double poison — I shall soon arrive
At the blest island, where no tigers spring
On heedless hunters; where anana's bloom
Thrice in each moon; where rivers smoothly glide,
Nor thundering torrents whirl the light canoe
Down to the sea; where my forefathers feast
Daily on hearts of Spaniards! — O my son,
I feel the venom busy in my breast,
Approach, and bring my crown, deck'd with the teeth
Of that bold christian who first dar'd deflour
The virgins of the sun; and, dire to tell!
Robb'd PACHACAMAC'S altar of its gems!
I mark'd the spot where they interr'd this traitor,
And once at midnight stole I to his tomb,
And tore his carcase from the earth, and left it
A prey to poisonous flies. Preserve this crown
With sacred secrecy: if e'er returns
Thy much-lov'd mother from the desart woods
Where, as I hunted late; I hapless lost her,
Cherish her age. Tell her I ne'er have worship'd
With those that eat their God. And when disease
Preys on her languid limbs, then kindly stab her
With thine own hands, nor suffer her to linger,
Like christian cowards, in a life of pain.
I go! great COPAC beckons me! farewell!