Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/293

The Condor on his mighty wing
    Doth scale your cloud-wreath'd walls,
But to his scream their caverns ring,
    As from the cliff he falls.

The poor Peruvian scans with dread
    Your fix'd, and stony eye,
The timid child averts his head,
    And faster hurries by,
They from the fathers of the land
    Have heard your withering tale,
Nor spare to mock the tyrant band
    Transform'd to statues pale.

Ye came to grasp the Indian's gold,
    Ye scorn'd his feathery dart,
But Andes rose, that monarch old,
    And took his children's part,
And with that strange embalming art
    Which ancient Egypt knew,
He threw his frost-chain o'er your heart,
    As to his breast ye grew.

He chain'd you while strong manhood's tide
    Did through your bosoms roll,
Upon your lip the curl of pride,
    And avarice in your soul,
Strange slumber stole with mortal pang
    Across the frozen plain,
And thunder-blasts your sentence rang,
    "Sleep and ne'er wake again."