10
THE LAST INCA.
Of nobles and guards that environ his form;
Their robes white and azure, their hair decked with gold,
Triumphant, unnumbered, their prince they en fold;
They sweep by the fortress; their lines curve apart;
Dios! 't is the Inca! . . . What glowing rays dart
From his throne, as a sun, on their shoulders borne high,
Plumed and gemmed with the Virgin's own altar to vie!
And there he reclines with the air of a god,
As if armies and kingdoms would fall at his nod;
On his brow the imperial borla is bound,
Its crimson fringe drooping his temples around,
And above float the plumes of that bird of the skies
Which only, they say, for his diadem flies;
His mantle, how gorgeous; and lo, while you listen,
I see at his throat his great emeralds glisten; . . .
He enters the gateway; his hordes follow fast;
Dios! we have trapped this proud pagan at last!"
Their robes white and azure, their hair decked with gold,
Triumphant, unnumbered, their prince they en fold;
They sweep by the fortress; their lines curve apart;
Dios! 't is the Inca! . . . What glowing rays dart
From his throne, as a sun, on their shoulders borne high,
Plumed and gemmed with the Virgin's own altar to vie!
And there he reclines with the air of a god,
As if armies and kingdoms would fall at his nod;
On his brow the imperial borla is bound,
Its crimson fringe drooping his temples around,
And above float the plumes of that bird of the skies
Which only, they say, for his diadem flies;
His mantle, how gorgeous; and lo, while you listen,
I see at his throat his great emeralds glisten; . . .
He enters the gateway; his hordes follow fast;
Dios! we have trapped this proud pagan at last!"
The palanquin halts in the heart of the square;
And still every Spaniard hides deep in his lair.
And still every Spaniard hides deep in his lair.
