The Dying INDIAN

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 Vitzipultzi's statue 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 carcass 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!