ing snows,
The arrowy gale that on its summit blows; 120
A burning desart undismay'd he past,
And meets the ardours of the fiery blast.
Now as along the sultry waste they move,
The keenest pang of raging thirst they prove:
No cooling fruit its grateful juice distils, 125
Nor flows one balmy drop from crystal rills;
For nature sickens in th' oppressive beam,
That shrinks the vernal bud, and dries the stream;
While horror, as his giant stature grows,
O'er the drear void his spreading shadow throws. 130

Almagro's band now pale, and fainting stray,
While death oft barr'd the sinking warrior's way:
At length the chief divides his martial force,
And bids Alphonso, by a sep'rate course,
Lead o'er the hideous desart half his train-- 135
"And search, he cried, this drear, uncultur'd plain:
"Perchance some fruitage withering in the breeze,
"The pains of lessen'd numbers may appease;
"Or Heav'n in pity, from some genial shower,
"On the parch'd lip one precious drop may pour." 140

Not far the troops of young Alphonso went,
When sudden, from a rising hill's ascent,
They view a valley, fed by fertile springs,
Which Andes from his lofty summit flings;
Where summer's flowers their mingled odours shed, 145
And wildly bloom, a waste by beauty spread--
To the charm'd warrior's eye, the vernal scene
That 'mid the howling desart, smil'd serene,
Appear'd like nature rising from the breast
Of chaos, in her infant graces drest; 150
When warbling angels hail'd the lovely birth,
And stoop'd from heav'n to bless the new-born earth.

And now Alphonso, and his martial band,
On the rich border of the valley stand;
They quaff the limpid stream with eager haste, 155
And the pure juice that swells the fruitage taste;
Then give to balmy rest the night's still hours,
Fann'd by the sighing gale that shuts the flowers.
Soon as the purple beam of morning glows,
Refresh'd from all their toils, the warriors rose; 160
And saw the gentle natives of the mead
Search the clear currents for the golden seed;
Which from the mountain's height with headlong sweep
The torrents bear, in many a shining heap--
Iberia's sons beheld with anxious brow 165
The tempting lure, then breathe th' unpitying vow
O'er those fair lawn