THE DYING INDIAN by JOSEPH WARTON

THE dart of Izdabel prevails! 'twas dipped
In double poison—I shall soon arrive
At the blest island, where no tigers spring
On heedless hunters; where ananas 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, decked with the teeth
Of that bold Christian who first dared deflower
The virgins of the sun; and, dire to tell!
Robbed Vitzipultzi's statue of its gems!
I marked the spot where they interred 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-loved mother from the desert woods
Where, as I hunted late, I hapless lost her,
Cherish her age. Tell her I ne'er have worshipped
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!

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