Treasure Island

Louisa Stuart Costello

(1799-1870 / France)

The Inca


'Tis eve, the sun is sinking in the lake—

The lake, all glorious with his golden beams,

Whose calm clear breast reflects the mountains back

That raise their huge heads to the varied clouds.

The trees and flowers that grow along its banks

Smile in the lucid mirror. Every bough

Is vocal with the song of glittering birds,

Whose plumes are borrow'd from the rainbow's hues;

No other sound disturbs the silent air,

Although a prostrate nation is around,

Watching the last rays of the setting sun

In solemn and in graceful adoration.


The purple clouds grow deeper, deeper still,

Till the resplendent orb is seen no more;


But where he sunk upon the bright lake's margin

Appear two forms, majestic and erect,

Cloth'd in rich garments, hand in hand.

They come!

Onward they come across the yielding waters,

That give them passage!

Now they reach the shore!

While with glad shouts the people rend the skies—

"All hail, ye mighty Children of the Sun!"

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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