Where the sun in December appears to decline
Far off to the southward, and south of the line,
A merchant[A] of Florence, more fortunate still,
Explored a new track, and discovered Brazil:
[A] Americus Vespucius.—Freneau's note.
Good Fortune, Vespucius, pronounced thee her own,
Or else to mankind thou hadst scarcely been known—
By giving thy name, thou art ever renowned—
Thy name to a world that another had found!
Columbia, the name was, that merit decreed,
But Fortune and Merit have never agreed—
Yet the poets, alone, with commendable care
Are vainly attempting the wrong to repair.
The bounds I prescribe to my verse are too narrow
To tell of the conquests of Francis Pizarro;
And Cortez 'tis needless to bring into view,
One Mexico conquered, the other Peru.
Montezuma with credit in verse might be read,
But Dryden has told you the monarch[B] is dead!
And the woes of his subjects—what torments they bore,
Las Casas, good bishop, has mentioned before:
[B] Indian Emperor, a tragedy.—Freneau's note.
Let others be fond of their stanzas of grief—
I hate to descant on the fall of the leaf—
Two scenes are so gloomy, I view them with pain,
The annals of death, and the triumphs of Spain.
Poor Atahualpa we cannot forget—
He gave them his utmost—yet died in their debt,
His wealth was a crime that they could not forgive,
And when they possessed it, forbade him to live.