LXXXIX.

Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchained: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained,[105] While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.