N’er since these eyes beheld the day,
Have they seen aught, whose potent sway,
Could bend my will, as thou, dear maid! 
Sweet star, amid my spirit’s shade. 
Not all the wealth that gleams around
Within thy country’s magic bound,
And fills my world with loudest fame,
Of this new world’s most wondrous name,
Sways more with me than idle dream,
Or transient bubbles on a stream,
Compared, Iola! with thy power;—­
And I will come to thy sweet bower.”

* * * * *

“Iola! art thou in thy bower,
At this most dear, appointed hour? 
On fleetest pinions I have come,
To meet thee mid this richest bloom,
Thy Inca father’s garden flowers,
Whose odors fall like balmy showers;
But, of them all, thou art the flower
Who hast the most delightful power,
And of the wondrous birds that sing
Amid this garden’s blooming spring;
Thou art the loveliest; and thy voice
Most meet to bid my soul rejoice.” 
Iola spoke not in reply;
But gazed on him with vacant eye: 
Still was she silent as the grave,
O’er those we love but could not save;
And she seemed calm as tropic sea,
When its hushed waves from winds are free. 
Gonzalo wondered; why no word,
Came from that lip that mocked the bird
Of her own land, in melody,
When warbling from his cocoa tree. 
But why, O gem of rich Peru,
Thy silence strange, thy aspect new? 
What envious power has bound thy voice,
Which erst could bid my soul rejoice. 
Oh! surely some malignant sprite
From realms of most infernal night,
Has taken thy angel voice away;—­
But speak, Iola, speak, I pray! 
Her tears gushed forth like tropic rain,
That widely floods the blooming plain;
And thus began, “Gonzalo! thou
Deceived’st me—­but I know thee now. 
Ask me not how I know it sooth;
Enough, I know the bitter truth. 
I felt forebodings of this hour;
It did my happiest thoughts o’er power,
With a dark weight; but then I thought,
’Twas by my foolish fancy wrought. 
’Twas like the omen which precedes
The earthquake when the summer reeds
Are strangely still, until the shock
The central earth shall wildly rock. 
Thou dost not love me, child of Spain! 
Thy heart can love no thing but gain;
The paltry dust I tread above,
To thee, is more than woman’s love. 
My love is vain, and life is less
Since lost my hope of happiness
Look from this garden;—­far below
Yon Andes’ sides with verdure glow,
But far on high, the icy chill
Of winter glitters, glitters still: 
I am that lonely verdure—­thou
That mountain’s cold, unchanging brow. 
I’ll ne’er upbraid thee—­no—­oh no! 
For love is kind, in deepest woe,
I love thee still, and will till Death,
Shall win my love with living breath. 
This even, farewell—­yes, yes, adieu! 
No years our meeting can renew. 
Would that when round these royal bowers,
I played in childhood’s happy hours,
The Condor bird had borne me high,
On his huge pinions through the sky,
Upon yon mountain’s snowy crest,
To hush his high and hungry nest. 
Farewell, Gonzalo! fly with speed,
Leave shade and silence to my need.”