ent,
From heaven's snow-white battlement,
To lead me through these stranger wilds,
With voice and actions like a child's,
So guiltless in thy love--so dear,
I bless thy goodness with a tear.
Oh! like thy climate's deathless spring,
Succeeding days and years shall bring,
Living affection to my heart,
Till we no more on earth can part."
"Then, dear Gonzalo! let us meet,
As oft as evening airs are sweet,
In yonder bower--my own--my dove,
And I will be thy gentle love.
That bower my Inca-father reared,
For good such thing to him appeared,
Where his Iola might be lone,
To dream of fancies all her own.
Yes! oft as evening shades came down,
On giant Andes' glittering crown
Of endless snow, that shines afar
Next to the radiant zenith star;
Then throw their dark and sombre lines,
Upon the mountain's lower pines:
Come, then, to me, and we will speak,
Sweet thrilling words, and on my cheek,
Thy lip shall feed till we expire,
In glowing love's consuming fire."
"Yes, I will come, maid of Peru!
Though Fate, yon soaring Andes threw,
Between my wish and thee my love,
That lofty barrier I'd remove;
And press to thee with Condor's flight,
To thee, to love, to life's delight.
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