* * * * *

"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