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!