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."

* * * * *

There was a cry of terror in the hall
Of Peru's monarch, and a startling call;
But no reply--Iola sure was gone;
Yet none knew why or whither she had flown.
Her Inca-father put his crown aside,
And filled the temple with loud prayer--a tide
Of lamentation rolled along the fair
And blooming realm; heaven wore a dim despair.
She ne'er was found; but how or when she died
None knew; by her own hand; or if she cried,
Vainly, in wild beasts' clutch;--but ne'er before
Din wail so wild resound along the shore
Of fair Peru; her father lived not long,
After this chord was snapped in his life's song.