Lays Of Ancient Virginia, And Other Poems Part 2

Such was the maid with hue of night, But soul and eyes like midday light, Whose beauty shed a sparkling spell, O'er Peru's plain and shadowy dell;-- Who mid the rugged Andes stood, The charm of polished womanhood, And many a stranger wondered where, She caught that grace and beauty's air.

"Iola!" said Gonzalo, "far Where shines yon lovely evening star, Sings many a gay and loving maid, Beneath the cooling olive shade.

Their brows are whiter, too, than thine, But yet none to me are so divine, As thine, fair maid of dark Peru, With heart like its Volcanoes too.

E'er since I landed on those sh.o.r.es, Of endless spring, and brightest ores, I have not thought of ought but thee, Ne'er can my bosom now be free.

List! sweet Iola! am I vain?

I deem thou lovest we well again; For, when I sought thy downcast eyes, They met mine with a glad surprise; And when I spake to thee full low, Thy voice was like a fountain's flow, So softly sweet, so lulling, too, It bathed my soul in rapture's dew.

Iola! sure I love thee well, And if thou wilt thy father tell, I deem he will not eye me ill, Whose love is with his daughter still."

Iola raised her glance to heaven, Then to Gonzalo, darting, even Her soul, into his own, and said; "This soil with blood was never red; And, sure, my father would not slay, Those men for whom his child will pray.

But why thinkest thou of blood? the thought, With wretched fear is ever fraught.

Think, think of love, and gentle peace, Gonzalo! let these bodings cease.

Think, think of love--here on my heart, Repose, and even Death's stern dart, By Love conjured, will turn away, Some unloved thing of earth to slay."

"Angel of good!" Gonzalo cried, "A thousand joys are at thy side, Thou comest to light my dangerous way, With calm, and pure, and heavenly ray.

I feel thou art a spirit sent, 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 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."

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 sh.o.r.e Of fair Peru; her father lived not long, After this chord was snapped in his life's song.

THE HOLY LADY.

Oh, Heaven hath given to earth some souls, Of rarest loveliness, Whose being's constant current rolls, The wretched still to bless.

Well wishing Heaven hath given to earth, Some hearts of purest fire, To renovate our sinful birth, And raise our low desire.

The Holy Lady did not go Afar, by sea or land, But ministered to sighing wo, And suffering near at hand.

'Twas sweet to see the Lady fair, Each blessed sabbath morn, Wear such a sweetly solemn air, Of bright devotion, born.

'Twas sweet to see her bow at eve, On lowly bended knee, To pray, and sadly, sweetly grieve, For man's perversity.

But sure were we that city fine, Wherein this Lady dwelt, Was bettered by a power divine, And heavenly prompting felt.

When she was old, her heart not cold, A youthful beauty lay, A light most wondrous to behold!

Upon her tresses gray.

The charm of goodness does not fade, Like natural beauty's flower, But blooms in glory undecayed, And death-defying power.

TIME AND ETERNITY.

The darkness falls on wood and field, On lofty peak, on silent sea, The infant Moon and Planets yield A faint and feeble brilliancy.

Cans't thou behold the look and shape Of mount and main, of wold and wood?

The morrow's sun, o'er sea and cape, Will show them out, both plain and good.

Time darkens all to mortal eyes Save what faint reason's stars illume: But when Eternity shall rise, All shall their shapes and hues a.s.sume.

YEMEN.

My soul has been wandering in Yemen, The land of the aloe and myrrh; Where the breezes that blow from the ocean, Brought feelings of heaven to her.

In the joy-giving vallies of Yemen, On its mountains that blush with their bloom; My soul has been wandering but lately, To hide from the weight of her gloom.

My Soul, like the fleet horse of Yemen, Flew chainless o'er mountain and plain, Till she paused by the flower-scented ocean, Then returned on her pinions, again.