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Title: The Princess Of Peru
Author: James Avis Bartley [
More Titles by Bartley]
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MISS MARY T. ROBERTSON OF ABINGDON, VA.
Far to the wilds of rich Peru,
Gonzalo came--of pallid hue,
Strange in these Western lands of night,
Where nought, save woman's eyes, are bright.
But these have all that outward beam,
Reflected from their glances' gleam
Of light and fire, that kindle bliss;
Or sink to gloom in Death's abyss.
Gonzalo came, a son of Spain,
That land which gleams beyond the main,
And sent its children to these lands,
To gather gold with reckless hands.
And, he, Gonzalo, stood a tower,
In sturdy grace, and manly power;
No Indian's weapon was to him,
More than a sea-reed, slight and slim;
And yet to brown Iola's eye,
He seemed the lord of lady's sigh.
Gonzalo seen, her thought, her dream,
With fancy's love-fraught visions teem.
She deemed that orb of glorious fire,
To which her country's souls aspire,
That crimson god whose glowing face
Illumines all the mortal race:
She deemed his glory, only, vied
With brave Gonzalo's matchless pride.
And down along the green, fresh earth,
Where sin not yet had known its birth;
She knelt, and cast her hands and eyes,
To the bright God of those bright skies;
And worshipped him whose blessed beams,
Had given Gonzalo to her dreams.
Iola, princess of Peru,
Most fair (though of a dusky hue,)
Like this new, unpolluted clime,
Unknown to hate, unknown to crime,
Where all that dwell know but to love,
(The gentleness which marks the dove.)
And like that rich, unguarded shore,
She knew to be, and seem no more;
And like that land so rich in bloom,
Its branches wrought at noon a gloom;
Her form was bright with beauty's hues,
Which each propitious year renews;
And, as within its bosom lay,
Treasures which mocked the sun's bright ray;
In her rich soul shone wealth to shame,
That tropic sun's meridian flame.
She stood a lovely being fraught,
With that most dear to human thought,
The power to love, to force the bliss
Of heaven, to such a world as this.
Iola, dearest maiden, threw
A wondrous charm o'er all who knew
Her loveliness; her menial train
Adored her even to anxious pain.
And to her father's rapturous eyes,
She shone a rainbow--whose bright dyes
Illumed his aged spirit's night;
A thing of loveliness and light.
And in and out the Inca's hall
She went, returned to his known call.
She seemed a sunbeam sent from heaven,
To make his troubled spirit even;
For, if his soul, oppressed with grief,
In aught of earthly, sought relief;
Iola's image quickly seen,
His soul grew peaceful and serene.
In his tried spirits' darkest mood,
She was an omen still of good.
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 shores,
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 shore
Of fair Peru; her father lived not long,
After this chord was snapped in his life's song.
[The end]
James Avis Bartley's poem: Princess Of Peru
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