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,