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,