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| WHERE olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, | |
| There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. | |
| Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, | |
| Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair; | |
| And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook, | 5 |
| As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook. | |
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| ’T is a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, | |
| That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung; | |
| When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, | |
| Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. | 10 |
| Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew | |
| A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. | |
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| A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, | |
| And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly towards the north. | |
| Thou look’st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail, | 15 |
| To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale; | |
| For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, | |
| And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat. | |
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| That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, | |
| But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, | 20 |
| Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,— | |
| A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, | |
| Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, | |
| And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave. | |
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| But see, along that mountain’s slope, a fiery horseman ride; | 25 |
| Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side. | |
| His spurs are buried rowel deep, he rides with loosened rein, | |
| There ’s blood upon his charger’s flank and foam upon the mane, | |
| He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill,— | |
| God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill! | 30 |
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| And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear | |
| A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek—but not of fear. | |
| For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak | |
| The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak: | |
| “I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, | 35 |
| And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee.” | |
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