A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth,
And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north
Thou look’st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail. 
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.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone,
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on,
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.

But see, along that mountain’s slope, a fiery horseman ride;
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!

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,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee.”

The African chief. deg.

Chained in the market-place he stood,
  A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
  That shrunk to hear his name—­
All stern of look and strong of limb,
  His dark eye on the ground:—­
And silently they gazed on him,
  As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,
  He was a captive now,
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
  Was written on his brow. 
The scars his dark broad bosom wore,
  Showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before,
  He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake—­
  “My brother is a king;
Undo this necklace from my neck,
  And take this bracelet ring,
And send me where my brother reigns,
  And I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains,
  And gold-dust from the sands.”

“Not for thy ivory nor thy gold
  Will I unbind thy chain;
That bloody hand shall never hold
  The battle-spear again. 
A price thy nation never gave
  Shall yet be paid for thee;
For thou shalt be the Christian’s slave,
  In lands beyond the sea.”

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade
  To shred his locks away;
And one by one, each heavy braid
  Before the victor lay. 
Thick were the platted locks, and long,
  And closely hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among
  The dark and crisped hair.