From the New Yorker, 8th September, 1838, page 389
THE MARVEL OF PERU.
A radiant beauty of the lovely South,
As languid as her valley's scented gale;
The rose hath only place on that sweet mouth—
A rose it is, but the soft cheek is pale.
Her large dark eyes are like a summer night,
Before the moon's soft crescent shines above;
Filled with a tender, yet a shadowy light,
Whose silence is the eloquence of Love.
She dwelleth like a lone and fairy flower,
That hath its home in some enchanted soil;
What knoweth she of life's more troubled hour—
Our northern lot of hurry, care and toil?
Half slave, half idol, she is kept apart;
Her palace-prison is a veiled shrine;
Enough for her the sweet world of the heart;
Ah! little hath the ladye to resign!
Listless she dreams the sultry noon away,
The painted fan just stirs her raven hair;
The silken curtains yield a shadowy day,
That makes the pale, fair beauty seem more fair.
