Could bend my will, as thou, dear maid!
Sweet star, amid my spirit's shade.
Not all the wealth that gleams around
Within thy country's magic bound,
And fills my world with loudest fame,
Of this new world's most wondrous name,
Sways more with me than idle dream,
Or transient bubbles on a stream,
Compared, Iola! with thy power;—
And I will come to thy sweet bower.