Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her.
Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she
Met my advances with empassion'd pride.
That kindled love with love. And when her sire,
Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected
My suit with insult, and in memory
Of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head.
Her blessings overtook and baffled them!
But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance
Art inly reasoning whilst thou listen'st to me.

But Oropeza—

Within this wood there winds a secret passage,
Beneath the walls, which opens out at length
Into the gloomiest covert of the Garden—
The night ere my departure to the army.
She, nothing trembling, led me thro' that gloom,