MANUELA.

ROM the doorway, Manuela, in the sunny April morn,

Southward looks, along the valley, over leagues of gleaming corn;

Where the mountain's misty rampart like the wall of Eden towers,

And the isles of oak are sleeping on a painted sea of flowers.

All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are

o'er,

And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore;

Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope;

Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope.

Gentle eyes of Manuela! tell me wherefore do ye rest On the oak's enchanted islands and the flowery ocean's breast?

Tell me wherefore, down the valley, ye have traced the highway's mark

Far beyond the belts of timber, to the mountainshadows dark?

Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom and the sprouting verdure shine

With the tears of amber dropping from the tassels of the pine,

And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her sunny cheek, ·

Little recketh Manuela of the tales of Spring they speak.

When the Summer's burning solstice on the mountain-harvests glowed,

She had watched a gallant horseman riding down the valley road;

Many times she saw him turning, looking back with parting thrills,

Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the hills.

Ere the cloudless moons were over, he had passed the Desert's sand,

Crossed the rushing Colorado and the wild Apachè

Land,

And his laden mules were driven, when the time of rains began,

With the traders of Chihuahua, to the Fair of San Juan.

Therefore watches Manuela, - therefore lightly doth she start,

When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of her heart;

Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches stirs,

But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs.

Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen,

day by day,

But they come not as Bernarde, - she can see it, far away;

Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled alazàn,

Light as any antelope upon the Hills of Gavilan.

She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his free and gallant air;

By the featly-knit sarápè, such as wealthy traders

wear;

By his broidered calzoneros and his saddle, gayly

spread,

With its cantle rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion's head.

None like him the light riáta on the maddened bull can throw ;

None amid the mountain-cañons track like him the stealthy doe;

And at all the Mission festals, few indeed the revellers are

Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay guitar.

He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger

still

In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender

thrill,

When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands in corn,

Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding

morn.