With its cantle rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion’s head.
None like he the light riáta[[5]] on the maddened bull can throw;
None amid the mountain-cañons, track like he the stealthy doe;
And at all the Mission festals, few indeed the revelers 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.
He has pictured the procession, all in holyday attire,