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 oaks 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 mountain-shadows 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—