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—
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.