He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger still
In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender thrill,
When the hay 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,
And the laugh and look of gladness, when they see the distant spire;
Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly fair,
In the cool delicious crystal of the summer morning air.
Tender eyes of Manuela! what has dimmed your lustrous beam?
'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream.