Francis Bret Harte

At the Hacienda

Know I not whom thou mayst be
Carved upon this olive-tree,—
“Manuela of La Torre,”—
For around on broken walls
Summer sun and spring rain falls,
And in vain the low wind calls
“Manuela of La Torre.”
Of that song no words remain
But the musical refrain,—
“Manuela of La Torre.”

Yet at night, when winds are still,
Tinkles on the distant hill
A guitar, and words that thrill
Tell to me the old, old story,—
Old when first thy charms were sung,
Old when these old walls were young,
“Manuela of La Torre.”