'Tis noon, and plumes and scarlet banners gleam
Along the plain, a winding, glittering stream,
Reflected in the Turia's mirror blue;
And now it opens on the nearer view
A splendid cavalcade of youths and dames,
Medina, Arcos, Alvarez, high names
That by Pelagio on his mountains stood,
And never knew a shade of Moorish blood,
But on their plunging lances; deep their steel
Had mow'd the harvest of the Infidel.
Now slowly up the mountain's side they come,
With harmonies, that in the distance seem
Like the bee's music o'er the apple bloom,
Like the low murmurings of a morning dream;
And now the sound is clearer, yet as sweet
As when it flow'd around the mountain feet,
A rich, deep swell of flute and forest horn,
And now and then a stirring trumpet blast,
That bursts and dies away, like lightning borne
Into the bosom of the cloud and past.
The cavalcade has reached the convent height,
Where wait its slow ascent the peasant throng,
Struggling to see, for once in life, the sight
Whose story shall, through many an evening long,
Beguile them of the time, and make the pride
Of him who saw that day's devoted bride.