They saw the figure of that cruel That by its terrible control Down the black hollow of that burn- And here the Poet raised his hand, ing well. Three centuries and more above his bones Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones; His name has perished with him, and no trace Remains on earth of his afflicted race; But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast, With such entreaty and command, It stopped discussion at its birth, And said: "The story I shall tell Has meaning in it, if not mirth; Listen, and hear what once befell The merry birds of Killingworth!" THE POET'S TALE THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 20 30 Looms in the distant landscape of the IT was the season, when through all |