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The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew

near, Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear, A line of torches smoked along the street, There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, And, with its banners floating in the air, Slowly the long procession crossed the square, And, to the statues of the Prophets bound, The victims stood, with fagots piled around. Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, And louder sang the monks with bell and book, And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead!

O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain
For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain ?
O pitiless earth! why open no abyss
To bury in its chasm a crime like this?


That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke
From the dark thickets of the forest broke,
And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away,
Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day.
Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed,
And as the villagers in terror gazed,
They saw the figure of that cruel knight
Lean from a window in the turret's height,
His ghastly face illumined with the glare,
His hands upraised above his head in prayer,
Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell
Down the black hollow of that burning 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,
Looms in the distant landscape of the Past,
Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath,
Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath!


Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom,
That cast upon each listener's face
Its shadow, and for some brief space
Unbroken silence filled the room.
The Jew was thoughtful and distressed;
Upon his memory thronged and pressed
The persecution of his race,
Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace;
His head was sunk upon his breast,
And from his eyes alternate came
Flashes of wrath and tears of shame.

The Student first the silence broke,
As one who long has lain in wait,
With purpose to retaliate,

And thus he dealt the avenging stroke.
“ In such a company as this,

A tale so tragic seems amiss,
That by its terrible control
O'ermasters and drags down the soul
Into a fathomless abyss.
The Italian Tales that you disdain,

Some merry Night of Straparole,
Or Machiavelli's Belphagor,
Would cheer us and delight us more,
Give greater pleasure and less pain
Than your grim tragedies of Spain ! ”

And here the Poet raised his hand,
With such entreaty and coinmand,
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 !”

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Published in The Atlantic Monthly, December, 1863.

It was the season, when through all the land

The merle and mavis build, and building sing
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand,
Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart

When on the boughs the purple buds expand,

The banners of the vanguard of the Spring,
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,
Filled all the blossoming orchards with their


The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud

Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,

Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: “ Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread !

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, Speaking some unknown language strange and

sweet Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed

The village with the cheers of all their fleet; Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed

Like foreign sailors, landed in the street Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,

In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,

Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, That mingled with the universal mirth,

Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful

words To swift destruction the whole race of birds.


And a town-meeting was convened straightway

To set a price upon the guilty heads Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,

Levied black-mail upon the garden beds And cornfields, and beheld without dismay

The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds ;

The skeleton that waited at their feast,
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

Then from his house, a temple painted white,

With fluted columns, and a roof of red, The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight!

Slowly descending, with majestic tread, Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who

said, “ A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society !”

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere,

The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; The wrath of God he preached from year to year,

And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; His favorite pastime was to slay the deer

In Summer on some Adirondac hill;
E’en now, while walking down the rural lane,
He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane.

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned

The hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round,

Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound

Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As

pure as water, and as good as bread.

And next the Deacon issued from his door,

In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow;

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