"Ah! to how many Faith has been
No evidence of things unseen,
But a dim shadow, that recasts
The creed of the Phantasiasts,

For whom no Man of Sorrows died,
For whom the Tragedy Divine
Was but a symbol and a sign,
And Christ a phantom crucified!
"For others a diviner creed
Is living in the life they lead.
The passing of their beautiful feet
Blesses the pavement of the street,
And all their looks and words repeat
Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet,
Not as a vulture, but a dove,
The Holy Ghost came from above.
"And this brings back to me a tale
So sad the hearer well may quail,
And question if such things can be ;
Yet in the chronicles of Spain
Down the dark pages runs this stain,
And nought can wash them white again,
So fearful is the tragedy."

On which his feet no sacred threshold

crossed;

And when he chanced the passing Host

to meet,

He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street;

Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought,

As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought.

In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent,

Walked in processions, with his head down bent,

At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green.

His only pastime was to hunt the boar Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar,

Or with his jingling mules to hurry down To some grand bull-fight in the neighbouring town,

Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, When Jews were burned, or banished from the land.

Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy;

The demon whose delight is to destroy Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone,

"Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!"

Upon this place of human sacrifice, Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd,

With clamour of voices dissonant and loud,

And every roof and window was alive With restless gazers, swarming like a hive.

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

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 peasant's fields their floods of hoarded rain?

O pitiless earth! why opened 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, The 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!

INTERLUDE.

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 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. 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 King;
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 blue-bird, piping loud,

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud

Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;

And hungry crows assembled in a crowd,

Clamoured their piteous prayer incessantly,

Knowing who hears the ravens cry,

and said:

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

Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng;

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart

To speak out what was in him, clear and strong,

Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down.

"Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, From his republic banished without pity

The Poets; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee,

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street musicians of the heavenly

city,

The birds, who make sweet music for

us all

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. "The thrush that carols at the dawn of day

From the green steeples of the piny wood;

The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,

Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray

Flooding with melody the neighbourhood;

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

"You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain

Of a scant handful more or less of