Art The Sky Of Lead. With His Own Hands He Lopped The Boughs And Bound Fagots, That Crackled With Foreboding Sound, And On His Mules, Caparisoned And Gay With Bells And Tassels, Sent Them On Their Way. Then With His Mind On One Dark Purpose Bent, Again To The Inquisitor He Went, And Said: "Behold, The Fagots I Have Brought, And Now, Lest My Atonement Be As Naught, Grant Me One More Request, One Last Desire,-- With My Own Hand To Light The Funeral Fire!" And Torquemada Answered From His Seat, "Son Of The Church! Thine Offering Is Complete; Her Servants Through All Ages Shall Not Cease To Magnify Thy Deed. Depart In Peace!" Upon The Market-Place, Builded Of Stone The Scaffold Rose, Whereon Death Claimed His Own. At The Four Corners, In Stern Attitude, Four Statues Of The Hebrew Prophets Stood, Gazing With Calm Indifference In Their Eyes Upon This Place Of Human Sacrifice, Round Which Was Gathering Fast The Eager Crowd, With Clamor 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 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 Prom 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! 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 Caedmon Calls The Blitheheart 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 Bluebird, 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, 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 Day; 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; A Suit Of Sable Bombazine He Wore; His Form Was Ponderous, And His Step Was Slow; There Never Was So Wise A Man Before; He Seemed The Incarnate "Well, I Told You So!" And To Perpetuate His Great Renown There Was A Street Named After Him In Town. These Came Together In The New Town-Hall, With Sundry Farmers From The Region Round. The Squirt Presided, Dignified And Tall, His Air Impressive And His Reasoning Sound; Ill Fared It With The Birds, Both Great And Small; Hardly A Friend In All That Crowd They Found, But Enemies Enough, Who Every One Charged Them With All The Crimes Beneath The Sun. When They Had Ended, From His Place Apart, Rose The Preceptor, To Redress The Wrong, And, Trembling Like A Steed Before The Start, 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 Bluebird Balanced On Some Topmost Spray, Flooding With Melody The Neighborhood; 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 Wheat, Or Rye, Or Barley, Or Some Other Grain, Scratched Up At Random By Industrious Feet, Searching For Worm Or Weevil After Rain! Or A Few Cherries, That Are Not So Sweet As Are The Songs These Uninvited Guests, Sing At Their Feast With Comfortable Breasts. "Do You Ne'Er Think What Wondrous Beings These? Do You Ne'Er Think Who Made Them And Who Taught The Dialect They Speak, Where Melodies Alone Are The Interpreters Of Thought? Whose Household Words Are Songs In Many Keys, Sweeter Than Instrument Of Man E'Er Caught! Whose Habitations In The Tree-Tops Even Are Half-Way Houses On The Road To Heaven! "Think, Every Morning When The Sun Peeps Through The Dim, Leaf-Latticed Windows Of The Grove, How Jubilant The Happy Birds Renew Their Old, Melodious Madrigals Of Love! And When You Think Of This, Remember Too 'T Is Always Morning Somewhere, And Above The Awakening Continent; From Shore To Shore, Somewhere The Birds Are Singing Evermore. "Think Of Your Woods And Orchards Without Birds! Of Empty Nests That Cling To Boughs And Beams As In An Idiot'S Brain Remembered Words Hang Empty 'Mid The Cobwebs Of His Dreams! Will Bleat Of Flocks Or Bellowing Of Herds Make Up For The Lost Music, When Your Teams Drag Home The Stingy Harvest, And No More The Feathered Gleaners Follow To Your Door? "What! Would You Rather See The Incessant Stir Of Insects In The Windrows Of The Hay, And Hear The Locust And The Grasshopper Their Melancholy Hurdy-Gurdies Play? Is This More Pleasant To You Than The Whir Of Meadow-Lark, And Her Sweet Roundelay, Or Twitter Of Little Field-Fares, As You Take Your Nooning In The Shade Of Bush And Brake? "You Call Them Thieves And Pillagers; But Know, They Are The Winged Wardens Of Your Farms, Who From The Cornfields Drive The Insidious Foe, And From Your Harvests Keep A Hundred Harms; Even The Blackest Of Them All, The Crow, Renders Good Service As Your Man-At-Arms, Crushing The Beetle In His Coat Of Mail, And Crying Havoc On The Slug And Snail. "How Can I Teach Your Children Gentleness, And Mercy To The Weak, And Reverence For Life, Which, In Its Weakness Or Excess, Is Still A Gleam Of God'S Omnipotence, Or Death, Which, Seeming Darkness, Is No Less The Selfsame Light, Although Averted Hence, When By Your Laws, Your Actions, And Your Speech, You Contradict The Very Things I Teach?" With This He Closed; And Through The Audience Went A Murmur, Like The Rustle Of Dead Leaves; The Farmers Laughed And Nodded, And Some Bent Their Yellow Heads Together Like Their Sheaves; Men Have No Faith In Fine-Spun Sentiment Who Put Their Trust In Bullocks And In Beeves. The Birds Were Doomed; And, As The Record Shows, A Bounty Offered For The Heads Of Crows. There Was Another Audience Out Of Reach, Who Had No Voice Nor Vote In Making Laws, But In The Papers Read His Little Speech, And Crowned His Modest Temples With Applause; They Made Him Conscious, Each One More Than Each, He Still Was Victor, Vanquished In Their Cause. Sweetest Of All The Applause He Won From Thee, O Fair Almira At The Academy! And So The Dreadful Massacre Began; O'Er Fields And Orchards, And O'Er Woodland Crests, The Ceaseless Fusillade Of Terror Ran. Dead Fell The Birds, With Blood-Stains On Their Breasts, Or Wounded Crept Away From Sight Of Man, While The Young Died Of Famine In Their Nests; A Slaughter To Be Told In Groans, Not Words, The Very St. Bartholomew Of Birds! The Summer Came, And All The Birds Were Dead; The Days Were Like Hot Coals; The Very Ground Was Burned To Ashes; In The Orchards Fed Myriads Of Caterpillars, And Around The Cultivated Fields And Garden Beds Hosts Of Devouring Insects Crawled, And Found No Foe To Check Their March, Till They Had Made The Land A Desert Without Leaf Or Shade. Devoured By Worms, Like Herod, Was The Town, Because, Like Herod, It Had Ruthlessly Slaughtered The Innocents. From The Trees Spun Down The Canker-Worms Upon The Passers-By, Upon Each Woman'S Bonnet, Shawl, And Gown, Who Shook Them Off With Just A Little Cry They Were The Terror Of Each Favorite Walk, The Endless Theme Of All The Village Talk. The Farmers Grew Impatient But A Few Confessed Their Error, And Would Not Complain, For After All, The Best Thing One Can Do When It Is Raining, Is To Let It Rain. Then They Repealed The Law, Although They Knew It Would Not Call The Dead To Life Again; As School-Boys, Finding Their Mistake Too Late, Draw A Wet Sponge Across The Accusing Slate. That Year In Killingworth The Autumn Came Without The Light Of His Majestic Look, The Wonder Of The Falling Tongues Of Flame, The Illumined Pages Of His Doom'S-Day Book. A Few Lost Leaves Blushed Crimson With Their Shame, And Drowned Themselves Despairing In The Brook, While The Wild Wind Went Moaning Everywhere, Lamenting The Dead Children Of The Air! But The Next Spring A Stranger Sight Was Seen, A Sight That Never Yet By Bard Was Sung, As Great A Wonder As It Would Have Been If Some Dumb Animal Had Found A Tongue! A Wagon, Overarched With Evergreen, Upon Whose Boughs Were Wicker Cages Hung, All Full Of Singing Birds, Came Down The Street, Filling The Air With Music Wild And Sweet. From All The Country Round These Birds Were Brought, By Order Of The Town, With Anxious Quest, And, Loosened From Their Wicker Prisons, Sought In Woods And Fields The Places They Loved Best, Singing Loud Canticles, Which Many Thought Were Satires To The Authorities Addressed, While Others, Listening In Green Lanes, Averred Such Lovely Music Never Had Been Heard! But Blither Still And Louder Carolled They Upon The Morrow, For They Seemed To Know It Was The Fair Almira'S Wedding-Day, And Everywhere, Around, Above, Below, When The Preceptor Bore His Bride Away, Their Songs Burst Forth In Joyous Overflow, And A New Heaven Bent Over A New Earth Amid The Sunny Farms Of Killingworth. Finale The Hour Was Late; The Fire Burned Low, The Landlord'S Eyes Were Closed In Sleep, And Near The Story'S End A Deep Sonorous Sound At Times Was Heard, As When The Distant Bagpipes Blow. At This All Laughed; The Landlord Stirred, As One Awaking From A Swound, And, Gazing Anxiously Around, Protested That He Had Not Slept, But Only Shut His Eyes, And Kept His Ears Attentive To Each Word. Then All Arose, And Said "Good Night." Alone Remained The Drowsy Squire To Rake The Embers Of The Fire, And Quench The Waning Parlor Light. While From The Windows, Here And There, The Scattered Lamps A Moment Gleamed, And The Illumined Hostel Seemed The Constellation Of The Bear, Downward, Athwart The Misty Air, Sinking And Setting Toward The Sun, Far Off The Village Clock Struck One. Part Second Prelude A Cold, Uninterrupted Rain, That Washed Each Southern Window-Pane, And Made A River Of The Road; A Sea Of Mist That Overflowed The House, The Barns, The Gilded Vane, And Drowned The Upland And The Plain, Through Which The Oak-Trees, Broad And High, Like Phantom Ships Went Drifting By; And, Hidden Behind A Watery Screen, The Sun Unseen, Or Only Seen As A Faint Pallor In The Sky;-- Thus Cold And Colorless And Gray, The Morn Of That Autumnal Day, As If Reluctant To Begin, Dawned On The Silent Sudbury Inn, And All The Guests That In It Lay. Full Late They Slept. They Did Not Hear The Challenge Of Sir Chanticleer, Who On The Empty Threshing-Floor, Disdainful Of The Rain Outside, Was Strutting With A Martial Stride, As If Upon His Thigh He Wore The Famous Broadsword Of The Squire, And Said, "Behold Me, And Admire!" Only The Poet Seemed To Hear, In Drowse Or Dream, More Near And Near Across The Border-Land Of Sleep The Blowing Of A Blithesome Horn, That Laughed The Dismal Day To Scorn; A Splash Of Hoofs And Rush Of Wheels Through Sand And Mire Like Stranding Keels, As From The Road With Sudden Sweep The Mail Drove Up The Little Steep, And Stopped Beside The Tavern Door; A Moment Stopped, And Then Again With Crack Of Whip And Bark Of Dog Plunged Forward Through The Sea Of Fog, And All Was Silent As Before,-- All Silent Save The Dripping Rain. Then One By One The Guests Came Down, And Greeted With A Smile The Squire, Who Sat Before The Parlor Fire, Reading The Paper Fresh From Town. First The Sicilian, Like A Bird, Before His Form Appeared, Was Heard Whistling And Singing Down The Stair; Then Came The Student, With A Look As Placid As A Meadow-Brook; The Theologian, Still Perplexed With Thoughts Of This World And The Next; The Poet Then, As One Who Seems Walking In Visions And In Dreams; Then The Musician, Like A Fair Hyperion From Whose Golden Hair The Radiance Of The Morning Streams; And Last The Aromatic Jew Of Alicant, Who, As He Threw The Door Wide Open, On The Air Breathed Round About Him A Perfume Of Damask Roses In Full Bloom, Making A Garden Of The Room. The Breakfast Ended, Each Pursued The Promptings Of His Various Mood; Beside The Fire In Silence Smoked The Taciturn, Impassive Jew, Lost In A Pleasant Revery; While, By His Gravity Provoked, His Portrait The Sicilian Drew, And Wrote Beneath It "Edrehi, At The Red Horse In Sudbury." By Far The Busiest Of Them All, The Theologian In The Hall Was Feeding Robins In A Cage,-- Two Corpulent And Lazy Birds, Vagrants And Pilferers At Best, If One Might Trust The Hostler'S Words, Chief Instrument Of Their Arrest; Two Poets Of The Golden Age, Heirs Of A Boundless Heritage Of Fields And Orchards, East And West, And Sunshine Of Long Summer Days, Though Outlawed Now And Dispossessed!-- Such Was The Theologian'S Phrase. Meanwhile The Student Held Discourse With The Musician, On The Source Of All The Legendary Lore Among The Nations, Scattered Wide Like Silt And Seaweed By The Force And Fluctuation Of The Tide; The Tale Repeated O'Er And O'Er, With Change Of Place And Change Of Name, Disguised, Transformed, And Yet The Same We'Ve Heard A Hundred Times Before. The Poet At The Window Mused, And Saw, As In A Dream Confused, The Countenance Of The Sun, Discrowned, And Haggard With A Pale Despair, And Saw The Cloud-Rack Trail And Drift Before It, And The Trees Uplift Their Leafless Branches, And The Air Filled With The Arrows Of The Rain, And Heard Amid The Mist Below, Like Voices Of Distress And Pain, That Haunt The Thoughts Of Men Insane, The Fateful Cawings Of The Crow. Then Down The Road, With Mud Besprent, And Drenched With Rain From Head To Hoof, The Rain-Drops Dripping From His Mane And Tail As From A Pent-House Roof, A Jaded Horse, His Head Down Bent, Passed Slowly, Limping As He Went. The Young Sicilian--Who Had Grown Impatient Longer To Abide A Prisoner, Greatly Mortified To See Completely Overthrown His Plans For Angling In The Brook, And, Leaning O'Er The Bridge Of Stone, To Watch The Speckled Trout Glide By, And Float Through The Inverted Sky, Still Round And Round The Baited Hook-- Now Paced The Room With Rapid Stride, And, Pausing At The Poet'S Side, Looked Forth, And Saw The Wretched Steed, And Said: "Alas For Human Greed, That With Cold Hand And Stony Eye Thus Turns An Old Friend Out To Die, Or Beg His Food From Gate To Gate! This Brings A Tale Into My Mind, Which, If You Are Not Disinclined To Listen, I Will Now Relate." All Gave Assent; All Wished To Hear, Not Without Many A Jest And Jeer, The Story Of A Spavined Steed; And Even The Student With The Rest Put In His Pleasant Little Jest Out Of Malherbe, That Pegasus Is But A Horse That With All Speed Bears Poets To The Hospital; While The Sicilian, Self-Possessed, After A Moment'S Interval Began His Simple Story Thus. The Sicilian'S Tale The Bell Of Atri At Atri In Abruzzo, A Small Town Of Ancient Roman Date, But Scant Renown, One Of Those Little Places That Have Run Half Up The Hill, Beneath A Blazing Sun, And Then Sat Down To Rest, As If To Say, "I Climb No Farther Upward, Come What May,"-- The Re Giovanni, Now Unknown To Fame, So Many Monarchs Since Have Borne The Name, Had A Great Bell Hung In The Market-Place Beneath A Roof, Projecting Some Small Space, By Way Of Shelter From The Sun And Rain. Then Rode He Through The Streets With All His Train, And, With The Blast Of Trumpets Loud And Long, Made Proclamation, That Whenever Wrong Was Done To Any Man, He Should But Ring The Great Bell In The Square, And He, The King, Would Cause The Syndic To Decide Thereon. Such Was The Proclamation Of King John. How Swift The Happy Days In Atri Sped, What Wrongs Were Righted, Need Not Here Be Said. Suffice It That, As All Things Must Decay, The Hempen Rope At Length Was Worn Away, Unravelled At The End, And, Strand By Strand, Loosened And Wasted In The Ringer'S Hand, Till One, Who Noted This In Passing By, Mended The Rope With Braids Of Briony, So That The Leaves And Tendrils Of The Vine Hung Like A Votive Garland At A Shrine. By Chance It Happened That In Atri Dwelt A Knight, With Spur On Heel And Sword In Belt, Who Loved To Hunt The Wild-Boar In The Woods, Who Loved His Falcons With Their Crimson Hoods, Who Loved His Hounds And Horses, And All Sports And Prodigalities Of Camps And Courts;-- Loved, Or Had Loved Them; For At Last, Grown Old, His Only Passion Was The Love Of Gold. He Sold His Horses, Sold His Hawks And Hounds, Rented His Vineyards And His Garden-Grounds, Kept But One Steed, His Favorite Steed Of All, To Starve And Shiver In A Naked Stall, And Day By Day Sat Brooding In His Chair, Devising Plans How Best To Hoard And Spare. At Length He Said: "What Is The Use Or Need To Keep At My Own Cost This Lazy Steed, Eating His Head Off In My Stables Here, When Rents Are Low And Provender Is Dear? Let Him Go Feed Upon The Public Ways; I Want Him Only For The Holidays." So The Old Steed Was Turned Into The Heat Of The Long, Lonely, Silent, Shadeless Street; And Wandered In Suburban Lanes Forlorn, Barked At By Dogs, And Torn By Brier And Thorn. One Afternoon, As In That Sultry Clime It Is The Custom In The Summer Time, With Bolted Doors And Window-Shutters Closed, The Inhabitants Of Atri Slept Or Dozed; When Suddenly Upon Their Senses Fell The Loud Alarum Of The Accusing Bell! The Syndic Started From His Deep Repose, Turned On His Couch, And Listened, And Then Rose And Donned His Robes, And With Reluctant Pace Went Panting Forth Into The Market-Place, Where The Great Bell Upon Its Cross-Beam Swung Reiterating With Persistent Tongue, In Half-Articulate Jargon, The Old Song: "Some One Hath Done A Wrong, Hath Done A Wrong!" But Ere He Reached The Belfry'S Light Arcade He Saw, Or Thought He Saw, Beneath Its Shade, No Shape Of Human Form Of Woman Born, But A Poor Steed Dejected And Forlorn, Who With Uplifted Head And Eager Eye Was Tugging At The Vines Of Briony. "Domeneddio!" Cried The Syndie Straight, "This Is The Knight Of Atri'S Steed Of State! He Calls For Justice, Being Sore Distressed, And Pleads His Cause As Loudly As The Best." Meanwhile From Street And Lane A Noisy Crowd Had Rolled Together Like A Summer Cloud, And Told The Story Of The Wretched Beast In Five-And-Twenty Different Ways At Least, With Much Gesticulation And Appeal To Heathen Gods, In Their Excessive Zeal. The Knight Was Called And Questioned; In Reply Did Not Confess The Fact, Did Not Deny; Treated The Matter As A Pleasant Jest, And Set At Naught The Syndic And The Rest, Maintaining, In An Angry Undertone, That He Should Do What Pleased Him With His Own. And Thereupon The Syndic Gravely Read The Proclamation Of The King; Then Said: "Pride Goeth Forth On Horseback Grand And Gay, But Cometh Back On Foot, And Begs Its Way; Fame Is The Fragrance Of Heroic Deeds, Of Flowers Of Chivalry And Not Of Weeds! These Are Familiar Proverbs; But I Fear They Never Yet Have Reached Your Knightly Ear. What Fair Renown, What Honor, What Repute Can Come To You From Starving This Poor Brute? He Who Serves Well And Speaks Not, Merits More Than They Who Clamor Loudest At The Door. Therefore The Law Decrees That As This Steed Served You In Youth, Henceforth You Shall Take Heed To Comfort His Old Age, And To Provide Shelter In Stall An Food And Field Beside." The Knight Withdrew Abashed; The People All Led Home The Steed In Triumph To His Stall. The King Heard And Approved, And Laughed In Glee And Cried Aloud: "Right Well It Pleaseth Me! Church-Bells At Best But Ring Us To The Door; But Go Not In To Mass; My Bell Doth More: It Cometh Into Court And Pleads The Cause Of Creatures Dumb And Unknown To The Laws; And This Shall Make, In Every Christian Clime, The Bell Of Atri Famous For All Time." Interlude "Yes, Well Your Story Pleads The Cause Of Those Dumb Mouths That Have No Speech, Only A Cry From Each To Each In Its Own Kind, With Its Own Laws; Something That Is Beyond The Reach Of Human Power To Learn Or Teach,-- An Inarticulate Moan Of Pain, Like The Immeasurable Main Breaking Upon An Unknown Beach." Thus Spake The Poet With A Sigh; Then Added, With Impassioned Cry, As One Who Feels The Words He Speaks, The Color Flushing In His Cheeks, The Fervor Burning In His Eye: "Among The Noblest In The Land, Though He May Count Himself The Least, That Man I Honor And Revere Who Without Favor, Without Fear, In The Great City Dares To Stand The Friend Of Every Friendless Beast, And Tames With His Unflinching Hand The Brutes That Wear Our Form And Face, The Were-Wolves Of The Human Race!" Then Paused, And Waited With A Frown, Like Some Old Champion Of Romance, Who, Having Thrown His Gauntlet Down, Expectant Leans Upon His Lance; But Neither Knight Nor Squire Is Found To Raise The Gauntlet From The Ground, And Try With Him The Battle'S Chance. "Wake From Your Dreams, O Edrehi! Or Dreaming Speak To Us, And Make A Feint Of Being Half Awake, And Tell Us What Your Dreams May Be. Out Of The Hazy Atmosphere Of Cloud-Land Deign To Reappear Among Us In This Wayside Inn; Tell Us What Visions And What Scenes Illuminate The Dark Ravines In Which You Grope Your Way. Begin!" Thus The Sicilian Spake. The Jew Made No Reply, But Only Smiled, As Men Unto A Wayward Child, Not Knowing What To Answer, Do. As From A Cavern'S Mouth, O'Ergrown With Moss And Intertangled Vines, A Streamlet Leaps Into The Light And Murmurs Over Root And Stone In A Melodious Undertone; Or As Amid The Noonday Night Of Sombre And Wind-Haunted Pines, There Runs A Sound As Of The Sea; So From His Bearded Lips There Came A Melody Without A Name, A Song, A Tale, A History, Or Whatsoever It May Be, Writ And Recorded In These Lines. The Spanish Jew'S Tale Kambalu Into The City Of Kambalu, By The Road That Leadeth To Ispahan, At The Head Of His Dusty Caravan, Laden With Treasure From Realms Afar, Baldacca And Kelat And Kandahar, Rode The Great Captain Alau. The Khan From His Palace-Window Gazed, And Saw In The Thronging Street Beneath, In The Light Of The Setting Sun, That Blazed Through The Clouds Of Dust By The Caravan Raised, The Flash Of Harness And Jewelled Sheath, And The Shining Scymitars Of The Guard, And The Weary Camels That Bared Their Teeth, As They Passed And Passed Through The Gates Unbarred Into The Shade Of The Palace-Yard. Thus Into The City Of Kambalu Rode The Great Captain Alau; And He Stood Before The Khan, And Said: "The Enemies Of My Lord Are Dead; All The Kalifs Of All The West Bow And Obey Thy Least Behest; The Plains Are Dark With The Mulberry-Trees, The Weavers Are Busy In Samarcand, The Miners Are Sifting The Golden Sand, The Divers Plunging For Pearls In The Seas, And Peace And Plenty Are In The Land. "Baldacca'S Kalif, And He Alone, Rose In Revolt Against Thy Throne: His Treasures Are At Thy Palace-Door, With The Swords And The Shawls And The Jewels He Wore; His Body Is Dust O'Er The Desert Blown. "A Mile Outside Of Baldacca'S Gate I Left My Forces To Lie In Wait, Concealed By Forests And Hillocks Of Sand, And Forward Dashed With A Handful Of Men, To Lure The Old Tiger From His Den Into The Ambush I Had Planned. Ere We Reached The Town The Alarm Was Spread, For We Heard The Sound Of Gongs From Within; And With Clash Of Cymbals And Warlike Din The Gates Swung Wide; And We Turned And Fled; And The Garrison Sallied Forth And Pursued, With The Gray Old Kalif At Their Head, And Above Them The Banner Of Mohammed: So We Snared Them All, And The Town Was Subdued. "As In At The Gate We Rode, Behold, A Tower That Is Called The Tower Of Gold! For There The Kalif Had Hidden His Wealth, Heaped And Hoarded And Piled On High, Like Sacks Of Wheat In A Granary; And Thither The Miser Crept By Stealth To Feel Of The Gold That Gave Him Health, And To Gaze And Gloat With His Hungry Eye On Jewels That Gleamed Like A Glow-Worm'S Spark, Or The Eyes Of A Panther In The Dark. "I Said To The Kalif: 'Thou Art Old, Thou Hast No Need Of So Much Gold. Thou Shouldst Not Have Heaped And Hidden It Here, Till The Breath Of Battle Was Hot And Near, But Have Sown Through The Land These Useless Hoards To Spring Into Shining Blades Of Swords, And Keep Thine Honor Sweet And Clear. These Grains Of Gold Are Not Grains Of Wheat; These Bars Of Silver Thou Canst Not Eat; These Jewels And Pearls And Precious Stones Cannot Cure The Aches In Thy Bones, Nor Keep The Feet Of Death One Hour From Climbing The Stairways Of Thy Tower!' "Then Into His Dungeon I Locked The Drone, And Left Him To Feed There All Alone In The Honey-Cells Of His Golden Hive: Never A Prayer, Nor A Cry, Nor A Groan Was Heard From Those Massive Walls Of Stone, Nor Again Was The Kalif Seen Alive! "When At Last We Unlocked The Door, We Found Him Dead Upon The Floor; The Rings Had Dropped From His Withered Hands, His Teeth Were Like Bones In The Desert Sands: Still Clutching His Treasure He Had Died; And As He Lay There, He Appeared A Statue Of Gold With A Silver Beard, His Arms Outstretched As If Crucified." This Is The Story, Strange And True, That The Great Captain Alau Told To His Brother The Tartar Khan, When He Rode That Day Into Kambalu By The Road That Leadeth To Ispahan. Interlude "I Thought Before Your Tale Began," The Student Murmured, "We Should Have Some Legend Written By Judah Rav In His Gemara Of Babylon; Or Something From The Gulistan,-- The Tale Of The Cazy Of Hamadan, Or Of That King Of Khorasan Who Saw In Dreams The Eyes Of One That Had A Hundred Years Been Dead Still Moving Restless In His Head, Undimmed, And Gleaming With The Lust Of Power, Though All The Rest Was Dust. "But Lo! Your Glittering Caravan On The Road That Leadeth To Ispahan Hath Led Us Farther To The East Into The Regions Of Cathay. Spite Of Your Kalif And His Gold, Pleasant Has Been The Tale You Told, And Full Of Color; That At Least No One Will Question Or Gainsay. And Yet On Such A Dismal Day We Need A Merrier Tale To Clear The Dark And Heavy Atmosphere. So Listen, Lordlings, While I Tell, Without A Preface, What Befell A Simple Cobbler, In The Year -- No Matter; It Was Long Ago; And That Is All We Need To Know." The Student'S Tale The Cobbler Of Hagenau I Trust That Somewhere And Somehow You All Have Heard Of Hagenau, A Quiet, Quaint, And Ancient Town Among The Green Alsatian Hills, A Place Of Valleys, Streams, And Mills, Where Barbarossa'S Castle, Brown With Rust Of Centuries, Still Looks Down On The Broad, Drowsy Land Below,-- On Shadowy Forests Filled With Game, And The Blue River Winding Slow Through Meadows, Where The Hedges Grow That Give This Little Town Its Name. It Happened In The Good Old Times, While Yet The Master-Singers Filled The Noisy Workshop And The Guild With Various Melodies And Rhymes, That Here In Hagenau There Dwelt A Cobbler,--One Who Loved Debate, And, Arguing From A Postulate, Would Say What Others Only Felt; A Man Of Forecast And Of Thrift, And Of A Shrewd And Careful Mind In This World'S Business, But Inclined Somewhat To Let The Next World Drift. Hans Sachs With Vast Delight He Read, And Regenbogen'S Rhymes Of Love, For Their Poetic Fame Had Spread Even To The Town Of Hagenau; And Some Quick Melody Of The Plough, Or Double Harmony Of The Dove, Was Always Running In His Head. He Kept, Moreover, At His Side, Among His Leathers And His Tools, Reynard The Fox, The Ship Of Fools, Or Eulenspiegel, Open Wide; With These He Was Much Edified: He Thought Them Wiser Than The Schools. His Good Wife, Full Of Godly Fear, Liked Not These Worldly Themes To Hear; The Psalter Was Her Book Of Songs; The Only Music To Her Ear Was That Which To The Church Belongs, When The Loud Choir On Sunday Chanted, And The Two Angels Carved In Wood, That By The Windy Organ Stood, Blew On Their Trumpets Loud