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,

They saw the figure of that cruel knight Lean from a window in the turret's height, His ghastly faced 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.

Ir 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 Cadmon 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;