TH INTERLUDE HUS closed the tale of guilt and gloom, Its shadow, and for some brief space The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace; The student first the silence broke, As one who long has lain in wait, And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. A tale so tragic seems amiss, O'ermasters and drags down the soul Into a fathomless abyss. The Italian Tales that you disdain, Some merry Night of Straparole, 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 T was the season, when through all the land IT 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, 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, Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; They shook their heads, and doomed with dread ful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town-meeting was convened straightway The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; Then from his house, a temple painted white, 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, In Summer on some Adirondac hill; From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 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, 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 ; |