heresy from this mad earth,
And--

_First Inquisitor._ Mercy is the manna of the world.

_Ebremar._ The wages of sin is death.

_Second Monk._ No use.

_First Inquisitor._ My lord, if it must be, I pray descend
Yourself into the dungeon 'neath our feet
And importune with weighty words this Moor,
That she foreswear her heresies and save
Her soul from seas of endless flame in hell.

_Ebremar._ I speak alone with servants of the Cross
And dying men--and yet--but no, farewell.

_Second Monk._ No use.

_Ebremar._ Away! [_They go._] Hear oh! thou enduring God,
Who giveth to the golden-crested wren
Her hanging mansion. Give to me, I pray,
The burthen of thy truth. Reach down thy hands
And fill me with thy rage, that I may bruise
The heathen. Yea, and shake the sullen kings
Upon their thrones. The lives of men shall flow
As quiet as the little rivulets
Beneath the sheltering shadow of thy Church,
And thou shalt bend, enduring God, the knees
Of the great warriors whose names have sung
The world to its fierce infancy again.

SCENE III.

_The dungeon of the Inquisition. The morning of the Auto-da-Fe dawns
dimly through a barred window. A few faint stars are shining. Swallows
are circling in the dimness without._

_Mosada._ Oh! swallows, swallows, swallows, will ye fly
This eve, to-morrow, or to-morrow night
Above the farm-house by the little lake
That's rustling in the reeds with patient pushes,
Soft as a long dead footstep whispering through
The brain. My brothers will be passing down
Quite soon the cornfield, where the poppies grow,
To their farm-work; how silent all will be.
But no, in this warm weather, 'mong the hills,
Will be the faint far thunder-sound as though
The world were dreaming in its summer sleep;
That will be later, day is scarcely dawning.
And Hassan will be with them--he was so small,
A weak, thin child, when last I saw him there.
He will be taller now--'twas long ago.

The men are busy in the glimmering square.
I hear the murmur as they raise the beams
To build the circling seats, where high in air
Soon will the churchmen nod above the crowd.
I'm not of that pale company whose feet
Ere long shall falter through the noisy square,
And not come thence--for here in this small ring,
Hearken, ye swallows! I have hoarded up
A poison drop. The toy of fancy once,
A fashion with us Moorish maids, begot
Of dreaming and of watching by the door
The shad