Classic Poem

Each midnight, each midnight they march out in crowds,
With bundles of faggots concealed in their shrouds,
Their eyes like quenched embers, their faces like clouds—
They march to Madrid, and they stay;
And where Torquemada's cathedral once stood,
The spot that is stained with their ashes and blood,
They open their shrouds, drop bundles of wood,
And kindle an auto-da-fe.

A gray-bearded sage in a turban and shawl,
Of princely demeanor, and stately, and tall,
Then beckons for silence, proclaiming to all
In tones that make tremble the sod:
“This flame shall bear witness to age and to youth
That men who taught mankind God's mercy and ruth,
Were cast into flames for proclaiming His truth,
And burnt in the name of their God.

“And night after night shall be blazing this flame
And glare on the land as a brand-mark of shame.
Forever the land of inquisitors' fame
To men as a curse shall go down;
Forever the blood of the martyrs shall stain
The highways and byways and pavements of Spain:
We swear that our children shall never again
Return to the blood-spotted town.”

Then each of the martyrs holds down his right hand,
And lifts from the fire-heap a smouldering brand,
And mutters an oath and a curse on the land,
And slowly steps backward away.
Thrice “Amen” repeats the retreating dead crowd,
Thrice “Amen” re-echo the mountains aloud,
And over Madrid spreads a thickening cloud,
And stays till the dawn of the day.