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 Syndic 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.