The grim Geneva ministers
       With anxious scowl drew near,
     As you have seen the ravens flock
       Around the dying deer. 
     He would not deign them word nor sign,
       But alone he bent the knee,
     And veiled his face for Christ’s dear grace
       Beneath the gallows-tree. 
     Then radiant and serene he rose,
       And cast his cloak away;
     For he had ta’en his latest look
       Of earth and sun and day.

     A beam of light fell o’er him,
       Like a glory round the shriven,
     And he climbed the lofty ladder
       As it were the path to heaven. 
     Then came a flash from out the cloud,
       And a stunning thunder-roll;
     And no man dared to look aloft,
       For fear was on every soul. 
     There was another heavy sound,
       A hush and then a groan;
     And darkness swept across the sky—­
       The work of death was done!

     THE BROKEN PITCHER

     From the ‘Bon Gaultier Ballads’

     It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
     And what that maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
     When by there rode a valiant knight, from the town of Oviedo—­
     Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.

     “O maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt’st thou by the spring? 
     Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? 
     Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide,
     And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?”

     “I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
     Because an article like that hath never come my way;
     But why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
     Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

     “My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is—­
     A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
     I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,
     But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

     “My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home,
     And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. 
     I cannot bring him water,—­the pitcher is in pieces;
     And so I’m sure to catch it, ’cos he wallops all his nieces.

     “O maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me? 
     So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
     And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
     To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde.”

     He lighted down from off his steed—­he tied him to a tree—­
     He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: 
     “To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!”
     He knelt him at the fountain, and dipped his helmet in.

     Up rose the Moorish maiden—­behind the knight she steals,
     And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels;
     She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,—­
     “Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!”