University of Virginia Library

Down from the town of Del Renalda,
With only a half-hushed imprecation
On feasts, and priests, and the invitation
Had come the long and lean Alcalde—
And many a priest with shaven pate—
And many a long-tongued advocate—
Sat and sipped with him long and late—
Sat and sipped of the blushing wine,
Crushed from the Occidental vine—
Sipped of the wine of San Diego,
Sipped of the wine of Saint Benito,—
Feasting full in commemoration
Of the Holy Mary's Annunciation.
And they sipped late, and they sat long
In joyous bout and wild wassail,
And many a secret, gushing tale
Was told, and many an amorous song
Shook the adobes till chanticleer
Arousing, echoed their song and cheer.
The wine poured in, the secrets out,
As water poured in drain or spout
Will put the rats and mice to rout—
Poured out secrets of wife and client—
From these wine-brave men defiant—
From all but one, the tall, lean judge;
Few were the quaffs his thin lips passed—
Fewer the words that from them fell;
And even these he did begrudge,
As you might yellow coins that shine
In hands of a brainless Broadway swell,
And looked the while as if to tell
Something of casting pearls to swine.

With lifted cups the judge they pressed,
Careless of host and careless of guest,
And loudly called for a song or tale.
Secrets are sought with ill intent,
And only the evil are insolent.
An advocate, with a tawny skin,
Whose tongue kept constant dong and din—
Cried, ‘What! are you a Plantagenet
That leapt full-grown this great world in?
For I swear by the cross I much mistake
If there is a man in Mexico
Who doth a line of your life know
Farther agone than this decade.’
A hand on the rude one's lips was laid.
‘Sacred, my son,’ the priest went on—
‘Sacred the secrets of every one—
Inviolate as an altar-stone.
But what in the life of one who must
Have lived so pure to be so just?—
What can there be, O advocate,
In the life of one so desolate,
Of luck with matron, or love with maid,
Midnight revel or escapade,
To stir the wonder of men at wine?
Surely duller than chant of mine
Told at eve at the vestry door
To sleeping worshippers; ten times o'er.
But should the judge, his honour, though
(And here his voice fell soft and low
As he sat, his wine-horn in its place,
And looked in the judge's care-worn face)
Weave us a tale, that points a moral,
Out of his rich imagination,
Of lass, or love, or lovers' quarrel,
Naught of his fame or name or station
Shall be lessened by its relation.’

Softly the judge sat down his horn—
Kindly he looked on the priests all shorn,
And gazed in the eyes of the advocate
With a touch of pity, but none of hate;
Then looked down into the brimming horn,
Half defiant and half forlorn.

Was it a tear? Was it a sigh?
Was it a glance of the priest's black eye?
Or was it the drunken revel cry
That smote the rock of his frozen heart
And tore his purple lips apart?
Or was it the weakness like to woman
Yearning for sympathy
Through the dark years—
Spurning the secresy,
Burning for tears,
Proving him human?