Poems (Waldenburg)/The Justice of Peter of Arragon

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THE JUSFICE OF PETER OF ARRAGON. AN ITALTAN LEGEND.
Peter of Arragon! cruel and wild,His name comes down the centuries to us,This is a story of his justice told.

Through the long streets of Seville, silent they—For much the people feared their wicked king—Rides he, with throng of knights, a haughty train.His band upon his golden jeweled sword,And like an eagle glancing his fierce eyesSeem ever seeking prey or cause for wrath.The children hide within their mothers' arms,Women shrink back lest his gaze on them fallAnd tear them from their safe retreats to graceHis bacchanalian feasts.
Closely the rabble press against the wall,On through the open way the courtiers moveToward the church of great San Dominique,Stately its spires and rich its cloisters are;At its broad gates the king in horror halts,With deepest rage his eyes in anger gleamAt the dread sight that meets his outraged gaze.A black bier stands without the entrance wide,And from it pours a pestilential breath, ​That taints the air in all the spaces round."Horrors of hell"! Exclaims the angry king,"What means this Duke Medina, here I see."The courtier bowing low makes answer thus—"A poor man died upon the public roadAnd lacking gold must here remain ungraved,'Till needful alms be given this cloister's prior,To cover in the earth the wretched body;Oh mighty Sire, this is the truth I tell.""Before my face bring out the cloister's prior"—Then spoke the king.
On wings of wind hastens the royal page,And soon from out the cloister's doors come forthA shaven train of monks, and leading themAppears the portly figure of the abbot."Most holy monk I would but question thee,And know how great the sum that thou requirestTo buy a grave for this poor sinful wretch?""Oh king the pity of the passers byMoveth but slowly, of but thirty realsThere lacketh yet full twenty; still methinksThese dreadful odors soon must quicken alms.And should it be that some more generous soul,This sinner's unclean body should entombWith all the mighty pomp of holy church,And De profundis chanted by the choir;He has to pay only six hundred realsFor such a work of love!"
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Then in deep voice of ire speaks the king,"Six hundred reals be it, yet do thouBury this moment these decaying bonesWhose pestilence o'er yonder gardens spreadsWhere all your holy brethren fast and pray!Let quickly here the grave digger be brought."And forth he comes, a lusty fellow bold,Whose careless hands have hollowed many a grave.He throws the earth from spade as if a sport.In secret rage the king looks on but speaks,"Oh holy abbot dost thou think that deedLike this, will profit me? While thus I placeWithin earth's bosom this poor sinner's bonesUpon my sins shall Heaven's pardon fall?""The church, oh king, praises no greater deed,No deed can call upon you greater mercy!"
'Round the king's mouth there plays an awful smile,An oath breaks from his lips and looking downUpon the finished grave, he loudly cries,"Dig thou another and this cowléd monkAlive, place in the darkness of the earth!"From very terror stunned the digger stands,His spade down-dropping, and with staring eyes."Did'st hear my words, why waitest thou dumb knave?"In deathly fearUpon his knees before the king the monkPleads for his life, vain hope to move that heartOr change the measure of his punishment! ​Thrusting him coldly back the king thus speaks,"Pray if of prayer you've need, thy life stream ebbs,Ere many moments pass thou goest to death!Justice were it if I thy body left,To be the food of vultures, and to fillYon holy cloister with its loathsomeness,Waiting the tardy alms of passers by.But I am moved to pity, die in peace,Thou shalt have pomp and funeral dirge for, ereThe vesper ring, thy holy order of San DominiqueReceives in gold six hundred reals!"
A shudder runs through all the throng. The kingWith dark looks hastens on the awful deed.The prior is bound, the yawning gulf is there,One murmur and a groan, the earth clods fallEntombed in blackest midnight lies the prior!The king moves on.The trembling courtiers follow; some more boldPause at the grave, and speak these parting words,"So is your knavery punished, wicked monk!Just is our mighty king to show the worldThe wretched fate deserved by those, whose greedWould barter for their selfish gain of gold,The charity and pity of high Heaven!"
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