THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO
The Dean of Santiago on his mule
Rode quick the Guadalquivir banks along,
He had no eye the veiling eve to love,
No ear to listen for the bird's late song.
Gold mist and purple of the setting sun,
Rose lapping wave and linnet's low good-night,
The crags that sat the hills like kings enthroned,
All heather-crowned, for him had no delight.
His roaming glances go from east to west,
Climb quick before him, find amid the rocks
A hut; he hastens, casting free his mule,
And with no gentle hand the door he knocks.
“Now who would enter?” “I, the Dean, let pass.”
He sees the tenant working at his books,
“And what can I, a student, poor, remote,
Do for the Dean?” he answers to his looks.
“Teach me your magic, so I learn to slave
The hiding creatures from the circling air
And bid them speak. Blow from the crystal globe
The mists that hold my future clouded there.”
“What? Share my magic! But it were not well:
The Church such study doth denounce and shun.”
The Dean with some rebuke now makes reply,
“My law I own in this—let it be done.”
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