In the heroic days, lost to Science,

Claimed by mystique: when Ferdinand,

And Isabella ruled the Gothic Spanish land,

And Torquemada, with his subtle, pious brain,

Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain,

In a castle, dark: that fortress wide...

Moated and high, and by black woodlands, hid,

There did dwell, as from the chronicles we learn,

Torquemada, proud, and taciturn,

Whose Line of Birth has perished,

With his towers of stone.

He, so terrible, perhaps it would be blessed

If, he, too, were forgotten, with the rest;

Unless, by chance, our eyes can see, within,

The Martyrdom, triumphant over Sin;

A double image, with all it's gloom and glow,

The splendor overhead, and the Death below.