CANTO V.
The Battle.
COOL with the coming eve the wind was blowing,
The shadows of the poplars longer growing;
Yet still the westering sun was two hours high,
As the tired ploughman noted wistfully,—
Two hours of toil ere the fresh twilight come,
And wifely greeting by the door at home.
The shadows of the poplars longer growing;
Yet still the westering sun was two hours high,
As the tired ploughman noted wistfully,—
Two hours of toil ere the fresh twilight come,
And wifely greeting by the door at home.
But Ourrias the brander left the spring,
The insult he had suffered pondering.
So moved to wrath was he, so stung with shame,
The blood into his very forehead came;
And, muttering deadly spite beneath his teeth,
He drave at headlong gallop o’er the heath.
The insult he had suffered pondering.
So moved to wrath was he, so stung with shame,
The blood into his very forehead came;
And, muttering deadly spite beneath his teeth,
He drave at headlong gallop o’er the heath.
As damsons in a bush, the stones of Crau
Are plentiful; and Ourrias, fuming so,
Would gladly with the senseless flints have striven,
Or through the sun itself his lance have driven.
A wild boar from its lair forced to decamp,
And scour the desert slopes of black Oulympe.
Are plentiful; and Ourrias, fuming so,
Would gladly with the senseless flints have striven,
Or through the sun itself his lance have driven.
A wild boar from its lair forced to decamp,
And scour the desert slopes of black Oulympe.
Ere turning on the dogs upon his track,
Erects the rugged bristles of his back,
And whets his tusks upon the mountain oaks.
And now young Vincen with his comely looks
Must needs have chosen the herdsman’s very path,
And meets him squarely, boiling o’er with wrath.
Erects the rugged bristles of his back,
And whets his tusks upon the mountain oaks.
And now young Vincen with his comely looks
Must needs have chosen the herdsman’s very path,
And meets him squarely, boiling o’er with wrath.
Whereas the simple dreamer wandered smiling,
His memory with a sweet tale beguiling,
That he had heard a fond girl whispering
Beneath a mulberry-tree one morn in spring.
Straight is he as a cane from the Durance;
And love, peace, joy, beam from his countenance.
His memory with a sweet tale beguiling,
That he had heard a fond girl whispering
Beneath a mulberry-tree one morn in spring.
Straight is he as a cane from the Durance;
And love, peace, joy, beam from his countenance.
The soft air swells his loose, unbottoned shirt:
His firm, bare feet are by the stones unhurt,
And light as lizard slips he o’er the way.
Oh! many a time, when eve was cool and gray,
And all the land in shadow lay concealed,
He used to roam about the darkling field,
His firm, bare feet are by the stones unhurt,
And light as lizard slips he o’er the way.
Oh! many a time, when eve was cool and gray,
And all the land in shadow lay concealed,
He used to roam about the darkling field,
Where the chill airs had shut the tender clover;
Or, like a butterfly, descend and hover
Around the homestead of Mirèio;
Or, hidden cleverly, his hiding show,
Like a gold-crested or an ivy wren,
By a soft chirrup uttered now and then.
Or, like a butterfly, descend and hover
Around the homestead of Mirèio;
Or, hidden cleverly, his hiding show,
Like a gold-crested or an ivy wren,
By a soft chirrup uttered now and then.
And she would know who called her, and would fly
Swift, silent, to the mulberry-tree hard by,
With quickened pulses. Fair is the moonlight
Upon narcissus-buds in summer night,
And sweet the rustle of the zephyr borne
In summer eve over the ripening corn,
Swift, silent, to the mulberry-tree hard by,
With quickened pulses. Fair is the moonlight
Upon narcissus-buds in summer night,
And sweet the rustle of the zephyr borne
In summer eve over the ripening corn,
Until the whole, in infinite undulation,
Seems like a great heart palpitant with passion.
Also the chamois hath a joy most keen
When through the Queiras, that most wild ravine
All day before the huntsman he hath flown,
And stands at length upon a peak, alone
Seems like a great heart palpitant with passion.
Also the chamois hath a joy most keen
When through the Queiras, that most wild ravine
All day before the huntsman he hath flown,
And stands at length upon a peak, alone
With larches and with ice fields, looking forth.
But all these joys and charms are little worth,
With the brief rapture of the hours compared—
Ah, brief!—that Vincen and Mirèio shared,
When, by the friendly shadows favourèd,
(Speak low, my lips, for trees can hear, ’tis said,)
But all these joys and charms are little worth,
With the brief rapture of the hours compared—
Ah, brief!—that Vincen and Mirèio shared,
When, by the friendly shadows favourèd,
(Speak low, my lips, for trees can hear, ’tis said,)
Their hands would seek each other and would meet,
And silence fall upon them, while their feet
Played idly with the pebbles in their way.
Until, not knowing better what to say,
The tyro-lover laughingly would tell
Of all the small mishaps that him befell;
And silence fall upon them, while their feet
Played idly with the pebbles in their way.
Until, not knowing better what to say,
The tyro-lover laughingly would tell
Of all the small mishaps that him befell;
Of nights he passed beneath the open heaven;
Of bites the farmers’ dogs his legs had given,
And show his scars. And then the maid told o’er
Her tasks of that day and the day before;
And what her parents said; and how the goat
With trellis-flowers had filled his greedy throat.
Of bites the farmers’ dogs his legs had given,
And show his scars. And then the maid told o’er
Her tasks of that day and the day before;
And what her parents said; and how the goat
With trellis-flowers had filled his greedy throat.
Once only—Vincen knew not what he did;
But, stealthy as a wild-cat, he had slid
Along the grasses of the barren moor,
And prostrate lay his darling’s feet before.
Then—soft, my lips, because the trees can hear—
He said, “Give me one kiss, Mirèio dear!
But, stealthy as a wild-cat, he had slid
Along the grasses of the barren moor,
And prostrate lay his darling’s feet before.
Then—soft, my lips, because the trees can hear—
He said, “Give me one kiss, Mirèio dear!
“I cannot eat nor drink,” he made his moan,
“For the great love I bear you! Yea, mine own,
Your breath the life out of my blood has taken.
Go not, Mirèio! Leave me not forsaken!
From dawn to dawn, at least, let a true lover
Kneel, and your garment’s hem with kisses cover!”
“For the great love I bear you! Yea, mine own,
Your breath the life out of my blood has taken.
Go not, Mirèio! Leave me not forsaken!
From dawn to dawn, at least, let a true lover
Kneel, and your garment’s hem with kisses cover!”
“Why, Vincen,” said Mirèio, “that were sin!
Then would the black-cap and the penduline
Tell everywhere the secret they had heard!”
“No fear of that! for every tell-tale bird
I’d banish from La Crau to Arles,” said he;
“For you, Mirèio, are as heaven to me!
Then would the black-cap and the penduline
Tell everywhere the secret they had heard!”
“No fear of that! for every tell-tale bird
I’d banish from La Crau to Arles,” said he;
“For you, Mirèio, are as heaven to me!
“Now list! There grows a plant in river Rhone,
Eel-grass, the name whereby that plant is known,
Two flowers it beareth, each on its own stem,
And a great space of water severs them,
For the plant springs out of the river’s bed;
But when the time for wooing comes,” he said,
Eel-grass, the name whereby that plant is known,
Two flowers it beareth, each on its own stem,
And a great space of water severs them,
For the plant springs out of the river’s bed;
But when the time for wooing comes,” he said,
“One flower leaps to the surface of the flood,
And in the genial sunshine opes its bud.
Whereon the other, seeing this so fair,
Swims eagerly to seize and kiss her there;
But, for the tangled weeds, can she not gain
Her love, till her frail stem breaks with the strain.
And in the genial sunshine opes its bud.
Whereon the other, seeing this so fair,
Swims eagerly to seize and kiss her there;
But, for the tangled weeds, can she not gain
Her love, till her frail stem breaks with the strain.
“Now free at last, but dying, she doth raise
Her pale lips for her sister’s last embrace.
So I! One kiss, and I will die to-night!
We are all alone!” Mirèio’s cheek grew white.
Then sprang he, wild-eyed as a lissome beast,
And clasped her. Hurriedly the maid released
Her pale lips for her sister’s last embrace.
So I! One kiss, and I will die to-night!
We are all alone!” Mirèio’s cheek grew white.
Then sprang he, wild-eyed as a lissome beast,
And clasped her. Hurriedly the maid released
Herself from his too daring touch. Once more
He strove to seize,—but ah! my lips, speak lower,
For the trees hear,—“Give over!” cried the girl,
And all her slender frame did writhe and curl.
Yet would he frantic cling; but straight thereafter
She pinched him, bent, slipped, and, with ringing laughter,
He strove to seize,—but ah! my lips, speak lower,
For the trees hear,—“Give over!” cried the girl,
And all her slender frame did writhe and curl.
Yet would he frantic cling; but straight thereafter
She pinched him, bent, slipped, and, with ringing laughter,
The saucy little damsel sped away,
And lifted up her voice in mocking lay.
So did these two, upon the twilight wold
Their moon-wheat sow, after the proverb old.
Flowery the moments were, and fleet with pleasure:
Of such our Lord giveth abundant measure
And lifted up her voice in mocking lay.
So did these two, upon the twilight wold
Their moon-wheat sow, after the proverb old.
Flowery the moments were, and fleet with pleasure:
Of such our Lord giveth abundant measure
To peasants and to kings alike. And so
I come to what befell that eve on Crau.
Ourrias and Vincen met. As lightning cleaves
The first tall tree, Ourrias his wrath relieves.
“’Tis you son of a hag, for aught I know,
Who have bewitched her,—this Mirèio;
I come to what befell that eve on Crau.
Ourrias and Vincen met. As lightning cleaves
The first tall tree, Ourrias his wrath relieves.
“’Tis you son of a hag, for aught I know,
Who have bewitched her,—this Mirèio;
“And since your path would seem to lie her way,
Tell her, tatterdemalion, what I say!
No more for her nor for her weasel face
Care I than for the ancient clout,” he says,
“That from your shoulders fluttering I see.
Go, pretty coxcomb, tell her this from me!”
Tell her, tatterdemalion, what I say!
No more for her nor for her weasel face
Care I than for the ancient clout,” he says,
“That from your shoulders fluttering I see.
Go, pretty coxcomb, tell her this from me!”
Stopped Vincen thunderstruck. His wrath leaped high
As leaps a fiery rocket to the sky.
“Is it your pleasure that I strangle you,
Base churl,” he said, “or double you in two?”
And faced him with a look he well might dread,
As when a starving leopard turns her head.
As leaps a fiery rocket to the sky.
“Is it your pleasure that I strangle you,
Base churl,” he said, “or double you in two?”
And faced him with a look he well might dread,
As when a starving leopard turns her head.
His face was purple, quivered all his frame.
“Oh, better try!” the mocking answer came.
“You’ll roll headfirst upon the gravel, neighbour!
Bah, puny hands! meet for no better labour
Than to twist osiers when they’re supple made;
Or to rob hen-roosts, lurking in the shade!”
“Oh, better try!” the mocking answer came.
“You’ll roll headfirst upon the gravel, neighbour!
Bah, puny hands! meet for no better labour
Than to twist osiers when they’re supple made;
Or to rob hen-roosts, lurking in the shade!”
Stung by the insult, “Yea, I can twist osier,
And I can twist your neck with all composure,”
Said Vincen. “Coward, it were well you ran!
Else vow I by St. James the Gallican,
You’ll never see your tamarisks any more!
This iron first shall bray your limbs before!”
And I can twist your neck with all composure,”
Said Vincen. “Coward, it were well you ran!
Else vow I by St. James the Gallican,
You’ll never see your tamarisks any more!
This iron first shall bray your limbs before!”
Wondering, and charmed to find by such quick chance
A man whereon to wreak his vengeance,
“Wait!” said the herdsman: “be not over-hot!
First let me have a pipe, young idiot!”
And brought to light a buckskin pouch, and set
Between his teeth a broken calumet.
A man whereon to wreak his vengeance,
“Wait!” said the herdsman: “be not over-hot!
First let me have a pipe, young idiot!”
And brought to light a buckskin pouch, and set
Between his teeth a broken calumet.
Then scornfully, “While rocking you, my lamb,
Under the goose-foot, did your gypsy-dam
Ne’er tell the tale of Jan de l’Ours, I pray?—
Two men in one, who, having gone one day,
By orders, to plough stubble with two yoke,
Seized plough and teams, as shepherds do a crook,
Under the goose-foot, did your gypsy-dam
Ne’er tell the tale of Jan de l’Ours, I pray?—
Two men in one, who, having gone one day,
By orders, to plough stubble with two yoke,
Seized plough and teams, as shepherds do a crook,
“And hurled them o’er a poplar-tree hard by?
Well for you, urchin, there’s no poplar nigh!
You couldn’t lead a stray ass whence it came!”
But Vincen stood like pointer to the game.
“I say,” he roared in tones stentorian,
“Will you come down, or must I fetch you, man
Well for you, urchin, there’s no poplar nigh!
You couldn’t lead a stray ass whence it came!”
But Vincen stood like pointer to the game.
“I say,” he roared in tones stentorian,
“Will you come down, or must I fetch you, man
“Or hog? Come! Brag no more your beast astride
You flinch now we are going to decide
Which sucked the better milk, or you or I?
Was it you, bearded scoundrel? We will try!
Why, I will tread you like a sheaf of wheat,
If you dare flout yon maiden true and sweet.
You flinch now we are going to decide
Which sucked the better milk, or you or I?
Was it you, bearded scoundrel? We will try!
Why, I will tread you like a sheaf of wheat,
If you dare flout yon maiden true and sweet.
“No fairer flower in this land blossomed ever;
And I who am called Vincen, basket-weaver,
Yes, I—her suitor, be it understood—
Will wash your slanders out in your own blood,
If such you have!” Quoth Ourrias, “I am ready,
My gypsy-suitor to a cupboard! Steady!”
And I who am called Vincen, basket-weaver,
Yes, I—her suitor, be it understood—
Will wash your slanders out in your own blood,
If such you have!” Quoth Ourrias, “I am ready,
My gypsy-suitor to a cupboard! Steady!”
Therewith alights. They fling their coats away,
Fists fly, and pebbles roll before the fray.
They fall upon each other in the manner
Of two young bulls who, in the vast savannah,
Where the great sun glares in the tropic sky,
The sleek sides of a dark young heifer spy
Fists fly, and pebbles roll before the fray.
They fall upon each other in the manner
Of two young bulls who, in the vast savannah,
Where the great sun glares in the tropic sky,
The sleek sides of a dark young heifer spy
In the tall grasses, lowing amorous.
The thunder bursts within them, challenged thus.
Mad, blind with love, they paw, they stare, they spring;
And furious charge, their muzzles lowering;
Retire, and charge again. The ominous sound
Of crashing horns fills all the spaces round.
The thunder bursts within them, challenged thus.
Mad, blind with love, they paw, they stare, they spring;
And furious charge, their muzzles lowering;
Retire, and charge again. The ominous sound
Of crashing horns fills all the spaces round.
And long, I ween, the battle is, and dire.
The combatants are maddened by desire.
Puissant Love urges and goads them on.
So here, with either doughty champion.
’Twas Ourrias who received the first hard touch;
And, being threatened with another such,
The combatants are maddened by desire.
Puissant Love urges and goads them on.
So here, with either doughty champion.
’Twas Ourrias who received the first hard touch;
And, being threatened with another such,
Lifts his huge fist and lays young Vincen flat
As with a club. “There, urchin, parry that!”
“See if I have a scratch, man!” cried the lad.
The other, “Bastard, count the knocks you’ve had!”
“Count you the ounces of hot blood,” he shouted,
“Monster, that from your flattened nose have spouted!”
As with a club. “There, urchin, parry that!”
“See if I have a scratch, man!” cried the lad.
The other, “Bastard, count the knocks you’ve had!”
“Count you the ounces of hot blood,” he shouted,
“Monster, that from your flattened nose have spouted!”
And then they grapple; bend and stretch their best,
With foot to foot, shoulder to shoulder, prest.
Their arms are wreathed and coiled like serpents fell
The veins within their necks to bursting swell
And tense their muscles with the mighty strain.
Long time they stiff and motionless remain,
With foot to foot, shoulder to shoulder, prest.
Their arms are wreathed and coiled like serpents fell
The veins within their necks to bursting swell
And tense their muscles with the mighty strain.
Long time they stiff and motionless remain,
With pulsing flanks, like flap of bustard’s wing.
And, one against the other steadying,
Bear up like the abutments huge and wide
Of that great bridge the Gardoun doth bestride.
Anon they part: their doubled fists upraise,
Once more the pestle in the mortar brays,
And, one against the other steadying,
Bear up like the abutments huge and wide
Of that great bridge the Gardoun doth bestride.
Anon they part: their doubled fists upraise,
Once more the pestle in the mortar brays,
And in their fury ply they tooth or nail.
Good God! the blows of Vincen fall like hail.
Yet ah! what club-like hits the herdsman deals!
And, as their crushing weight the weaver feels,
He whirls as whirls a sling about his foe,
And backward bends to deal his fiercest blow.
Good God! the blows of Vincen fall like hail.
Yet ah! what club-like hits the herdsman deals!
And, as their crushing weight the weaver feels,
He whirls as whirls a sling about his foe,
And backward bends to deal his fiercest blow.
“Look your last, villain!” Ere the word said he,
The mighty herdsman seized him bodily,
And flung him o’er his shoulder far away,
As a Provençal shovels wheat. He lay
A moment on his side, not sorely hurt.
“Pick up, O worm!” cried Ourrias,—“pick the dirt
The mighty herdsman seized him bodily,
And flung him o’er his shoulder far away,
As a Provençal shovels wheat. He lay
A moment on his side, not sorely hurt.
“Pick up, O worm!” cried Ourrias,—“pick the dirt
“You have displaced, and eat it, if you will!”
“Enough of that! Brute who was broken ill,
We’ll have three rounds before this game is over!”
With bitter hate retorts the poor boy-lover;
And, reddening to his very hair for shame,
Rears like a dragon to retrieve his fame.
“Enough of that! Brute who was broken ill,
We’ll have three rounds before this game is over!”
With bitter hate retorts the poor boy-lover;
And, reddening to his very hair for shame,
Rears like a dragon to retrieve his fame.
And, daring death, he on the brute hath flown,
And dealt a blow marvellous in such an one
Straight from the shoulder to the other’s breast,
Who reeled and groped for that whereon to rest,
With darkening eyes and brow cold-beaded, till
He crashed to earth, and all La Crau was still.
And dealt a blow marvellous in such an one
Straight from the shoulder to the other’s breast,
Who reeled and groped for that whereon to rest,
With darkening eyes and brow cold-beaded, till
He crashed to earth, and all La Crau was still.
Its misty limit blent with the far sea;
The sea’s with the blue ether, dreamily.
Still in mid-air there floated shining things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their rosy wings,
Come to salute the last of the sunset
Along the desert meres that glimmered yet.
The sea’s with the blue ether, dreamily.
Still in mid-air there floated shining things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their rosy wings,
Come to salute the last of the sunset
Along the desert meres that glimmered yet.
The white mare of the herdsman lazily
Pulled at the dwarf-oak leaves that grew thereby:
The iron stirrups of the creature jangled,
As loose and heavy at her sides they dangled.
“Stir, and I crush you, ruffian!” Vincen said:
“’Tis not by feet that men are measurèd!”
Pulled at the dwarf-oak leaves that grew thereby:
The iron stirrups of the creature jangled,
As loose and heavy at her sides they dangled.
“Stir, and I crush you, ruffian!” Vincen said:
“’Tis not by feet that men are measurèd!”
Then in the silent wold the victor pressed
His heel upon the brander’s prostrate breast,
Who writhed beneath it vainly, while the blood
Sluggish and dark from lips and nostrils flowed.
Thrice did he strive the horny foot to move,
And thrice the basket-weaver from above
His heel upon the brander’s prostrate breast,
Who writhed beneath it vainly, while the blood
Sluggish and dark from lips and nostrils flowed.
Thrice did he strive the horny foot to move,
And thrice the basket-weaver from above
Dealt him a blow that levelled him once more,
Until he haggard lay, and gasping sore
Like some sea-monster. “So your mother, then,
Was not, it seems, the only mould of men,”
Said Vincen, jeeringly. “Go tell the tale
Of my fist’s weight to bulls in Sylvarèal.
Until he haggard lay, and gasping sore
Like some sea-monster. “So your mother, then,
Was not, it seems, the only mould of men,”
Said Vincen, jeeringly. “Go tell the tale
Of my fist’s weight to bulls in Sylvarèal.
“Go to the waste of the Camargan isle,
And hide your bruises and your shame awhile
Among your beasts!” So saying, he loosed his hold,
As some great ram, a shearer in the fold
Pins with his knees till shorn; then, with a blow
Upon the crupper, bids him freely go.
And hide your bruises and your shame awhile
Among your beasts!” So saying, he loosed his hold,
As some great ram, a shearer in the fold
Pins with his knees till shorn; then, with a blow
Upon the crupper, bids him freely go.
Bursting with rage and all defiled with dust,
The herdsman went his ways. But wherefore must
He linger ferreting about the heath,
Amid the oaks and broom, under his breath
Muttering curses? until suddenly
He stoops, then swings his savage trident high,
The herdsman went his ways. But wherefore must
He linger ferreting about the heath,
Amid the oaks and broom, under his breath
Muttering curses? until suddenly
He stoops, then swings his savage trident high,
And darts on Vincen. For him all is done.
Vain were the hope that murderous lance to shun,
And the boy paled as on the day he died;
Not fearing death, but that he could not bide
The treachery. A felon’s prey to be!
That stung the manly soul to agony.
Vain were the hope that murderous lance to shun,
And the boy paled as on the day he died;
Not fearing death, but that he could not bide
The treachery. A felon’s prey to be!
That stung the manly soul to agony.
“Traitor, you dare not!” But the lad restrains
The word, firm as a martyr in his pains;
For yon’s the farmstead hidden by the trees.
Tenderly, wistfully, he turns to these.
“O my Mirèio!” said the eager eye,
“Look hither, darling,—’tis for you I die!”
The word, firm as a martyr in his pains;
For yon’s the farmstead hidden by the trees.
Tenderly, wistfully, he turns to these.
“O my Mirèio!” said the eager eye,
“Look hither, darling,—’tis for you I die!”
Great heart, intent as ever on his love!
“Say your prayers!” thundered Ourrias from above
In a hoarse voice, and pitiless to hear,
And pierced the victim with his iron spear.
Then, with a heavy groan, the fated lover
Upon the green-sward rolled, and all was over.
“Say your prayers!” thundered Ourrias from above
In a hoarse voice, and pitiless to hear,
And pierced the victim with his iron spear.
Then, with a heavy groan, the fated lover
Upon the green-sward rolled, and all was over.
The beaten grass is dark with human gore,
And the field-ants already coursing o’er
The prostrate limbs ere Ourrias mounts, and hies
Under the rising moon in frantic wise;
Muttering, as the flints beneath him fly,
“To-night the Crau wolves will feast merrily.”
And the field-ants already coursing o’er
The prostrate limbs ere Ourrias mounts, and hies
Under the rising moon in frantic wise;
Muttering, as the flints beneath him fly,
“To-night the Crau wolves will feast merrily.”
Deep stillness reigned in Crau. Its limit dim
Blent with the sea’s on the horizon’s rim,
The sea’s with the blue ether. Gleaming things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their ruddy wings,
Came to salute the last declining light
Among the desert meres that glimmered white.
Blent with the sea’s on the horizon’s rim,
The sea’s with the blue ether. Gleaming things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their ruddy wings,
Came to salute the last declining light
Among the desert meres that glimmered white.
Away, Ourrias, away! Draw not the rein,
Urge thy unresting gallop o’er the plain,
While the green heron shout their fearsome cries
In thy mare’s ear, as the good creature flies,
Till her ear trembles, and her nostrils quiver,
And eyes dilate. That night the great Rhone River
Urge thy unresting gallop o’er the plain,
While the green heron shout their fearsome cries
In thy mare’s ear, as the good creature flies,
Till her ear trembles, and her nostrils quiver,
And eyes dilate. That night the great Rhone River
Slept on his stony bed beneath the moon,
As pilgrim of Sainte Baume may lay him down,
Fevered and weary, in a deep ravine.
“Ho!” cries the ruffian to three boatmen seen,
“Ho! Boat ahoy! We must cross, hark ye there!
On board or in the hold, I and my mare!”
As pilgrim of Sainte Baume may lay him down,
Fevered and weary, in a deep ravine.
“Ho!” cries the ruffian to three boatmen seen,
“Ho! Boat ahoy! We must cross, hark ye there!
On board or in the hold, I and my mare!”
“On board, my hearty, then, without delay!
There shines the night-lamp! And lured by its ray,”
Answered a cheery voice, “about our prow
And oars the fish frisk playfully enow.
It is good fishing, and the hour is fair.
On board at once! We have no time to spare.”
There shines the night-lamp! And lured by its ray,”
Answered a cheery voice, “about our prow
And oars the fish frisk playfully enow.
It is good fishing, and the hour is fair.
On board at once! We have no time to spare.”
Therewith upon the poop the villain clomb.
While, tethered to the stern, amid the foam
Swam the white mare. Now fishes huge and scaly
Forsook their grottoes, and leaped upward gayly,
And flashed on the smooth surface of the stream.
“Have a care, pilot! For this craft I deem
While, tethered to the stern, amid the foam
Swam the white mare. Now fishes huge and scaly
Forsook their grottoes, and leaped upward gayly,
And flashed on the smooth surface of the stream.
“Have a care, pilot! For this craft I deem
“Nowise too sound.” And he who spake once more
Lay foot to stretcher, bent the supple oar.
“So I perceive. Ah!” was the pilot’s word,
“I tell thee we’ve an evil freight on board.”
No more. And all the while the vessel old
Staggered and pitched and like a drunkard rolled.
Lay foot to stretcher, bent the supple oar.
“So I perceive. Ah!” was the pilot’s word,
“I tell thee we’ve an evil freight on board.”
No more. And all the while the vessel old
Staggered and pitched and like a drunkard rolled.
A crazy craft! Rotten its timbers all.
“Thunder of God!” Ourrias began to call,
Seizing the helm his tottering feet to stay.
Whereon the boat in some mysterious way
Seemed moved to writhing, as a wounded snake
Whose back a shepherd with a stone doth break.
“Thunder of God!” Ourrias began to call,
Seizing the helm his tottering feet to stay.
Whereon the boat in some mysterious way
Seemed moved to writhing, as a wounded snake
Whose back a shepherd with a stone doth break.
“Doth all this tumult, comrades, bode disaster?”
Appealed the brander, growing pale as plaster.
“And will you drown me?” Brake the pilot out,
“I cannot hold the craft! She springs about
And wriggles like a carp. Villain, I know
You’ve murdered some one, and not long ago!”
Appealed the brander, growing pale as plaster.
“And will you drown me?” Brake the pilot out,
“I cannot hold the craft! She springs about
And wriggles like a carp. Villain, I know
You’ve murdered some one, and not long ago!”
“Who told you that? May Satan if I have
Thrust me with his pitch-fork beneath the wave.”
“Ah!” said the livid pilot, “then I err!
I had forgot the cause of all this stir.
’Tis Saint Medard’s to-night, when poor drowned men
Come from their dismal pits to land again,
“How deep and dark soe’er their watery prison.
Look! Even now hath from the wave arisen
The long procession of the weeping dead!
Barefoot, poor things! the shingly shore they tread,
The turbid water dripping, dripping, see,
From matted hair and stained clothes heavily.
Thrust me with his pitch-fork beneath the wave.”
“Ah!” said the livid pilot, “then I err!
I had forgot the cause of all this stir.
’Tis Saint Medard’s to-night, when poor drowned men
Come from their dismal pits to land again,
“How deep and dark soe’er their watery prison.
Look! Even now hath from the wave arisen
The long procession of the weeping dead!
Barefoot, poor things! the shingly shore they tread,
The turbid water dripping, dripping, see,
From matted hair and stained clothes heavily.
“See them defile under the poplars tall,
Carrying lighted tapers, one and all.
While up the river’s bank, now and anon,
Eagerly clambereth another one.
’Tis they who toss our wretched craft about
So like a raging storm, I make no doubt.
Carrying lighted tapers, one and all.
While up the river’s bank, now and anon,
Eagerly clambereth another one.
’Tis they who toss our wretched craft about
So like a raging storm, I make no doubt.
“Their cramped legs and their mottled arms—ah, see!—
And heavy heads they from the weeds would free.
Oh, how they watch the stars as on they go,
Quaff the fresh air and thrill at sight of Crau,
And scent the harvest odours the winds bring,
In their brief hour of motion revelling!
And heavy heads they from the weeds would free.
Oh, how they watch the stars as on they go,
Quaff the fresh air and thrill at sight of Crau,
And scent the harvest odours the winds bring,
In their brief hour of motion revelling!
“And still the water from their garments raineth,
And still another and another gaineth
The river-bank. And there,” the boatman moans,
“Are the old men, women, and little ones:
They spurn the clinging mud. Ah me!” he said,
“Yon ghastly things abhor the fisher’s trade.
And still another and another gaineth
The river-bank. And there,” the boatman moans,
“Are the old men, women, and little ones:
They spurn the clinging mud. Ah me!” he said,
“Yon ghastly things abhor the fisher’s trade.
“The lamprey and the perch they made their game,
And now are they become food for the same.
But what is this? Another piteous band,
Travelling in a line along the sand?
Ah, yes! the poor deserted maids,” quoth he,
“Who asked the Rhone for hospitality,
And now are they become food for the same.
But what is this? Another piteous band,
Travelling in a line along the sand?
Ah, yes! the poor deserted maids,” quoth he,
“Who asked the Rhone for hospitality,
“And sought to hide their shame in the great river.
Alas! alas! They seem to moan for ever.
And, oh, how painfully, fond hearts, ill fated,
Labour the bosoms by the dank weeds weighted!
Is it the water dripping that one hears
From their long veils of hair, or is it tears?”
Alas! alas! They seem to moan for ever.
And, oh, how painfully, fond hearts, ill fated,
Labour the bosoms by the dank weeds weighted!
Is it the water dripping that one hears
From their long veils of hair, or is it tears?”
He ceased. The wending souls bare each a light,
Intently following in the silent night
The river-shore. And those two listening
Might even have heard the whirr of a moth’s wing.
“Are they not, pilot,” asked the awe-struck brander,
“Seeking somewhat in the gloom where they wander?”
Intently following in the silent night
The river-shore. And those two listening
Might even have heard the whirr of a moth’s wing.
“Are they not, pilot,” asked the awe-struck brander,
“Seeking somewhat in the gloom where they wander?”
“Ah, yes, poor things!” the master-boatman said.
“See how from side to side is turned each head.
’Tis their good works they seek,—their acts of faith
Sown upon earth ere their untimely death.
And when they spy the same, ’tis said moreover,
They haste thereto, as haste the sheep to clover,
“See how from side to side is turned each head.
’Tis their good works they seek,—their acts of faith
Sown upon earth ere their untimely death.
And when they spy the same, ’tis said moreover,
They haste thereto, as haste the sheep to clover,
“The good work or the act of faith to cull.
And when of such as these their hands are full,
Lo, they all turn to flowers! And they who gather
Go tender them with joy to God the Father,
Being by the flowers to Peter’s gate conveyed.
Thus those who find a watery grave,” he said,
And when of such as these their hands are full,
Lo, they all turn to flowers! And they who gather
Go tender them with joy to God the Father,
Being by the flowers to Peter’s gate conveyed.
Thus those who find a watery grave,” he said,
“The gracious God granteth a respite to,
That they may save themselves. But some anew
Ere the day dawn will bury their good deeds
Deep underneath the surging river-weeds.
And some,” the pilot whispered,—“some are worse,
Devourers of the needy, murderers,
That they may save themselves. But some anew
Ere the day dawn will bury their good deeds
Deep underneath the surging river-weeds.
And some,” the pilot whispered,—“some are worse,
Devourers of the needy, murderers,
“Atheists, traitors, that worm-eaten kind.
These hunt the river-shore, but only find
Their sins and crimes like great stones in the gravel
Whereon their bare feet stumble as they travel.
The mule when dead is beaten never more;
But these God’s mercy shall in vain implore
“Under the roaring wave.” Here, sore afraid,
Ourrias a hand upon the pilot laid,
Like robber at a turning. “Look!” he cries,
“There’s water in the hold!” Whereon replies
The pilot, coolly, “And the bucket’s there!”
The herdsman bales for life in his despair.
These hunt the river-shore, but only find
Their sins and crimes like great stones in the gravel
Whereon their bare feet stumble as they travel.
The mule when dead is beaten never more;
But these God’s mercy shall in vain implore
“Under the roaring wave.” Here, sore afraid,
Ourrias a hand upon the pilot laid,
Like robber at a turning. “Look!” he cries,
“There’s water in the hold!” Whereon replies
The pilot, coolly, “And the bucket’s there!”
The herdsman bales for life in his despair.
Ay, bale, brave Ourrias! But there danced that night,
On Trincataio bridge, the water-sprite.
Madly the white mare strove to break her halter.
“What ails you, Blanco?” Ourrias ’gan falter.
“Fear you the dead yonder upon the verge?”
Over the gunnel plashed the rising surge.
On Trincataio bridge, the water-sprite.
Madly the white mare strove to break her halter.
“What ails you, Blanco?” Ourrias ’gan falter.
“Fear you the dead yonder upon the verge?”
Over the gunnel plashed the rising surge.
“Captain, the craft sinks, and I cannot swim!”
“I know no help,” the pilot answered him.
“We must go down. But, presently,” he said,
“A cable will be heaved us by the dead,—
The dead you fear so,—on the river-bank.”
And even as he spake the vessel sank.
“I know no help,” the pilot answered him.
“We must go down. But, presently,” he said,
“A cable will be heaved us by the dead,—
The dead you fear so,—on the river-bank.”
And even as he spake the vessel sank.
The tapers gleaming far and fitfully
In the poor ghostly hands flared forth so high,
They sent a shaft of vivid brilliance
Across the murky river’s broad expanse;
Then, as a spider in the morn you see
Glide o’er his late-spun thread, the boatmen three,
In the poor ghostly hands flared forth so high,
They sent a shaft of vivid brilliance
Across the murky river’s broad expanse;
Then, as a spider in the morn you see
Glide o’er his late-spun thread, the boatmen three,
Being all spirits, leaped out of the stream,
And caught and swooped along the dazzling beam.
And Ourrias, too, the cable sought to seize
Amid the gurgling waters, even as these;
But sought it vainly. And the water-sprite
Danced upon Trincataio bridge that night.
And caught and swooped along the dazzling beam.
And Ourrias, too, the cable sought to seize
Amid the gurgling waters, even as these;
But sought it vainly. And the water-sprite
Danced upon Trincataio bridge that night.
CANTO VI.
The Witch.
THE merry birds, until the white dawn showeth
Clear in the east, are silent every one.
Silent the odorous Earth until she knoweth
In her warm heart the coming of the Sun,
As maiden in her fairest robes bedight
Breathless awaits her lover and her flight.
Clear in the east, are silent every one.
Silent the odorous Earth until she knoweth
In her warm heart the coming of the Sun,
As maiden in her fairest robes bedight
Breathless awaits her lover and her flight.
Across La Crau three swineherds held their way
From St. Chamas the wealthy, whither they
Had to the market gone. Their herds were sold,
And o’er their shoulders pouches full of gold
Were hung, and by their hanging cloaks concealed:
So, chatting idly, they attained the field
From St. Chamas the wealthy, whither they
Had to the market gone. Their herds were sold,
And o’er their shoulders pouches full of gold
Were hung, and by their hanging cloaks concealed:
So, chatting idly, they attained the field
Of the late strife. Suddenly one cried, “Hush!
Comrades, I hear a moaning in the bush.”
“’Tis but a tolling bell,” the rest averred,
“From Saint Martin’s or from Maussano heard,
Or the north wind the dwarf-oak limbs a-swaying.”
But, ere they spake, all were their steps delaying,
Comrades, I hear a moaning in the bush.”
“’Tis but a tolling bell,” the rest averred,
“From Saint Martin’s or from Maussano heard,
Or the north wind the dwarf-oak limbs a-swaying.”
But, ere they spake, all were their steps delaying,
Arrested by so piteous a groan
It rent the very heart. And every one
Cried, “Holy Jesus! Here has been foul play!”
Then crossed themselves, and gently took their way
Toward the sound. Ah, what a sight there was!
Vincen, supine upon the stony grass,—
It rent the very heart. And every one
Cried, “Holy Jesus! Here has been foul play!”
Then crossed themselves, and gently took their way
Toward the sound. Ah, what a sight there was!
Vincen, supine upon the stony grass,—
The grass blood-stained, the trampled earth besprent
With willow rods. His shirt to ribbons rent,
Stabbed in the breast, left on the moor alone,
Had lain the poor lad through the night now gone,
With but the stars to watch. But the dim ray
Of early dawn, as ebbed his life away,
With willow rods. His shirt to ribbons rent,
Stabbed in the breast, left on the moor alone,
Had lain the poor lad through the night now gone,
With but the stars to watch. But the dim ray
Of early dawn, as ebbed his life away,
Falling upon his lids had oped them wide.
Straightway the good Samaritans turned aside
From their home-path, stooped, and a hammock made
Of their three cloaks, thereon the victim laid,
Then bare him tenderly upon their arms
Unto the nearest door,—the Lotus-Farm’s....
Straightway the good Samaritans turned aside
From their home-path, stooped, and a hammock made
Of their three cloaks, thereon the victim laid,
Then bare him tenderly upon their arms
Unto the nearest door,—the Lotus-Farm’s....
O friends,—Provençal poets brave and dear,
Who love my songs of other days to hear!
You, Roumanille, who blend with songs you sing
Tears, girlish laughter, and the breath of spring;
And you, proud Aubanel, who stray where quiver
The changing lights and shades of wood and river,
Who love my songs of other days to hear!
You, Roumanille, who blend with songs you sing
Tears, girlish laughter, and the breath of spring;
And you, proud Aubanel, who stray where quiver
The changing lights and shades of wood and river,
To soothe a heart oppressed by love’s fond dream;
You, Crousillat, who your belovèd stream,
The bright Touloubro, make more truly famous
Than did the grim star-gazer Nostradamus;
And you, Anselme, who see, half-sad, half-smiling,
Fair girls under the trellised arbours whiling
You, Crousillat, who your belovèd stream,
The bright Touloubro, make more truly famous
Than did the grim star-gazer Nostradamus;
And you, Anselme, who see, half-sad, half-smiling,
Fair girls under the trellised arbours whiling
Their hours away; and you, my Paul, the witty,
And peasant Tavan, who attune your ditty
Unto the crickets’ chirrup, while you peer
Wistful at your poor pickaxe; and most dear,
Adolphe Dumas, who when Durance is deep
With his spring flood, come back your thoughts to steep,
And peasant Tavan, who attune your ditty
Unto the crickets’ chirrup, while you peer
Wistful at your poor pickaxe; and most dear,
Adolphe Dumas, who when Durance is deep
With his spring flood, come back your thoughts to steep,
And warm the Frenchman at Provençal suns,
’Twas you who met my own Mirèio once
At your great Paris,—met her tenderly,
Where she had flown, impetuous, daring, shy;
And last Garcin, brave son of a brave sire,
Whose soul mounts upward on a wind of fire;—
’Twas you who met my own Mirèio once
At your great Paris,—met her tenderly,
Where she had flown, impetuous, daring, shy;
And last Garcin, brave son of a brave sire,
Whose soul mounts upward on a wind of fire;—
Upbear me with your holy breath as now
I climb for the fair fruit on that high bough!...
The swineherds paused at Master Ramoun’s door,
Crying, “Good-morrow! Yonder, on the moor,
We found this poor lad wounded in the breast.
’Twere well that his sore hurt were quickly drest.”
I climb for the fair fruit on that high bough!...
The swineherds paused at Master Ramoun’s door,
Crying, “Good-morrow! Yonder, on the moor,
We found this poor lad wounded in the breast.
’Twere well that his sore hurt were quickly drest.”
So laid their burden on the broad, flat stone.
They tell Mirèio, to the garden gone
To gather fruit, who, basket on her side,
Fled wildly to the spot. Thither, too, hied
The labourers all; but she, her basket falling,
Stretched forth her hands on Mother Mary calling.
They tell Mirèio, to the garden gone
To gather fruit, who, basket on her side,
Fled wildly to the spot. Thither, too, hied
The labourers all; but she, her basket falling,
Stretched forth her hands on Mother Mary calling.
“Vincen is bleeding! Ah, what have they done?”
Then, lovingly, the head of the dear one
She lifted, turned, and long and mutely gazed
As though with horror and with grief amazed,
Her large tears dropping fast. And well he knows
That tender touch to be Mirèio’s,
Then, lovingly, the head of the dear one
She lifted, turned, and long and mutely gazed
As though with horror and with grief amazed,
Her large tears dropping fast. And well he knows
That tender touch to be Mirèio’s,
And faintly breathes, “Pity, and pray for me,
Because I need the good God’s company!”
“Your parched throat moisten with this cordial. Strive
To drink,” old Ramoun said: “you will revive.”
The maiden seized the cup, and drop by drop
She made him drink, and spake to him of hope
Because I need the good God’s company!”
“Your parched throat moisten with this cordial. Strive
To drink,” old Ramoun said: “you will revive.”
The maiden seized the cup, and drop by drop
She made him drink, and spake to him of hope
Till his pain lulled. “May God keep you alway
From such distress, and your sweet care repay!”
Said Vincen; and the brave boy would not tell
It was for her sake that he fought and fell;
But “Splitting osier on my breast,” he said,
“The sharp knife slipped, and pierced me.” Therewith strayed
From such distress, and your sweet care repay!”
Said Vincen; and the brave boy would not tell
It was for her sake that he fought and fell;
But “Splitting osier on my breast,” he said,
“The sharp knife slipped, and pierced me.” Therewith strayed
His thought back to his love as bee to flower.
“The anguish on thy face, dear, in this hour
Is far more bitter than my wound to me.
The pretty basket that in company
We once began will be unfinished now.
Would I had seen it full to overflow,
“The anguish on thy face, dear, in this hour
Is far more bitter than my wound to me.
The pretty basket that in company
We once began will be unfinished now.
Would I had seen it full to overflow,
“Dear, with thy love! Oh, stay! Life’s in thine eyes.
Ah, if thou couldst do something,” the lad cries,
“For him,—the poor old basket-weaver there,—
My father, worn with toil!” In her despair,
Mirèio bathes the wound, while some bring lint,
And some run to the hills for healing mint.
Ah, if thou couldst do something,” the lad cries,
“For him,—the poor old basket-weaver there,—
My father, worn with toil!” In her despair,
Mirèio bathes the wound, while some bring lint,
And some run to the hills for healing mint.
Then the maid’s mother spake: “Let four men rally,
And to the Fairies’ Cavern, in the valley
They call Enfer, bear up this wounded man.
The deadlier the hurt, the sooner can
The old witch heal. Scale first the cliffs of Baux,
And circling vultures the cave’s mouth will show.”
And to the Fairies’ Cavern, in the valley
They call Enfer, bear up this wounded man.
The deadlier the hurt, the sooner can
The old witch heal. Scale first the cliffs of Baux,
And circling vultures the cave’s mouth will show.”
A hole flush with the rocks, by lizards haunted,
And veiled by tufts of rosemary thereby planted.
For ever, since the holy Angelus swells,
In Mary’s honour from the minster-bells,
The antique fairies have been forced to hide
From sunlight, and in this deep cavern bide.
And veiled by tufts of rosemary thereby planted.
For ever, since the holy Angelus swells,
In Mary’s honour from the minster-bells,
The antique fairies have been forced to hide
From sunlight, and in this deep cavern bide.
Strange, airy things, they used to flit about
Dimly, ’twixt form and substance, in and out:
Half-earthly made, to be the visible
Spirit of Nature; female made as well,
To tame the savagery of primal men.
But these were fair in fairies’ eyes, and then
Dimly, ’twixt form and substance, in and out:
Half-earthly made, to be the visible
Spirit of Nature; female made as well,
To tame the savagery of primal men.
But these were fair in fairies’ eyes, and then
They loved: and so, infatuate, lifted not
Mortals unto their own celestial lot;
But, lusting, fell into our low estate,
As birds fall, whom a snake doth fascinate,
From their high places. But, while thus I write,
The bearers have borne Vincen up the height.
Mortals unto their own celestial lot;
But, lusting, fell into our low estate,
As birds fall, whom a snake doth fascinate,
From their high places. But, while thus I write,
The bearers have borne Vincen up the height.
A dim, straight passage led the cavern toward,
A rocky funnel where they gently lowered
The sufferer; and he did not go alone,—
Yet was Mirèio’s self the only one
Who dared to follow down that awesome road,
Commending, as she went, his soul to God.
A rocky funnel where they gently lowered
The sufferer; and he did not go alone,—
Yet was Mirèio’s self the only one
Who dared to follow down that awesome road,
Commending, as she went, his soul to God.
The bottom gained, they found a grotto cold
And vast; midway whereof a beldam old,
The witch Taven, sat silent, crouching lowly
As lost in thought and utter melancholy,
Holding a sprig of brome, and muttering,
“Some call thee devil’s wheat, poor little thing,
And vast; midway whereof a beldam old,
The witch Taven, sat silent, crouching lowly
As lost in thought and utter melancholy,
Holding a sprig of brome, and muttering,
“Some call thee devil’s wheat, poor little thing,
“Yet art thou one of God’s own signs for good!”
Therewith Mirèio, trembling where she stood,
Was fain to tell why they had sought her thus.
“I knew it!” cried the witch, impervious,
The brome addressing still, with bended head.
“Thou poor field-flower! The trampling flock,” she said,
Therewith Mirèio, trembling where she stood,
Was fain to tell why they had sought her thus.
“I knew it!” cried the witch, impervious,
The brome addressing still, with bended head.
“Thou poor field-flower! The trampling flock,” she said,
“Browse on thy leaves and stems the whole year long;
But all the more thou spreadest and art strong,
And north and south with verdure deckest yet.”
She ceased. A dim light, in a snail-shell set,
Danced o’er the dank rock-wall in lurid search:
Here hung a sieve; there, on a forkèd perch,
But all the more thou spreadest and art strong,
And north and south with verdure deckest yet.”
She ceased. A dim light, in a snail-shell set,
Danced o’er the dank rock-wall in lurid search:
Here hung a sieve; there, on a forkèd perch,
Roosted a raven, a white hen beside.
Suddenly, as if drunken, rose and cried
The witch, “And what care I whoe’er you be?
Faith walketh blindfold, so doth Charity,
Nor from her even tenor wandereth.
Say, Valabregan weaver, have you faith?”
Suddenly, as if drunken, rose and cried
The witch, “And what care I whoe’er you be?
Faith walketh blindfold, so doth Charity,
Nor from her even tenor wandereth.
Say, Valabregan weaver, have you faith?”
“I have.” Then wildly, their pursuit inviting,
Like a she-wolf her flanks with her tail smiting,
Darted the hag into a deeper shaft,
While the fowl cackled and the raven laughed
Before her footsteps; and the boy and maid
Followed her through the darkness, sore afraid.
Like a she-wolf her flanks with her tail smiting,
Darted the hag into a deeper shaft,
While the fowl cackled and the raven laughed
Before her footsteps; and the boy and maid
Followed her through the darkness, sore afraid.
“Stay not!” she cried. “The time is now to find
The mystic mandrake.” And, with hands entwined,
Obedient to the voice the two crept on,
Through the infernal passage, till they won
A grotto larger than the rest. “Lo! now,
Lord Nostradamus’ plant, the golden bough,
The mystic mandrake.” And, with hands entwined,
Obedient to the voice the two crept on,
Through the infernal passage, till they won
A grotto larger than the rest. “Lo! now,
Lord Nostradamus’ plant, the golden bough,
“The staff of Joseph and the rod of Moses!”
Thus crying, Taven a slender shrub discloses,
And, kneeling, with her chaplet crowns. Then said,
Arising, “We too must be garlanded
With mandrake;” and the plant in the rock’s cleft
Of three fair sprays mysteriously bereft,
Thus crying, Taven a slender shrub discloses,
And, kneeling, with her chaplet crowns. Then said,
Arising, “We too must be garlanded
With mandrake;” and the plant in the rock’s cleft
Of three fair sprays mysteriously bereft,
Herself crowned first, and next the wounded man,
And last the maid. Then, crying, “Forward!” ran
Down the weird way, before her footsteps lit
By shining beetles trooping over it.
Yet turned with a sage word,—“All paths of glory,
My children, have their space of purgatory!
And last the maid. Then, crying, “Forward!” ran
Down the weird way, before her footsteps lit
By shining beetles trooping over it.
Yet turned with a sage word,—“All paths of glory,
My children, have their space of purgatory!
“Therefore have courage! for we must, alas!
The terrors of the Sabatori pass.”
And, while she spake, their faces cut they find,
And breathing stopped, by rush of keenest wind.
“Lie down!” she whispered hurriedly,—“lie low!
The triumph of the Whirlwind Sprites is now!”
The terrors of the Sabatori pass.”
And, while she spake, their faces cut they find,
And breathing stopped, by rush of keenest wind.
“Lie down!” she whispered hurriedly,—“lie low!
The triumph of the Whirlwind Sprites is now!”
Then fell upon them, like a sudden gale
Or white squall on the water fraught with hail,
A swarm of whirling, yelping, vicious things,
Under the fanning of whose icy wings
The mortals, drenched with sweat and struck with cold,
Stood shivering. “Away, ye over-bold,
Or white squall on the water fraught with hail,
A swarm of whirling, yelping, vicious things,
Under the fanning of whose icy wings
The mortals, drenched with sweat and struck with cold,
Stood shivering. “Away, ye over-bold,
“Ye spoilers of the harvest, unlicked whelps!”
Taven exclaimed. “Must we then use such helps
To the fair deeds we do? Yet, as by skill
The sage physician bringeth good from ill,
We witches, by our hidden arts, compel
Evil to yield its fruit of good as well.
Taven exclaimed. “Must we then use such helps
To the fair deeds we do? Yet, as by skill
The sage physician bringeth good from ill,
We witches, by our hidden arts, compel
Evil to yield its fruit of good as well.
“Naught’s hid from us. For where the vulgar see
A stone, a whip, a stag, a malady,
We witches can the inner force divine
Like that which works under the scum of wine
In fermentation. Pierce the vat, you know,
A seething, boiling scum will outward flow.
A stone, a whip, a stag, a malady,
We witches can the inner force divine
Like that which works under the scum of wine
In fermentation. Pierce the vat, you know,
A seething, boiling scum will outward flow.
“Find, if you can, the key of Solomon!
Or speak unto the mountain in its own
Dread language! It shall move at your behest,
And roll into the valley ere it rest.”
Meanwhile they wended lower, and were ’ware
Of a small, roguish voice a-piping there,
Or speak unto the mountain in its own
Dread language! It shall move at your behest,
And roll into the valley ere it rest.”
Meanwhile they wended lower, and were ’ware
Of a small, roguish voice a-piping there,
Most like a goldfinch: “Our good granny spins,
And winds and spins, and then anew begins,
And thinks that she spins worsted night and day,
And ha! ha! gossip, she spins only hay!
Te! he! spin, Aunty, spin!” And long-drawn laughter,
Like whinnying of young colts, followed thereafter.
And winds and spins, and then anew begins,
And thinks that she spins worsted night and day,
And ha! ha! gossip, she spins only hay!
Te! he! spin, Aunty, spin!” And long-drawn laughter,
Like whinnying of young colts, followed thereafter.
“Why, what can that be?” asked Mirèio,—
“The little voice that laughs and jeers us so?”
Again the childish treble came, “Te! he!
Who is this pretty mortal? Let us see!
We’ll raise the neckerchief a little bit:
Are nuts and pomegranates under it?”
“The little voice that laughs and jeers us so?”
Again the childish treble came, “Te! he!
Who is this pretty mortal? Let us see!
We’ll raise the neckerchief a little bit:
Are nuts and pomegranates under it?”
Then the poor maid had nearly cried outright;
But the hag stayed her, “Here’s no cause for fright.
The singing, jeering thing is but a Glari:
Fantasti is his name, a sprightly fairy.
In his good mood he will your kitchen sweep,
Mind fire, turn roast, and a full hen’s-nest keep.
But the hag stayed her, “Here’s no cause for fright.
The singing, jeering thing is but a Glari:
Fantasti is his name, a sprightly fairy.
In his good mood he will your kitchen sweep,
Mind fire, turn roast, and a full hen’s-nest keep.
“But what a marplot when he takes the whim!
He’ll salt your broth just as it pleaseth him,
Or blow your light out ere you’re half in bed!
Or, if to vespers you would go,” she said,
“At Saint Trophime, in all your best bedight,
He’ll hide your Sunday suit, or spoil it quite!”
He’ll salt your broth just as it pleaseth him,
Or blow your light out ere you’re half in bed!
Or, if to vespers you would go,” she said,
“At Saint Trophime, in all your best bedight,
He’ll hide your Sunday suit, or spoil it quite!”
“Hear!” shrieked the imp: “now hear the old hag talk!
’Tis like the creak of an ill-greasèd block!
No doubt, my withered olive,” the thing said,
“I twitch the bedclothes off a sleeping maid
Sometimes at midnight, and she starts with fear
And trembles, and her breast heaves. Oh, I see her!”
’Tis like the creak of an ill-greasèd block!
No doubt, my withered olive,” the thing said,
“I twitch the bedclothes off a sleeping maid
Sometimes at midnight, and she starts with fear
And trembles, and her breast heaves. Oh, I see her!”
And with its whinnying laugh the sprite was gone;
Then, for a brief space, as they journeyed on
Under the grots, the witcheries were stayed;
And in the gloomy silence, long delayed,
They heard the water drop from vaulted roof
To crystal ground. Now there had sat aloof,
Then, for a brief space, as they journeyed on
Under the grots, the witcheries were stayed;
And in the gloomy silence, long delayed,
They heard the water drop from vaulted roof
To crystal ground. Now there had sat aloof,
Upon a ledge of rock, a tall, white thing,
Which rose in the half-light as menacing
With one long arm. Then stiff as a quartz rock
Stood Vincen; while, transported by the shock,
Mirèio would have leaped a precipice,
Had such been there. “Old scare-crow, what is this?
Which rose in the half-light as menacing
With one long arm. Then stiff as a quartz rock
Stood Vincen; while, transported by the shock,
Mirèio would have leaped a precipice,
Had such been there. “Old scare-crow, what is this?
“What mean you,” cried Taven, “by swaying so
Your limp head like a poplar to and fro?”
Then turning to the stricken twain, “My dears,
You know the Laundress? Oft-times she appears
On Mount Ventour, and then the common crowd
Are wont to take her for a long, white cloud.
Your limp head like a poplar to and fro?”
Then turning to the stricken twain, “My dears,
You know the Laundress? Oft-times she appears
On Mount Ventour, and then the common crowd
Are wont to take her for a long, white cloud.
“But shepherds, when they see her, pen their sheep.
The Laundress of destruction, who doth keep
The errant clouds in hand, is known too well.
She scrubs them with a strength right terrible;
Wringing out buckets full of rain, and flame.
And neatherds house their cattle at her name;
The Laundress of destruction, who doth keep
The errant clouds in hand, is known too well.
She scrubs them with a strength right terrible;
Wringing out buckets full of rain, and flame.
And neatherds house their cattle at her name;
“And seamen, on the angry, tossing wave,
Upon our Lady call, their craft to save.”
Here drowned her speech a discord most appalling,
Rattling of latches, whimpering, caterwauling,
With uncouth words half-uttered intervening,
Whereof the devil only knows the meaning;
Upon our Lady call, their craft to save.”
Here drowned her speech a discord most appalling,
Rattling of latches, whimpering, caterwauling,
With uncouth words half-uttered intervening,
Whereof the devil only knows the meaning;
And brazen din through all the cave resounding,
As one were on a witch-caldron pounding.
Then whence those shrieks of laughter, and those wails
As of a woman in her pains? Prevails
Hardly amid the howl the beldam’s speech,
“Give me a hand that I may hold you each,
As one were on a witch-caldron pounding.
Then whence those shrieks of laughter, and those wails
As of a woman in her pains? Prevails
Hardly amid the howl the beldam’s speech,
“Give me a hand that I may hold you each,
“And let your magic garlands not be lost!”
Here were they jostled from their feet almost
By rush of something puffing, grunting, snorting,
Most like a herd of ghostly swine comporting.
On starlit winter-nights, when Nature slumbers
Under her snowy sheets, come forth in numbers
Here were they jostled from their feet almost
By rush of something puffing, grunting, snorting,
Most like a herd of ghostly swine comporting.
On starlit winter-nights, when Nature slumbers
Under her snowy sheets, come forth in numbers
The fowlers, torch in hand, who bush and tree
By river-side will beat right vigorously,
Till all the birds at roost arise in haste,
And, as by breath of smithy-bellows chased,
Affrighted, rush until the net receive:
So drave Taven the foul herd with her sieve
By river-side will beat right vigorously,
Till all the birds at roost arise in haste,
And, as by breath of smithy-bellows chased,
Affrighted, rush until the net receive:
So drave Taven the foul herd with her sieve
Into the outer darkness. With the same
She circles traced, luminous, red as flame,
And divers other figures. All the while,
“Avaunt!” she cried, “ye locusts, ye who spoil
The harvest! Quit my sight, or woe betide you!
Workers of evil, in your burrows hide you!
She circles traced, luminous, red as flame,
And divers other figures. All the while,
“Avaunt!” she cried, “ye locusts, ye who spoil
The harvest! Quit my sight, or woe betide you!
Workers of evil, in your burrows hide you!
“Since, by the pricking of your flesh, ye know
The hills are still with sunshine all aglow,
Go hang yourselves again on the rock-angles,
Ye bats!” They flit. The clamour disentangles,
And dies away. Then to the children spake
The witch: “All birds of night themselves betake
The hills are still with sunshine all aglow,
Go hang yourselves again on the rock-angles,
Ye bats!” They flit. The clamour disentangles,
And dies away. Then to the children spake
The witch: “All birds of night themselves betake
“To this retreat what time shines the daylight
On the ploughed land and fallow; but at night,—
At night the lamps are lighted without hand
In churches void and triply fastened, and
The bells toll of themselves, and pavement stones
Upstart, and tremble all the buried bones,
On the ploughed land and fallow; but at night,—
At night the lamps are lighted without hand
In churches void and triply fastened, and
The bells toll of themselves, and pavement stones
Upstart, and tremble all the buried bones,
“And the poor dead arise and kneel to pray,
And mass is said by priests as pale as they.
Ask the owls else, who clamber down the steeple
To drain the lamps of oil; and if the people
Who thus partake of the communion
Be not all dead except the priests alone!
And mass is said by priests as pale as they.
Ask the owls else, who clamber down the steeple
To drain the lamps of oil; and if the people
Who thus partake of the communion
Be not all dead except the priests alone!
“What time the beldam jeers at February,
Let women everywhere be wondrous wary,
Nor fall asleep on chairs for awful reason!
Shepherds as well, at yon uncanny season
Early your charges fold, and it mislike you
A spell should motionless and rigid strike you
Let women everywhere be wondrous wary,
Nor fall asleep on chairs for awful reason!
Shepherds as well, at yon uncanny season
Early your charges fold, and it mislike you
A spell should motionless and rigid strike you
“For seven years’ time. The Fairies’ Cavern, too,
Looses about these days its eerie crew.
Winged or four-footed, they o’er Crau disperse;
While, from their lairs aroused, the sorcerers
Gather, the farandoulo dance, and sup
An evil potion from a golden cup.
Looses about these days its eerie crew.
Winged or four-footed, they o’er Crau disperse;
While, from their lairs aroused, the sorcerers
Gather, the farandoulo dance, and sup
An evil potion from a golden cup.
“The dwarf-oaks dance as well. Lord, how they trip it!
Meanwhile there’s Garamaude in wait for Gripet.
Fie, cruel flirt! Ay, seize the carrion,
And claw her bowels out! Now they are gone,—
Nay, but they come again! And, oh, despair!
The monster stealing through the sea-kale there,
Meanwhile there’s Garamaude in wait for Gripet.
Fie, cruel flirt! Ay, seize the carrion,
And claw her bowels out! Now they are gone,—
Nay, but they come again! And, oh, despair!
The monster stealing through the sea-kale there,
“The one who like a burglar crouched and ran,
Is Bambarouche, babe-stealing harridan.
Her wailing prey in her long claw she takes,
Lifts on her horny head, and off she makes.
And yon’s another! She’s the Nightmare-sprite
Comes down the chimney-flue at dead of night,
Is Bambarouche, babe-stealing harridan.
Her wailing prey in her long claw she takes,
Lifts on her horny head, and off she makes.
And yon’s another! She’s the Nightmare-sprite
Comes down the chimney-flue at dead of night,
“And stealthy climbs upon the sleeper’s breast,
Who, as with weight of a tall tower opprest,
Hath horrid dreams. Hi! What a hideous racket!
My dears, ’tis the foul-weather fiends who make it!
That sound of rusty hinges, groaning doors,
Is they who beat up fog upon the moors,
Who, as with weight of a tall tower opprest,
Hath horrid dreams. Hi! What a hideous racket!
My dears, ’tis the foul-weather fiends who make it!
That sound of rusty hinges, groaning doors,
Is they who beat up fog upon the moors,
“And ride the winds that homestead-roofs uptear
And bear afar. Ha, Moon! What ails you there?
What dire indignity hath made you scowl
So red and large o’er Baux? ’Ware the dog’s howl!
Yon dog can snap you like a cake, be sure!
He minds the filthy Demon of the Sewer!
And bear afar. Ha, Moon! What ails you there?
What dire indignity hath made you scowl
So red and large o’er Baux? ’Ware the dog’s howl!
Yon dog can snap you like a cake, be sure!
He minds the filthy Demon of the Sewer!
“Now see the holm-oaks bend their heads like ferns,
And see that flame that leaps and writhes and burns.
It is St. Elmo’s. And that ringing sound
Of rapid hoofs upon the stony ground
Is the wild huntsman riding over Crau.”
Here hoarse and breathless paused the witch of Baux.
And see that flame that leaps and writhes and burns.
It is St. Elmo’s. And that ringing sound
Of rapid hoofs upon the stony ground
Is the wild huntsman riding over Crau.”
Here hoarse and breathless paused the witch of Baux.
But straight thereafter, “Cover ears and eyes,
For the black lamb is bleating!” wildly cries.
“That baaing lambkin!” Vincen dared to say;
But she, “Hide eyes and ears without delay!
Woe to the stumbler here! Sambuco’s Path
Less peril than the black horn’s passage hath.
For the black lamb is bleating!” wildly cries.
“That baaing lambkin!” Vincen dared to say;
But she, “Hide eyes and ears without delay!
Woe to the stumbler here! Sambuco’s Path
Less peril than the black horn’s passage hath.
“Tender his bleating, as you hear, and soft:
Thereby he lures to their destruction oft
The heedless Christians who attend his moan.
To them he shows the sheen of Herod’s throne,
The gold of Judas, and the fatal spot
Where Saracens made fast the golden goat.
Thereby he lures to their destruction oft
The heedless Christians who attend his moan.
To them he shows the sheen of Herod’s throne,
The gold of Judas, and the fatal spot
Where Saracens made fast the golden goat.
“Her they may milk till death, to hearts’ content.
But, when they call for their last sacrament,
The black lamb only buts them savagely.
And yet, so evil is the time,” quoth she,
“Unnumbered greedy souls that bait will seize,
Burn incense unto gold, then die as these!”
But, when they call for their last sacrament,
The black lamb only buts them savagely.
And yet, so evil is the time,” quoth she,
“Unnumbered greedy souls that bait will seize,
Burn incense unto gold, then die as these!”
Now, while the white hen gave three piercing crows,
The eerie guide did to her guests disclose
The thirteenth grotto, and the last; and lo!
A huge, wide chimney and a hearth aglow,
And seven black tom-cats warming round the flame;
And, hanging from a hook above the same,
The eerie guide did to her guests disclose
The thirteenth grotto, and the last; and lo!
A huge, wide chimney and a hearth aglow,
And seven black tom-cats warming round the flame;
And, hanging from a hook above the same,
An iron caldron of gigantic size,
And underneath two fire-brands, dragon-wise
Belching blue flame. “Is it with these you brew,
Grandmother,” asked the lad, “your magic stew?”
“With these, my son. They’re branches of wild vine:
No better logs for burning be than mine.”
And underneath two fire-brands, dragon-wise
Belching blue flame. “Is it with these you brew,
Grandmother,” asked the lad, “your magic stew?”
“With these, my son. They’re branches of wild vine:
No better logs for burning be than mine.”
“Well, call them branches if it be your taste;
But—but I may not jest. Haste, mother, haste!”
Now, midway of the grotto, they descry
A large, round table of red porphyry;
And, radiating from this wondrous place,
Lower than root of oak or mountain base,
But—but I may not jest. Haste, mother, haste!”
Now, midway of the grotto, they descry
A large, round table of red porphyry;
And, radiating from this wondrous place,
Lower than root of oak or mountain base,
Infinite aisles whose gleaming columns cluster
Like pendant icicles in shape and lustre.
These are the far-famed galleries of the fays,
Here evermore a hazy brightness plays,
Temples and shining palaces are here,
Majestic porticoes their fronts uprear,
Like pendant icicles in shape and lustre.
These are the far-famed galleries of the fays,
Here evermore a hazy brightness plays,
Temples and shining palaces are here,
Majestic porticoes their fronts uprear,
And many a labyrinth and peristyle
The like whereof was never seen erewhile,
Even in Corinth or in Babylon.
Yet let a fairy breathe, and these are gone!
And here, like flickering rays of light, disperse
Through he dim walks of this serene Chartreuse,
The like whereof was never seen erewhile,
Even in Corinth or in Babylon.
Yet let a fairy breathe, and these are gone!
And here, like flickering rays of light, disperse
Through he dim walks of this serene Chartreuse,
The fairies with their knights long since enchanted.
Peace to the aisles by their fair presence haunted!
And now the witch was ready. First of all,
She lifted high her hands, then let them fall,
While Vincen had like holy Lawrence lain
Upon the porphyry table, mute with pain.
Peace to the aisles by their fair presence haunted!
And now the witch was ready. First of all,
She lifted high her hands, then let them fall,
While Vincen had like holy Lawrence lain
Upon the porphyry table, mute with pain.
And mightily the spirit of the crone
Appeared to work within her; and as grown
She seemed, when, rising to her height anew,
She plunged her ladle in the boiling stew
That overflowed the caldron in the heat,
While all the cats arose and ringed her feet,
Appeared to work within her; and as grown
She seemed, when, rising to her height anew,
She plunged her ladle in the boiling stew
That overflowed the caldron in the heat,
While all the cats arose and ringed her feet,
And, with her left hand, unto Vincen’s breast
Applied the scalding drops with solemn zest,
Gazing intently on him where he lay,
Until the cruel hurt was charmed away;
And all the while, “The Lord is born, is dead,
Is risen, shall rise again,” she murmurèd.
Applied the scalding drops with solemn zest,
Gazing intently on him where he lay,
Until the cruel hurt was charmed away;
And all the while, “The Lord is born, is dead,
Is risen, shall rise again,” she murmurèd.
Last on the quivering flesh the cross she made
Thrice with her toe-nail; as in forest glade
A tigress fiercely claws her fallen prey.
And now her speech maketh tumultuous way
To where the dim gates of the future are.
“Yea, he shall rise! I see him now afar
Thrice with her toe-nail; as in forest glade
A tigress fiercely claws her fallen prey.
And now her speech maketh tumultuous way
To where the dim gates of the future are.
“Yea, he shall rise! I see him now afar
“Amid the stones and thistles of the hill,
His forehead bleeding heavily. And still
Over the stones and briers he makes his way,
Bowed by his cross. Where is Veronica
To wipe the blood? And him of Cyrene
To stay him when he fainteth,—where is he?
His forehead bleeding heavily. And still
Over the stones and briers he makes his way,
Bowed by his cross. Where is Veronica
To wipe the blood? And him of Cyrene
To stay him when he fainteth,—where is he?
“And where the weeping Maries, hair dishevelled?
All gone! And rich and poor, before him levelled,
Gaze while he mounts; and ‘Who is this,’ one saith,
Who climbs with shouldered beam, and never stayeth?’
O carnal sons of men! The Cross-bearer
Is unto you but as a beaten cur.
All gone! And rich and poor, before him levelled,
Gaze while he mounts; and ‘Who is this,’ one saith,
Who climbs with shouldered beam, and never stayeth?’
O carnal sons of men! The Cross-bearer
Is unto you but as a beaten cur.
“O cruel Jews! Wherefore so fiercely bite you
The hands that feed, and lick the hands that smite you?
Receive the fruit of your foul deeds you must.
Your precious gems shall crumble into dust,
And that you deemed fair pulse or wholesome wheat
Shall turn to ashes even while you eat,
The hands that feed, and lick the hands that smite you?
Receive the fruit of your foul deeds you must.
Your precious gems shall crumble into dust,
And that you deemed fair pulse or wholesome wheat
Shall turn to ashes even while you eat,
“And scare your very hunger. Woe is me!
Rivers that foam o’er carrion-heaps I see,
And swords and lances in tumultuous motion.
Peace to thy stormy waves, thou vexèd Ocean!
Shall Peter’s ancient bark withstand the shock?
Alas, it strikes upon the senseless rock!
Rivers that foam o’er carrion-heaps I see,
And swords and lances in tumultuous motion.
Peace to thy stormy waves, thou vexèd Ocean!
Shall Peter’s ancient bark withstand the shock?
Alas, it strikes upon the senseless rock!
“Nay, but there cometh One with power to save!
Fisher of men, he quells the rebel wave.
A fair new bark the Rhone is entering now:
She hath God’s cross uplifted on her prow,
Rainbow divine! Eternal clemency!
Another land, another sun, I see!
Fisher of men, he quells the rebel wave.
A fair new bark the Rhone is entering now:
She hath God’s cross uplifted on her prow,
Rainbow divine! Eternal clemency!
Another land, another sun, I see!
“Dance olive-pickers, where the fruit is shining;
Drink reapers, on the barley-sheaves reclining!
Revealed by signs so many, God,” she said,
“Is in his holy temple worshippèd.”
And, stretching forth her hand, the witch of Baux
Pointed the way and bade the children go.
Drink reapers, on the barley-sheaves reclining!
Revealed by signs so many, God,” she said,
“Is in his holy temple worshippèd.”
And, stretching forth her hand, the witch of Baux
Pointed the way and bade the children go.
Light gleamed afar. They haste the ray to follow;
They thread their way to the Cordovan Hollow,
Where sun and air await them, and they seem
To see Mont Majour’s wrecks, as in a dream,
Strewn o’er the hill; yet on the sunlit verge
Pause for one kiss or ever they emerge.
They thread their way to the Cordovan Hollow,
Where sun and air await them, and they seem
To see Mont Majour’s wrecks, as in a dream,
Strewn o’er the hill; yet on the sunlit verge
Pause for one kiss or ever they emerge.