“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,
“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.
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.
“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.
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,
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.
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.
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