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,
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.”
“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,
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,
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 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.
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,
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.
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
“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?