“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.
“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,
“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!
“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!
“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.
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.
CANTO VII.
The Old Men.
FIXING a troubled eye on the old man,
Vincen to Master Ambroi thus began,
The while a mighty wind, the poplars bending,
Its howl unto the poor lad’s voice was lending:
“I am mad, father, as I oft of late
Have said. Thinkest thou I’m jesting when I say’t?”
Before his nut-shell cot the Rhone beside
Sat Ambroi on a fallen trunk, and plied
His trade. And, as he peeled the osier withe,
Vincen received it, and, with fingers lithe
And strong, bent the white rods to basket form,
Sitting upon the door-stone. With the storm