CANTO XV
Hulking and enormous cliffs
Of deformed and twisted shapes
Look on me like petrified
Monsters of primeval times.
Strange! the dingy clouds above
Drift like doubles bred of mist,
Like some silly counterfeit
Of these savage shapes of stone.
In the distance roars the fall;
Through the fir trees howls the wind!
'Tis a sound implacable
And as fatal as despair.
Lone and dreadful lies the waste
And the black daws sit in swarms
On the bleached and rotten pines,
Flapping with their weary wings.
At my side Lascaro strides
Pale and silent—I myself
Must like sorry madness look
By dire Death accompanied.
'Tis a wild and desert place.
Curst perchance? I seem to see
On the crippled roots of yonder
Tree a crimson smear of blood.
This tree shades a little hut
Cowering humbly in the earth,
And the wretched roof of thatch
Pleads for pity in your sight.
Cagots are the denizens
Of this hut—the last remains
Of a tribe which sunk in darkness
Bides its bitter destiny.
In the heart of every Basque
You will find a rooted hate
Of the Cagots. 'Tis a foul
Relic of the days of faith.
In the minster at Bagnères
You may see a narrow grille,
Once the door, the sexton told me,
Which the herded Cagots used.
In that day all other gates
Were forbidden them. They crawled
Like to thieves into the blest
House of God to worship there.
There these wretched beings sat
On their lowly stools and prayed,
Parted as by leprosy,
From all other worshippers.
But the hallowed lamps of this
Later century burn bright,
And their light destroys the black
Shadows of that cruel age!
While Lascaro waited there,
Entered I the lonely hut
Of the Cagot, and I clasped
Straight his hand in brotherhood.
Likewise did I kiss his child
Which unto the shrivelled breast
Of his wife clung fast and sucked
Like some spider sick and starved.

CANTO XVI
Shouldst thou see these mountain peaks
From the distance thou wouldst think
That with gold and purple they
Flamed in splendour to the sun.
But at closer hand their pomp
Vanishes. Earth's glories thus
With their myriad light-effects
Still beguile us artfully.
What to thee seemed blue and gold
Is, alas, but idle snow,
Idle snow which, lone and drear,
Bores itself in solitude.
There upon the heights I heard
How the hapless crackling snow
Cried aloud its pallid grief
To the cold and heartless wind:
"Ah," it sobbed, "how slow the hours
Crawl within this awful waste!
All these many endless hours,
Like eternities of ice!
"Woe is me, poor snow! I would
I had never seen these peaks—
Might I but in vales have fallen
Where a myriad flowers bloom!
"To some little brook would I
Then have melted, and some maid—
Fairest of the land! with smiles
Would in me have laved her face.
"Yea, perchance, I might have fared
To the sea and changed betimes
To a pearl and gleamed at last
In some royal coronet!"
When I heard this plaint, I spake:
"Dearest Snow, indeed I doubt
Whether such a brilliant fate
Had been thine within the world.
"Comfort take. Few, few, indeed,
Ever grow to pearls. No doubt
Thou hadst fallen in the mire
And become a clod of mud."
As in kindly wise I spoke
Thus unto the joyless snow,
Came a shot—and from the skies
Plunged a hawk of brownish wing.
It was just a hunter's joke
Of Lascaro's. But his face
Was as ever stark and grim,
And his rifle barrel smoked.
Silently he tore a plume
From the hawk's erected tail,
Stuck it in his pointed hat
And resumed his silent way.
'Twas an eerie sight to see
How his shadow black and thin
With the nodding feather moved
O'er the slopes of drifted snow.
CANTO XVII
Lo, a valley like a street!
'Tis the Hollow Way of Ghosts:
Dizzily the cloven crags
Tower up on every side.
There upon the sheerest slope
Hangs Uraka's little shack
Like some outpost over chaos—
Thither fared her son and I.
In a secret dumb-show speech
He took counsel with his dam,
How great Atta Troll might best
Be ensnared and safely slain.
We had found his mighty spoor.
Never more canst thou escape
From our hands! thine earthly days
All are numbered—Atta Troll!
Never could I well determine
If Uraka, ancient hag,
Was in truth a potent witch,
As within these Pyrenees
It was rumoured. But I know
That in truth her very looks
Were suspicious. Most suspicious
Were her red and running eyes.
Evil is her look and slant.
It is said whene'er she stares
At some hapless cow, its milk
Dries, its udder withers straight.
It is said that stroking with
Her thin fingers, many a kid
She had slaughtered, many a huge
Ox had stricken unto death.
Oft within the local court
For such crimes arraigned she stood,
But the Justice of the Peace
Was a true Voltairean.
Quite a modern worldling he,
Shallow and devoid of faith,—
So the plaintiffs he dismissed
Both in mockery and scorn.
The alleged official trade
Of Uraka's honest quite,
For she deals in mountain-herbs
And in birds that she has stuffed.
Her entire hut was crammed
With such relics. Horrible
Was the smell of cuckoo-flowers,
Fungi, henbane, elder-blooms.
There a fine array of hawks
To advantage was displayed,
All with pinions stretching wide
And with grim enormous bills.
Was it but the breath of these
Maddening plants that turned my brain?
Still the vision of these birds
Filled me with the strangest thoughts.
These perchance are mortal wights,
Bound by sorcery in this
Miserable state as birds
Stuffed and most disconsolate.
Sad, pathetic is their stare,
Yet it hath impatience too,
And, methinks at times they cast
Sidelong glances at the witch.
She, Uraka, ancient, grim,
Crouches low beside her son,
Mute Lascaro near the fire
Where the twain are casting slugs.
Casting that same fateful ball
Whereby Atta Troll was slain.
How the lurching firelight flares
O'er the witch's features gaunt!
Ceaselessly, yet silently
Move her thin and quivering lips.
Are those magic spells she murmurs
That the balls may travel true?
Now and then she nods and titters
To her son. But he is deep
In the business of the casts
And sits silently as Death.
Overcome by fevered fears,
Yearning for the cooler air,
To the window then I strode
And looked down the gulches dim.
All that in that midnight hour
I beheld, all that will I
Faithfully and featly tell
In the canto that shall follow.