Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/146

120 "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;

"And seamen, on the angry, losing 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;

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,

"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