Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/151

] 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 lays, 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 the dim walks of this serene Chartreuse,