Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/184

158 Until the Dawn, with her dew-glittering tresses, From mountain-top to level slow progresses, Sweetly saluted by the tufted lark, Soaring and singing o'er the cavers dark In the great hills, whose pinnacles each one Appear to sway before the rising sun.

Then was revealed La Crau, the bare, the waste, The rough with stones, the ancient, and the vast, Whose proud old giants, if the tale be true, Once dreamed, poor fools, the Almighty to subdue With but a ladder and their shoulders brave; But He them 'whelmed in a destroying wave.

Already had the rebels dispossest The Mount of Victory$2$ of his tall crest, Lifted with lever from its place; and sure They would have heaped it high upon Ventour, As they had piled the rugged escarpment They from the Alpine range had earlier rent.

But God his hand extended o'er the plain: The north-west wind, thunder, and hurricane He loosed; and these arose like eagles three From mountain clefts and caverns and the sea, Wrapped in thick fog, with fury terrible, And on the marble pile together fell.