Part 11 (2/2)

CANTO XXI

s.h.i.+pless Argonauts are we, Foot loose in the mighty hills, But instead of golden fleece We seek Bruin's s.h.a.ggy hide.

Naught but sorry devils twain, Heroes of a modern cut, And no cla.s.sic bard will ever Make us live within his song!

Even though we suffered dire Hards.h.i.+ps! What torrential rains Fell upon us at the peak Where was neither tree nor cab!

Cloudbursts! Heaven's d.y.k.es were down!

And in bucketsful it poured-- Jason, lost on Colchis bleak, Suffered no such shower-bath!

”Six-and-thirty kings I'll give Just for one umbrella now!”

So I cried. Umbrella none Was I offered in that flood.

Weary unto death and glum, Wet as drowned rats, we came Back unto the witch's hut In the middle of the night.

There beside the glowing hearth Sat Uraka with a comb, Toiling o'er her swollen pug;-- Him she quickly flung aside

As we entered. First my couch She prepared, then bent to loose From my feet the _espardillos_,-- Footgear comfortless and rude!

Helped me to disrobe,--she drew Off my pantaloons which clung To my legs as close and tight As the friends.h.i.+p of a fool.

”Oh, a dressing-gown! I'd give Six-and-thirty kings,” I cried, ”For a dry one!”--as my s.h.i.+rt, Wringing wet, began to steam.

s.h.i.+vering, with chattering teeth, There I stood beside the hearth, Till the fire drowsed me quite, Then upon the straw I sank.

Sleepless but with blinking eyes Peered I at the witch who crouched By the fire with her son's Body spread upon her lap.

Upright at her side the pug Stood, and in his clumsy paws, Very cleverly and tight, Held aloft a little jar.

From this did Uraka take Reddish fat and salved therewith Swift Lascaro's ribs and breast With her thin and trembling hands.

And she hummed a lullaby In a high and nasal tone As she rubbed him with the salve 'Midst the crackling of the fire.

Sere and bony like a corpse Lay the son upon the lap Of his mother; opened wide Stared his pale and tragic eyes.

Is he really dead, this man?

Kept alive by mother-love?

Nightly by the witch-fat potent Salved into a magic life?

Oh, that strange, strange fever-sleep!

In which all my limbs grew stiff As if fettered, yet each sense, Overwrought, waked horribly!

How that smell of h.e.l.lish herbs Plagued me! Musing in my woe, Long I thought where had I once Smelled such odours?--but in vain.

How the wind within the flue Wrought me terror! Like the sobs Of some parched soul it rang-- Or some well-remembered voice!

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