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

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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,