Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/149

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"The one who like a burglar crouched and ran,
Is Bambarouche, babe-stealing harridan.
Her wailing prey in her long claw she takes,
Lifts on her horny head, and off she makes.
And yon 's another! She 's the Nightmare-sprite
Comes down the chimney-flue at dead of night,

"And stealthy climbs upon the sleeper's breast,
Who, as with weight of a tall tower opprest,
Hath horrid dreams. Hi! What a hideous racket!
My dears, 'tis the foul-weather fiends who make it!
That sound of rusty hinges, groaning doors,
Is they who beat up fog upon the moors,

"And ride the winds that homestead-roofs uptear
And bear afar. Ha, Moon! What ails you there?
What dire indignity hath made you scowl
So red and large o'er Baux? 'Ware the dog's howl!
Yon dog can snap you like a cake, be sure!
He minds the filthy Demon of the Sewer!

"Now see the holm-oaks bend their heads like ferns,
And see that flame that leaps and writhes and burns.
It is St. Elmo's. And that ringing sound
Of rapid hoofs upon the stony ground
Is the wild huntsman riding over Crau."
Here hoarse and breathless paused the witch of Baux.