'Tis a wild and desert place. Curst perchance? I seem to see On the crippled roots of yonder Tree a crimson smear of blood. This tree shades a little hut Cowering humbly in the earth, And the wretched roof of thatch Pleads for pity in your sight. Cagots are the denizens Of this hut--the last remains Of a tribe which sunk in darkness Bides its bitter destiny. In the heart of every Basque You will find a rooted hate Of the Cagots. 'Tis a foul Relic of the days of faith. In the minster at Bagnères You may see a narrow grille, Once the door, the sexton told me, Which the herded Cagots used. In that day all other gates Were forbidden them. They crawled Like to thieves into the blest House of God to worship there. There these wretched beings sat On their lowly stools and prayed, Parted as by leprosy, From all other worshippers. But the hallowed lamps of this Later century burn bright, And their light destroys the black Shadows of that cruel age! While Lascaro waited there, Entered I the lonely hut Of the Cagot, and I clasped Straight his hand in brotherhood. Likewise did I kiss his child Which unto the shrivelled breast Of his wife clung fast and sucked Like some spider sick and starved. [Illustration] [Illustration] CANTO XVI Shouldst thou see these mountain peaks From the distance thou wouldst think That with gold and purple they Flamed in splendour to the sun. But at closer hand their pomp Vanishes. Earth's glories thus With their myriad light-effects Still beguile us artfully. What to thee seemed blue and gold Is, alas, but idle snow, Idle snow which, lone and drear, Bores itself in solitude. There upon the heights I heard How the hapless crackling snow Cried aloud its pallid grief To the cold and heartless wind: "Ah," it sobbed, "how slow the hours Crawl within this awful waste! All these many endless hours, Like eternities of ice! "Woe is me, poor snow! I would I had never seen these peaks-- Might I but in vales have fallen Where a myriad flowers bloom! "To some little brook would I Then have melted, and some maid-- Fairest of the land! with smiles Would in me have laved her face. "Yea, perchance, I might have fared To the sea and changed betimes To a pearl and gleamed at last In some royal coronet!" When I heard this plaint, I spake: "Dearest Snow, indeed I doubt Whether such a brilliant fate Had been thine within the world. "Comfort take. Few, few, indeed, Ever grow to pearls. No doubt Thou hadst fallen in the mire And become a clod of mud."