“O cruel Jews! Wherefore so fiercely bite you The hands that feed, and lick the hands that smite you? Receive the fruit of your foul deeds you must. Your precious gems shall crumble into dust, And that you deemed fair pulse or wholesome wheat Shall turn to ashes even while you eat, “And scare your very hunger. Woe is me! Rivers that foam o’er carrion-heaps I see, And swords and lances in tumultuous motion. Peace to thy stormy waves, thou vexèd Ocean! Shall Peter’s ancient bark withstand the shock? Alas, it strikes upon the senseless rock! “Nay, but there cometh One with power to save! Fisher of men, he quells the rebel wave. A fair new bark the Rhone is entering now: She hath God’s cross uplifted on her prow, Rainbow divine! Eternal clemency! Another land, another sun, I see! “Dance olive-pickers, where the fruit is shining; Drink reapers, on the barley-sheaves reclining! Revealed by signs so many, God,” she said, “Is in his holy temple worshippèd.” And, stretching forth her hand, the witch of Baux Pointed the way and bade the children go. Light gleamed afar. They haste the ray to follow; They thread their way to the Cordovan Hollow, Where sun and air await them, and they seem To see Mont Majour’s wrecks, as in a dream, Strewn o’er the hill; yet on the sunlit verge Pause for one kiss or ever they emerge. CANTO VII. _The Old Men._ Fixing a troubled eye on the old man, Vincen to Master Ambroi thus began, The while a mighty wind, the poplars bending, Its howl unto the poor lad’s voice was lending: “I am mad, father, as I oft of late Have said. Thinkest thou I’m jesting when I say’t?” Before his nut-shell cot the Rhone beside Sat Ambroi on a fallen trunk, and plied His trade. And, as he peeled the osier withe, Vincen received it, and, with fingers lithe And strong, bent the white rods to basket form, Sitting upon the door-stone. With the storm Of wind was the Rhone’s bosom agitated, The waves drove seaward like a herd belated; But round about the but an azure mere Spread tranquilly. The billows brake not here: A pleasant shelter gave the willow-trees, And beavers gnawed their bitter bark in peace. While yonder, through the deep of limpid water, Darted at intervals the dark brown otter, Following the silver-flashing fish. Among The reeds and willows, pendulines had hung Their tiny nests, white woven with the wool Plucked from the poplar when its flowers are full. And here the small things fluttered full of glee, Or swang on wind-rocked stems right lazily. Here, too, a sprightly lassie, golden-haired,-- Head like a crown-cake!--back and forward fared, And spread on a fig-tree a fishing-net Unwieldy and with water dripping yet.