He recounted the achievements Of the smugglers and banditti Merrily and freely living In the Pyrenean forests. Many old traditions also Well he knew: amongst the others Were the battles of the giants With the bears in times primeval. Yes, the bears then and the giants Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry Of these mountains and these valleys, Ere by man they were discover’d. But when man arrived, the giants Fled away from out the country Stupified, for little brains Are contain’d in heads gigantic. And ’tis said the silly fellows, On arriving at the ocean, And observing how the heavens In its azure depths were mirror’d, Cleverly supposed the ocean To be heaven, and plunged down in it, Full of godlike confidence, And were drown’d, the whole together As respects the bears, however, They are gradually being Kill’d by man, their numbers yearly In the mountain still decreasing. “Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man, “One gives place unto another, “And when men are put an end to, “Then the dwarfs will be the masters. “Yes, the clever little people, “Who the mountain’s womb inhabit, “‘Mongst the golden mines of riches “Digging and collecting nimbly. “How they from their hiding-places “With their small sly heads keep peeping! “Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight, “And then trembled at the future; “At the power their gold will give them; “Ah, I fear lest our descendants “Fly for refuge, like the stupid “Giants, to the watery heaven!” CAPUT XIII. In the black and rocky caldron Rest the waters deep of ocean; Stars, all pale and melancholy, Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence. Night and silence. Oars are moving. Like a splashing wondrous secret Floats the bark. The old man’s nieces Play the part of ferrymen, Joyously and nimbly rowing; Ofttimes glisten in the darkness Their stout naked arms, illumined By the stars,--their great blue eyes, too. By my side Lascaro sitting Is as pale and mute as usual, And the fearful thought shoots through me: Is he but a very corpse then? I myself,--am I dead also, And embarking on my journey With my ghostly comrades by me To the chilly realm of shadows? And this lake, can it be Styx’s Gloomy flood? Has Proserpina, In default of Charon’s presence, Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me? No! I am not yet departed And extinguish’d; in my spirit Is the living flame of life still Glowing, blazing and exulting. And these maidens, gaily pulling At their oars, and o’er me splashing With the water dripping from them, Full of merriment and laughter,-- These two fresh and sprightly damsels Are most certainly not ghostly Chambermaids in hell residing, Waiting-maids of Proserpina!