Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weeping On the regal vault’s sad ruins, On the grave of thee, my loved one, By the town Jerusalem. Aged Jews, who chance to pass me, Then will surely think I’m sorrowing For the temple’s desolation, And the town Jerusalem. CAPUT XXI. Argonauts without a ship, Who on foot the mountain visit, And instead of golden fleeces Aim at nothing but a bear’s skin,-- We’re, alas! poor devils only, Heroes of a modern fashion, And no classic poet ever Will in song immortalize us. Yet we notwithstanding suffer’d Serious hardships! O what rain Fell upon us on the summit, Where no tree or hackney-coach was! Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken, And in buckets it descended; Jason surely was at Colchis Never drench’d in such a show’r-bath! “An umbrella! Gladly would I “Give you six-and-thirty kings[33] “For the loan of one umbrella!” “Cried I,--and the water dripp’d still. Fagg’d to death, and out of temper, We return’d, like half-drown’d puppies Late at night, as best we could, To the witch’s lofty cottage. There beside the glowing fire-place Sat Uraca, busy combing Her great fat and ugly pug-dog; Quickly she dismiss’d the latter, To attend to us instead, And my bed she soon got ready, Loosening first my espardillas, That uncomfortable foot-gear-- Help’d me to undress, my stockings Pulling off; I found them sticking To my legs, as close and faithful As the friendship of a blockhead. “Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you “Six-and-thirty kings for only “One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I, As my wet shirt steam’d upon me. Freezing and with chattering teeth, I Stood awhile upon the hearth; By the fire then driven senseless On the straw at length I sank. But I slept not. Blinking look’d I On the witch, who by the chimney Sat, and held the head and shoulders Of her son upon her lap, Helping to undress him. Near her Stood upright her ugly pug-dog, And he in his front paw managed Cleverly to hold a pot. From the pot Uraca took some Reddish fat, and with it rubb’d the Ribs and bosom of her son, Rubbing hastily, with trembling. And while rubbing him and salving, She a cradle-song was humming Through her nose, whilst strangely crackled On the hearth the ruddy flames. Like a corpse, all yellow, bony, On his mother’s lap the son lay, Sorrowful as death, wide open Stared his hollow, pallid eyes. Is he truly but a dead man Who each night by love maternal Hath a life enchanted giv’n him By the aid of strongest witch-salve? Wondrous the half-sleep of fever, Where the leaden limbs feel weary As though fetter’d, and the senses O’er-excited, wide awake!