Mirèio, a Provençal Poem

WHEN the crop is fair in the olive-yard,
And the earthen jars are ready
For the golden oil from the barrels poured,
And the big cart rocks unsteady
With its tower of gathered sheaves, and strains
And groans on its way through fields and lanes;

When brawny and bare as an old athlete
Comes Bacchus the dance a-leading,
And the labourers all, with juice-dyed feet,
The vintage of Crau are treading,
And the good wine pours from the brimful presses,
And the ruddy foam in the vats increases;

When under the leaves of the Spanish broom
The clear silk-worms are holden,
An artist each, in a tiny loom,
Weaving a web all golden,—
Fine, frail cells out of sunlight spun,
Where they creep and sleep by the million,—

Glad is Provence on a day like that,
’Tis the time of jest and laughter:
The Ferigoulet and the Baume Muscat
They quaff, and they sing thereafter.
And lads and lasses, their toils between,
Dance to the tinkling tambourine.

“Methinks, good neighbours, I am Fortune’s pet.
Ne’er in my trellised arbor saw I yet
A silkier bower, cocoons more worthy praise,
Or richer harvest, since the year of grace
When first I laid my hand on Ramoun’s arm
And came, a youthful bride, to Lotus Farm.”

So spake Jano Mario, Ramoun’s wife,
The fond, proud mother who had given life
To our Mirèio. Unto her had hied,
The while were gathered the cocoons outside,
Her neighbours. In the silk-worm-room they throng;
And, as they aid the picking, gossip long.

To these Mirèio tendered now and then
Oak-sprigs and sprays of rosemary; for when
The worms, lured by the mountain odour, come
In myriads, there to make their silken home,
The sprays and sprigs, adornèd in such wise,
Are like the golden palms of Paradise.

“On Mother Mary’s altar yesterday,”
Jano Mario said, “I went to lay
My finer sprays, by way of tithe. And so
I do each year; for you, my women, know
That, when the holy Mother will, ’tis she
Who sendeth up the worms abundantly.”

“Now, for my part,” said Zèu of Host Farm,
“Great fears have I my worms will come to harm.
You mind that ugly day the east wind blew,—
I left my window open,—if you knew
Ever such folly!—and to my affright
Upon my floor are twenty, now turned white.”

To Zèu thus the crone Taven replied—
A witch, who from the cliffs of Baux had hied
To help at the cocooning: “Youth is bold,
The young think they know better than the old;
And age is torment, and we mourn the fate
Which bids us see and know,—but all too late,

“Ye are such giddy women, every one,
That, if the hatching promise well, ye run
Straightway about the streets the tale to tell.
‘Come see my silk-worms! ’Tis incredible
How fine they are!’ Envy can well dissemble:
She hastens to your room, her heart a-tremble

“With wrath. And ‘Well done, neighbour!’ she says cheerly:
‘This does one good! You’ve still your caul on, clearly!’
But when your head is turned, she casts upon ’em—
The envious one—a look so full of venom,
It knots and burns ’em up. And then you say
It was the east wind plastered ’em that way!”

“I don’t say that has naught to do with it,”
Quoth Zèu. “Still it had been quite as fit
For me to close the window.”—“Doubt you, then,
The harm the eye can do,” went on Taven,
“When in the head it glistens balefully?”
And Zèu scanned, herself with piercing eye.

“Ye are such fools, ye seem to think,” she said,
“That scraping with a scalpel on the dead
Would win its honey-secret from the bee!
But may not a fierce look, now answer me,
The unborn babe for evermore deform,
And dry the cow’s milk in her udders warm?

“An owl may fascinate a little bird;
A serpent, flying geese, as I have heard,
How high soe’er they mount. And if one keep
A fixed gaze upon silk-worms, will they sleep?
Moreover, is there, neighbours, in the land
So wise a virgin that she can withstand

“The fiery eyes of passionate youth?” Here stopped
The hag, and damsels four their cocoons dropped;
“In June as in October,” murmuring,
“Her tongue hath evermore a barbèd sting,
The ancient viper! What the lads, say you?
Let them come, then! We’ll see what they can do?”

But other merry ones retorted, “No!
We want them not! Do we, Mirèio?”
“Not we! Nor is it always cocooning,
So I’ll a bottle from the cellar bring
That you will find delicious.” And she fled
Toward the house because her cheeks grew red.

“Now, friends,” said haughty Lauro, with decision,
“This is my mind, though poor be my condition:
I’ll smile on no one, even though my lover
As king of fairy-land his realm should offer.
A pleasure were it, could I see him lying,
And seven long years before my footstool sighing.”

“Ah!” said Clemenço, “should a king me woo,
And say he loved me, without much ado
I’d grant the royal suit! And chiefly thus
Were he a young king and a glorious.
A king of men, in beauty, I’d let come
And freely lead me to his palace home!

“But see! If I were once enthronèd there,
A sovereign and an empress, in a fair
Mantle bedecked, of golden-flowered brocade,
With pearls and emeralds dazzling round my head,
Then would my heart for my poor country yearn;
And I, the queen, would unto Baux return.

“And I would make my capital at Baux,
And on the rock where lie its ruins low
I would rebuild our ancient castle, and
A white tower on the top thereof should stand
Whose head should touch the stars. Thither retiring,
If rest or solace were the queen desiring,

“We’d climb the turret-stair, my prince and I,
And gladly throw the crown and mantle by.
And would it not be blissful with my love,
Aloft, alone to sit, the world above?
Or, leaned upon the parapet by his side,
To search the lovely landscape far and wide,

“Our own glad kingdom of Provence descrying,
Like some great orange-grove beneath us lying
All fair? And, ever stretching dreamily
Beyond the hills and plains, the sapphire sea;
While noble ships, tricked out with streamers gay,
Just graze the Chateau d’If, and pass away?

“Or we would turn to lightning-scathed Ventour,
Who, while the lesser heights before him cower,
His hoary head against the heaven raises,
As I have seen, in solitary places
Of beech and pine, with staff in agèd hand,
Some shepherd-chief, his flock o’erlooking, stand.

“Again, we’d follow the great Rhone awhile,
Adown whose banks the cities brave defile,
And dip their lips and drink, with dance and song.
Stately is the Rhone’s march, and very strong;
But even he must bend at Avignon
His haughty head to Notre Dame des Doms.

“Or watch the ever-varying Durance,
Now like some fierce and ravenous goat advance
Devouring banks and bridges; now demure
As maid from rustic well who bears her ewer,
Spilling her scanty water as she dallies,
And every youth along her pathway rallies.’

So spake her sweet Provençal majesty,
And rose with brimful apron, and put by
Her gathered treasure. Two more maids were there,
Twin sisters, the one dark, the other fair,—
Azaläis, Viòulano. The stronghold
Of Estoublon sheltered their parents old.

And oft these two to Lotus Farmstead came;
While that mischievous lad, Cupid by name,
Who loves to sport with generous hearts and tender,
Had made the sisters both their love surrender
To the same youth. So Azaläis said,—
The dark one,—lifting up her raven head:

“Now, damsels, play awhile that I were queen.
The Marseilles ships, the Beaucaire meadows green.
Smiling La Ciotat, and fair Salon,
With all her almond trees, to me belong.
Then the young maids I’d summon by decree,
From Arles, Baux, Barbentano, unto me.

“‘Come, fly like birds!’ the order should be given;
And I, of these, would choose the fairest seven,
And royal charge upon the same would lay,
The false love and the true in scales to weigh.
And then would merry counsel holden be;
For sure it is a great calamity

“That half of those who love, with love most meet,
Can never marry, and their joy complete.
But when I, Azaläis, hold the helm,
I proclamation make, that in my realm
True lovers wounded in their cruel sport
Shall aye find mercy at the maiden’s court.

“And if one sell her robe of honour white,
Whether it be for gold or jewel bright,
And if one offer insult, or betray
A fond heart, unto such as these alway
The high court of the seven maids shall prove
The stern avenger of offended love.

“And if two lovers the same maid desire,
Or if two maids to the same lad aspire,
My council’s duty it shall be to choose
Which loves the better, which the better sues,
And which is worthier of a happy fate.
Moreover, on my maidens there shall wait

“Seven sweet poets, who from time to time
Shall write the laws of love in lovely rhyme
Upon wild vine-leaves or the bark of trees;
And sometimes, in a stately chorus, these
Will sing the same, and then their couplets all
Like honey from the honey-comb will fall.”

So, long ago, the whispering pines among,
Faneto de Gautèume may have sung,
When she the glory of her star-crowned head
On Roumanin and on the Alpines shed;
Or Countess Dio, of the passionate lays,
Who held her courts of love in the old days.

But now Mirèio, to the room returning,
With face as radiant as an Easter morning,
A flagon bore; and, for their spirits’ sake,
Besought them all her beverage to partake:
“For this will make us work with heartier will;
So come, good women, and your goblets fill!”

Then, pouring from the wicker-covered flask
A generous drink for whosoe’er might ask,
(A string of gold the falling liquor made),
“I mixed this cordial mine own self,” she said:
“One leaves it in a window forty days,
That it may mellow in the sun’s hot rays.

“Herein are mountain herbs, in number three.
The liquor keeps their odour perfectly:
It strengthens one.” Here brake in other voices:
“Listen, Mirèio! Tell us what your choice is;
For these have told what they would do, if they
Were queens, or came to great estate one day.

“In such a case, Mirèio, what would you?”
“Who, I? How can I tell what I would do?
I am so happy in our own La Crau
With my dear parents, wherefore should I go?”
“Ah, ha!” outspake another maiden bold:
“Little care you for silver or for gold.

“But on a certain morn, I mind it well,—
Forgive me, dear, that I the tale should tell!—
’Twas Tuesday: I had gathered sticks that day,
And, fagot on my hip, had won my way
Almost to La Crous-Blanco, when I ’spied
You in a tree, with some one by your side

“Who chatted gayly. A lithe form he had”—
“Whence did he come?” they cried. “Who was the lad?”
Said Noro, “To tell that were not so easy,
Because among the thick-leaved mulberry-trees he
Was hidden half; yet think I ’twas the clever
Vincen, the Valabregan basket-weaver!”

“Oh!” cried the damsels all, with peals of laughter,
“See you not what the little cheat was after?
A pretty basket she would fain receive,
And made this poor boy in her love believe!
The fairest maiden the whole country over
Has chosen the barefoot Vincen for her lover!”

So mocked they, till o’er each young countenance
In turn there fell a dark and sidelong glance,—
Taven’s,—who cried, “A thousand curses fall
Upon you, and the vampire seize you all!
If the good Lord from heaven this way came,
You girls, I think, would giggle all the same.

“’Tis brave to laugh at this poor lad of osiers;
But mark! the future may make strange disclosures,
Poor though he be. Now hear the oracle!
God in his house once wrought a miracle;
And I can show the truth of what I say,
For, lasses, it all happened in my day.

“Once, in the wild woods of the Luberon,
A shepherd kept his flock. His days were long;
But when at last the same were well-nigh spent,
And toward the grave his iron frame was bent,
He sought the hermit of Saint Ouquèri,
To make his last confession piously.

“Alone, in the Vaumasco valley lost,
His foot had never sacred threshold crost,
Since he partook his first communion.
Even his prayers were from his memory gone;
But now he rose and left his cottage lowly,
And came and bowed before the hermit holy.

“‘With what sin chargest thou thyself, my brother?’
The solitary said. Replied the other,
The aged man, ‘Once, long ago, I slew
A little bird about my flock that flew,—
A cruel stone I flung its life to end:
It was a wagtail, and the shepherds’ friend.’

“‘Is this a simple soul,’ the hermit thought,
‘Or is it an impostor?’ And he sought
Right curiously to read the old man’s face
Until, to solve the riddle, ‘Go,’ he says,
‘And hang thy shepherd’s cloak yon beam upon,
And afterward I will absolve my son.’

“A single sunbeam through the chapel strayed;
And there it was the priest the suppliant bade
To hang his cloak! But the good soul arose,
And drew it off with mien of all repose,
And threw it upward. And it hung in sight
Suspended on the slender shaft of light!

“Then fell the hermit prostrate on the floor,
‘Oh, man of God!’ he cried, and he wept sore,
‘Let but the blessed hand these tears bedew,
Fulfil the sacred office for us two!
No sins of thine can I absolve, ’tis clear:
Thou art the saint, and I the sinner here!’”

Her story ended, the crone said no more;
But all the laughter of the maids was o’er.
Only Laureto dared one little joke:
“This tells us ne’er to laugh at any cloak!
Good may the beast be, although rough the hide;
But, girls, methought young mistress I espied

“Grow crimson as an autumn grape, because
Vincen’s dear name so lightly uttered was.
There’s mystery here! Mirèio, we are jealous!
Lasted the picking long that day? Pray, tell us!
When two friends meet, the hour is winged with pleasure;
And, for a lover, one has always leisure!”

“Oh, fie!” Mirèio said. “Enough of joking!
Mind your work now, and be not so provoking!
You would make swear the very saints! But I
Promise you one and all, most faithfully,
I’ll seek a convent while my years are tender,
Sooner than e’er my maiden heart surrender!”

Then brake the damsels into merry chorus:
“Have we not pretty Magali before us?
Who love and lovers held in such disdain
That, to escape their torment, she was fain
To Saint Blasi’s in Arles away to hie,
And bury her sweet self from every eye.”

“Come, Noro, you, whose voice is ever thrilling,
Who charm us all, sing now, if you are willing,
The song of Magali, the cunning fairy,
Who love had shunned by all devices airy.
A bird, a vine, a sunbeam she became,
Yet fell herself, love’s victim all the same!

“Queen of my soul!” sang Noro, and the rest
Fell straightway to their work with twofold zest;
And as, when one cicala doth begin
Its high midsummer note, the rest fall in
And swell the chorus, so the damsels here
Sang the refrain with voices loud and clear:—

I.

“Magali, queen of my soul,
The dawn is near!
Hark to my tambourine,
Hide not thy bower within,
Open and hear!

II.

“The sky is full of stars,
And the wind soft;
But, when thine eyes they see,
The stars, O Magali,
Will pale aloft!”

III.

“Idle as summer breeze
The tune thou playest!
I’ll vanish in the sea,
A silver eel will be,
Ere thou me stayest.”

IV.

“If thou become an eel,
And so forsake me,
I will turn fisher too
And fish the water blue
Until I take thee!”

V.

“In vain with net or line
Thou me implorest:
I’ll be a bird that day,
And wing my trackless way
Into the forest!”

VI.

“If thou become a bird,
And so dost dare me,
I will a fowler be,
And follow cunningly
Until I snare thee!”

VII.

“When thou thy cruel snare
Settest full surely,
I will a flower become,
And in my prairie home
Hide me securely!”

VIII.

“If thou become a flower,
Before thou thinkest
I’ll be a streamlet clear,
And all the water bear
That thou, love, drinkest!”

IX.

“When thou, a stream, dost feed
The flower yonder,
I will turn cloud straightway,
And to America
Away I’ll wander.”

X.

“Though thou to India
Fly from thy lover,
Still I will follow thee:
I the sea-breeze will be
To waft thee over!”

XI.

“I can outstrip the breeze
Fast as it flieth:
I’ll be the swift sun-ray
That melts the ice away
And the grass drieth!”

XII.

“Sunlight if thou become,
Are my wiles ended?
I’ll be a lizard green,
And quaff the golden sheen
To make me splendid!”

XIII.

“Be thou a Triton, hid
In the dark sedges!
I’m the moon by whose ray
Fairies and witches pay
Their mystic pledges!”

XIV.

“If thou the moon wilt be
Sailing in glory,
I’ll be the halo white
Hovering every night
Around and o’er thee!”

XV.

“Yet shall thy shadowy arm
Embrace me never!
I will turn virgin rose,
And all my thorns oppose
To thee for ever!”

XVI.

“If thou become a rose,
Vain too shall this be!
Seest thou not that I,
As a bright butterfly,
Freely may kiss thee?”

XVII.

“Urge, then, thy mad pursuit:
Idly thou’lt follow!
I’ll in the deep wood bide;
I’ll in the old oak hide,
Gnarlèd and hollow.”

XVIII.

“In the dim forest glade
Wilt thou be hidden?
I’ll be the ivy-vine,
And my long arms entwine
Round thee unbidden!”

XIX.

“Fold thine arms tightly, then:
Clasp the oak only!
I’ll a white sister be!
Far off in St. Blasi,
Secure and lonely!”

XX.

“Be thou a white-veiled nun
Come to confession,
I will be there as priest,
Thee freely to divest
Of all transgression!”

The startled women their cocoons let fall.
“Noro, make haste!” outspake they one and all:
“What could our hunted Magali answer then?
A nun, poor dear, who had already been
A cloud, a bird, a fish, an oak, a flower,
The sun, the moon, the stream, in one short hour?”

“Ah, yes!” said Noro, “I the rest will sing:
She was, I think, the cloister entering;
And that mad fowler dared to promise her
He would in the confessional appear,
And shrive her. Therefore hear what she replies:
The maid hath yet another last device:”—

XXI.

“Enter the sacred house!
I shall be sleeping,
Robed in a winding-sheet,
Nuns at my head and feet,
Above me weeping.”

XXII.

“If thou wert lifeless dust,
My toils were o’er:
I’d be the yawning grave,
Thee in my arms to have
For evermore!”

XXIII.

“Now know I thou art true,
Leave me not yet!
Come, singer fair, and take,
And wear it for my sake,
This annulet!”

XXIV.

“Look up, my blessed one,
The heaven scan!
Since the stars came to see
Thee, O my Magali,
They are turned wan!”

A silence fell, the sweet song being ended:
Only with the last moving notes had blended
The voices of the rest. Their heads were drooping,
As they before the melody were stooping,
Like slender reeds that lean and sway for ever
Before the flowing eddies of a river.

Till Noro said, “Now is the air serene;
And here the mowers come, their scythes to clean
Beside the vivary brook. Mirèio, dear,
Bring us a few St. John’s Day apples here.
And we will add a little new-made cheese,
And take our lunch beneath the lotus-trees.”

CANTO IV.

The Suitors.

WHEN violets are blue in the blue shadows
Of the o’erhanging trees,
The youth who stray in pairs about the meadows
Are glad to gather these.

When peace descends upon the troubled Ocean,
And he his wrath forgets,
Flock from Martigue the boats with wing-like motion,
The fishes fill their nets.

And when the girls of Crau bloom into beauty
(And fairer earth knows not),
Aye are there suitors ready for their duty
In castle and in cot.

Thus to Mirèio’s home came seeking her
A trio notable,—a horse-tamer,
A herdsman, and a shepherd. It befell
The last was first who came his tale to tell.
Alari was his name, a wealthy man—
He had a thousand sheep, the story ran.

The same were wont to feed the winter long
In rich salt-pastures by Lake Entressen.
And at wheat-boiling time, in burning May,
Himself would often lead his flock, they say,
Up through the hills to pastures green and high:
They say moreover, and full faith have I,
That ever as St. Mark’s came round again
Nine noted shearers Alari would retain
Three days to shear his flock. Added to these
A man to bear away each heavy fleece,
And a sheep-boy who back and forward ran
And filled the shearer’s quickly emptied can.

But when the summer heats began to fail
And the high peaks to feel the snowy gale,
A stately sight it was that flock to see
Wind from the upper vales of Dauphiny,
And o’er the Crau pursue their devious ways,
Upon the toothsome winter grass to graze.

Also to watch them there where they defile
Into the stony road were well worth while;
The early lambkins all the rest outstripping
And merrily about the lamb-herd leaping,
The bell-decked asses with their foals beside,
Or following after them. These had for guide

A drover, who a patient mule bestrode.
Its wattled panniers bare a motley load:
Food for the shepherd-folk, and flasks of wine,
And the still bleeding hides of slaughtered kine;
And folded garments whereon oft there lay
Some weakly lamb, a-weary of the way.

Next came abreast—the captains of the host—
Five fiery bucks, their fearsome heads uptost:
With bells loud jingling and with sidelong glances,
And backward curving horns, each one advances.
The sober mothers follow close behind,
Striving their lawless little kids to mind.

A rude troop and a ravenous they are,
And these the goat-herd hath in anxious care.
And after them there follow presently
The great ram-chiefs, with muzzles lifted high:
You know them by the heavy horn that lies
Thrice curved about the ear in curious wise.

Their ribs and backs with tufts of wool are decked,
That they may have their meed of due respect
As the flock’s grandsires. Plain to all beholders,
With sheepskin cloak folded about his shoulders,
Strides the chief-shepherd next, with lordly swing;
The main corps of his army following.

Tumbling through clouds of dust, the great ewe-dams
Call with loud bleatings to their bleating lambs.
The little hornèd ones are gayly drest,
With tiny tufts of scarlet on the breast
And o’er the neck. While, filling the next place,
The woolly sheep advance at solemn pace.

Amid the tumult now and then the cries
Of shepherd-boy to shepherd-dog arise.
For now the pitch-marked herd innumerable
Press forward: yearlings, two-year-olds as well,
Those who have lost their lambs, and those who bear
Twin lambs unborn,—and wearily they fare.

A ragamuffin troop brings up the rear.
The barren and past-breeding ewes are here,
The lame, the toothless, and the remnant sorry
Of many a mighty ram, lean now and hoary,
Who from his earthly labours long hath rested,
Of honour and of horns alike divested.

All these who fill the road and mountain-passes—
Old, young, good, bad, and neither; sheep, goats, asses—
Are Alari’s, every one. He stands the while
And watches them, a hundred in a file,
Pass on before him; and the man’s eyes laugh.
His wand of office is a maple staff.

And when to pasture with his dogs hies he,
And leathern gaiters buttoned to the knee,
His forehead to an ample wisdom grown
And air serene might be King David’s own,
When in his youth he led, as the tale tells,
The flocks at eve beside his father’s wells.

This was the chief toward Lotus Farm who drew,
And presently Mirèio’s self who knew
Flitting about the doorway. His heart bounded.
“Good Heaven!” he cried, “her praises they have sounded
Nowise too loudly! Ne’er saw I such grace
Or high or low, in life or pictured face!”

Only that face to see, his flock forsaking,
Alari had come. Yet now his heart was quaking
When, standing in the presence of the maid,
“Would you so gracious be, fair one,” he said,
“As to point out the way these hills to cross?
For else find I myself at utter loss.”

“Oh, yes!” replied the girl, ingenuously,
“Thou takest the straight road, and comest thereby
Into Pèiro-malo desert. Then
Follow the winding path till thou attain
A portico with an old tomb anear:
Two statues of great generals it doth bear.

Antiquities they call them hereabout.”
“Thanks, many!” said the youth. “I had come out
A thousand of my woolly tribe, or so,
To lead into the mountains from La Crau.
We leave to-morrow. I their way direct,
And sleeping-spots and feeding-ground select.

“They bear my mark, and are of fine breed, all;
And for my shepherdess, when one I call
My own, the nightingales will ever sing.
And dared I hope you’d take my offering,
Mirèio dear, no gems I’d tender you,
But a carved box-wood cup,—mine own work too!”

Therewith he brought to light a goblet fair,
Wrapped like some sacred relic with all care,
And carven of box-wood green. It was his pleasure
Such things to fashion in his hours of leisure;
And, sitting rapt upon some wayside stone,
He wrought divinely with a knife alone.

He carved him castanets with fingers light,
So that his flock would follow him at night
Through the dark fields, obedient to their tones.
And on the ringing collars, and the bones
That served for bell-tongues, he would cut with skill
Faces and figures, flowers and birds, at will.

As for the goblet he was tendering,
You would have said that no such fairy thing
Was ever wrought by shepherd’s knife or wit:
A full-flowered poppy wreathed the rim of it;
And in among the languid flowers there
Two chamois browsed, and these the handles were.

A little lower down were maidens three,
And certes they were marvellous to see:
Near by, beneath a tree, a shepherd-lad
Slept, while on tiptoe stole the maidens glad,
And sought to seal his lips, ere he should waken,
With a grape-cluster from their basket taken.

Yet even now he smiles at their illusion,
So that the foremost maid is all confusion.
The odour of the goblet proved it new:
The giver had not drunk therefrom; and you
Had said, but for their woody colouring,
The carven shapes were each a living thing.

Mirèio scanned the fair cup curiously.
“A tempting offering thine, shepherd!” said she:
But suddenly, “A finer one than this
Hath my heart’s lord! Shepherd, his love it is!
Mine eyes close, his impassioned glances feeling:
I falter with the rapture o’er me stealing!”

So saying, she vanished like a tricksy sprite;
And Alari turned, and in the gray twilight
Ruefully, carefully, he folded up
And bore away again his carven cup,
Deeming it sad and strange this winsome elf
Her love should yield to any but himself.

Soon to the farm came suitor number two,
A keeper of wild horses from Sambu,—
Veran, by name. About his island bower
In the great prairies, where the asters flower,
He used to keep a hundred milk-white steeds,
Who nipped the heads of all the lofty reeds.

A hundred steeds! Their long manes flowing free
As the foam-crested billows of the sea!
Wavy and thick and all unshorn were they;
And when the horses on their headlong way
Plunged all together, their dishevelled hair
Seemed the white robes of creatures of the air.

I say it to the shame of human kind:
Camargan steeds were never known to mind
The cruel spur more than the coaxing hand.
Only a few or so, I understand,
By treachery seduced, have halter worn,
And from their own salt prairies been borne;

Yet the day comes when, with a vicious start,
Their riders throwing, suddenly they part,
And twenty leagues of land unresting scour,
Snuffing the wind, till Vacarès once more
They find, the salt air breathe, and joy to be
In freedom after ten years’ slavery.

For these wild steeds are with the sea at home:
Have they not still the colour of the foam?
Perchance they brake from old King Neptune’s car;
For when the sea turns dark and moans afar,
And the ships part their cables in the bay,
The stallions of Camargue rejoicing neigh,

Their sweeping tails like whipcord snapping loudly;
Or pawing the earth, all, fiercely and proudly,
As though their flanks were stung as with a rod
By the sharp trident of the angry god,
Who makes the rain a deluge, and the ocean
Stirs to its depths in uttermost commotion.

And these were all Veran’s. Therefore one day
The island-chieftain paused upon his way
Across La Crau beside Mirèio’s door;
For she was famed, and shall be evermore,
For beauty, all about the delta wide
Where the great Rhone meeteth the ocean tide.

Confident came Veran to tell his passion,
With paletot, in the Arlesian fashion,
Long, light, and backward from his shoulders flowing;
His gay-hued girdle like a lizard glowing,
The while his head an oil-skin cap protected,
Wherefrom the dazzling sun-rays were reflected.

And first the youth to Master Ramoun drew.
“Good-morrow to you, and good fortune too!”
He said. “I come from the Camargan Rhone,
As keeper Pèire’s grandson I am known.
Thou mindest him! For twenty years or more
My grandsire’s horses trod thy threshing-floor.

“Three dozen had the old man venerable,
As thou, beyond a doubt, rememberest well.
But would I, Master Ramoun, it were given
To thee to see the increase of that leaven!
Let ply the sickles! We the rest will do,
For now have we an hundred lacking two!”

“And long, my son,” the old man said, “pray I
That you may see them feed and multiply.
I knew your grandsire well for no brief time;
But now on him and me the hoary rime
Of age descends, and by the home lamp’s ray
We sit content, and no more visits pay.”

“But, Master Ramoun,” cried the youthful lover,
“All that I want thou dost not yet discover!
For down at Sambu, in my island home,
When the Crau folk for loads of litter come,
And we help cord them down, it happens so
We talk sometimes about the girls of Crau.

“And thy Mirèio they have all portrayed
So charmingly, that, if thou wilt,” he said,
“And if thou like me, I would gladly be
Thy son-in-law!” “God grant me this to see!”
Said Ramoun. “The brave scion of my friend
To me and mine can only honour lend.”

Then did he fold his hands and them upraise
In saint-like gratitude. “And yet,” he says,
“The child must like you too, O Veranet!
The only one will alway be a pet!
Meanwhile, in earnest of the dower I’ll give her,
The blessing of the saints be yours for ever!”

Forthwith summoned Ramoun his little daughter,
And told her of the friend who thus had sought her.
Pale, trembling, and afraid, “O father dear!”
She said, “is not thy wisdom halting here?
For I am but a child: thou dost forget.
Surely thou wouldst not send me from thee yet!

“Slowly, so thou hast often said to me,
Folk learn to love and live in harmony.
For one must know, and also must be known;
And even then, my father, all’s not done!”
Here the dark shadow on her brow was lit
By some bright thought that e’en transfigured it.

So the drenched flowers, when morning rains are o’er,
Lift up their heavy heads, and smile once more.
Mirèio’s mother held her daughter’s view.
Then blandly rose the keeper, “Adieu,
Master,” he said: “who in Camargue hath dwelt
Knows the mosquito-sting as soon as felt.”

Also that summer came to Lotus Place
One from Petite Camargue, named Ourrias.
Breaker and brander of wild cattle, he;
And black and furious all the cattle be
Over those briny pastures wild who run,
Maddened by flood and fog and scalding sun.

Alone this Ourrias had them all in charge
Summer and winter, where they roamed at large.
And so, among the cattle born and grown,
Their build, their cruel heart, became his own;
His the wild eye, dark colour, dogged look.
How often, throwing off his coat, he took

His cudgel,—savage weaner!—never blenching,
And first the young calves from the udders wrenching,
Upon the wrathful mother fell so madly
That cudgel after cudgel brake he gladly,
Till she, by his brute fury masterèd,
Wild-eyed and lowing to the pine-copse fled!

Oft in the branding at Camargue had he
Oxen and heifers, two-year-olds and three,
Seized by the horns and stretched upon the ground.
His forehead bare the scar of an old wound
Fiery and forked like lightning. It was said
That once the green plain with his blood was red.

On a great branding-day befell this thing:
To aid the mighty herd in mustering,
Li Santo, Agui Morto, Albaron,
And Faraman a hundred horsemen strong
Had sent into the desert. And the herd
Roused from its briny lairs, and, forward spurred

By tridents of the branders close behind,
Fell on the land like a destroying wind.
Heifers and bulls in headlong gallop borne
Plunged, crushing centaury and salicorne;
And at the branding-booth at last they mustered,
Just where a crowd three hundred strong had clustered.

A moment, as if scared, the beasts were still.
Then, when the cruel spur once more they feel,
They start afresh, into a run they break,
And thrice the circuit of the arena make;
As marterns fly a dog, or hawks afar
By eagles in the Luberon hunted are.

Then Ourrias—what ne’er was done before—
Leaped from his horse beside the circus-door
Amid the crowd. The cattle start again,
All saving five young bulls, and scour the plain;
But these, with flaming eyes and horns defying
Heaven itself, are through the arena flying.

And he pursues them. As a mighty wind
Drives on the clouds, he goads them from behind,
And presently outstrips them in the race;
Then thumps them with the cruel goad he sways,
Dances before them as infuriate,
And lets them feel his own fists’ heavy weight.

The people clap and shout, while Ourrias
White with Olympic dust encountered has
One bull, and seized him by the horns at length;
And now ’tis head to muzzle, strength for strength.
The monster strains his prisoned horns to free
Until he bleeds, and bellows horribly.

But vain his fury, useless all his trouble!
The neatherd had the art to turn and double
And force the huge head with his shoulder round,
And shove it roughly back, till on the ground
Christian and beast together rolled, and made
A formless heap like some huge barricade.

The tamarisks are shaken by the cry
Of “Bravo Ourrias! That’s done valiantly!”
While five stout youths the bull pin to the sward;
And Ourrias, his triumph to record,
Seizes the red-hot iron with eager hand,
The vanquished monster on the hip to brand.

Then came a troop of girls on milk-white ponies,—
Arlesians,—flushed and panting every one is,
As o’er the arena at full gallop borne
They offer him a noble drinking-horn
Brimful of wine; then turn and disappear,
Each followed by her faithful cavalier.

The hero heeds them not. His mind is set
On the four monsters to be branded yet:
The mower toils the harder for the grass
He sees unmown. And so this Ourrias
Fought the more savagely as his foes warmed,
And conquered in the end,—but not unharmed.

White-spotted and with horns magnificent,
The fourth beast grazed the green in all content.
“Now, man, enough!” in vain the neatherds shouted;
Couched is the trident and the caution flouted;
With perspiration streaming, bosom bare,
Ourrias the spotted bull charged then and there!

He meets his enemy, a blow delivers
Full in the face; but ah! the trident shivers.
The beast becomes a demon with the wound:
The brander grasps his horns, is whirled around,—
They start together, and are borne amain,
Crushing the salicornes along the plain.

The mounted herdsmen, on their long goads leaning,
Regard the mortal fray; for each is meaning
Dire vengeance now. The man the brute would crush,
The brute bears off the man with furious rush;
The while with heavy, frothy tongue he clears
The blood that to his hanging lip adheres.

The brute prevailed. The man fell dazed, and lay
Like a vile rakeful in the monster’s way.
“Sham dead!” went up a cry of agony.
Vain words! The beast his victim lifted high
On cruel horns and savage head inclined,
And flung him six and forty feet behind!

Once more a deafening outcry filled the place
And shook the tamarisks. But Ourrias
Fell prone to earth, and ever after wore he
The ugly scar that marred his brow so sorely.
Now, mounted on his mare, he paces slow
With goad erect to seek Mirèio.

It chanced the little maid was all alone.
She had, that morning, to the fountain gone;
And here, with sleeves and petticoats uprolled
And small feet dabbling in the water cold,
She was her cheese-forms cleaning with shave-grass;
And, lady saints! how beautiful she was!

“Good-morrow, pretty maid!” began the wooer,
“Thy forms will shine like mirrors, to be sure!
Will it offend thee, if I lead my mare
To drink out of thy limpid streamlet there?”
“Pray give her all thou wilt, at the dam head:
We’ve water here to spare!” the maiden said.

“Fair one!” spake the wild youth, “if e’er thou come
As pilgrim or as bride to make thy home
At Sylvarèal by the noisy wave,
No life of toil like this down here thou’lt have!
Our fierce black cows are never milked, but these
Roam all at large, and women sit at ease.”

“Young man, in cattle-land, I’ve heard them say,
Maids die of languor.”—“Pretty maiden, nay:
There is no languor where two are together!”
“But brows are blistered in that burning weather,
And bitter waters drunk.”—“When the sun shines,
My lady, thou shalt sit beneath the pines!”

“Ah! but they say, young man, those pines are laden
With coils of emerald serpents.”—“Fairest maiden,
We’ve herons also, and flamingoes red
That chase them down the Rhone with wings outspread
Like rosy scarfs.”—“Then, I would have thee know
Lotus and pine too far asunder grow!”

“But priests and maids, my beauty, ne’er can tell,
The saw affirms, the land where they may dwell
And eat their bread.”—“Let mine but eaten be
With him I love: that were enough,” said she,
“To lure me from the home-nest to remove.”
“If that be so, sweet one, give me thy love!”

“Thy suit,” Mirèio said, “mayhap I’ll grant!
But first, young man, yon water-lily plant
Will bear a cluster of columbine grapes.
Yon hills will melt from all their solid shapes,
That goad will flower, and all the world will go
In boats unto the citadel of Baux!”