ALL sorrowfully droop the lotus-trees;
And heart-sick to their hives withdraw the bees,
Forgetful of the heath with savoury sweet,
And with milk-thistle. Water-lilies greet
Kingfishers blue that to the vivary hie,
And “Have you seen Mirèio?” is their cry.
And heart-sick to their hives withdraw the bees,
Forgetful of the heath with savoury sweet,
And with milk-thistle. Water-lilies greet
Kingfishers blue that to the vivary hie,
And “Have you seen Mirèio?” is their cry.
While Ramoun and his wife by the fireside
Are sitting, lost in grief, and swollen-eyed,
And at their hearts the bitterness of death.
“Doubtless,” they said, “her reason wandereth.
Oh, what a mad and wretched maid it is!
Oh, what a heavy, cruel downfall this!
Are sitting, lost in grief, and swollen-eyed,
And at their hearts the bitterness of death.
“Doubtless,” they said, “her reason wandereth.
Oh, what a mad and wretched maid it is!
Oh, what a heavy, cruel downfall this!
“Oh, dire disgrace! Our beauty and our hope
So with the last of trampers to elope!
Fled with a gypsy! And who shall discover
The secret hole of this kidnapping lover,
Where he the shameless one concealèd hath?”
And, as they spake, they knit their brows in wrath.
So with the last of trampers to elope!
Fled with a gypsy! And who shall discover
The secret hole of this kidnapping lover,
Where he the shameless one concealèd hath?”
And, as they spake, they knit their brows in wrath.
Now came the cupbearer with ass and pannier,
And from the threshold, in his wonted manner,
“Good-morrow,” Jane. “I’m come,” he said, “to seek
The labourer’s lunch.” And Ramoun could but wreak
His anguish on him. “Go, you cursèd churl!
I’m as a cork-tree barked, without my girl!”
And from the threshold, in his wonted manner,
“Good-morrow,” Jane. “I’m come,” he said, “to seek
The labourer’s lunch.” And Ramoun could but wreak
His anguish on him. “Go, you cursèd churl!
I’m as a cork-tree barked, without my girl!”
“Yet hark ye, cupbearer, upon your track
Across the fields like lightning go you back,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
Their sickles, and their shepherds too,” said he,
“Forsake their flocks, and instant come to me!”
Across the fields like lightning go you back,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
Their sickles, and their shepherds too,” said he,
“Forsake their flocks, and instant come to me!”
Then, fleeter than a goat, the faithful man
O’er stony fallow and red clover ran,
Threaded holm-oaks on long declivities,
Leaped o’er the roads along the base of these,
And now already scents the sweet perfume
Of new-mown hay, and the blue-tufted bloom
O’er stony fallow and red clover ran,
Threaded holm-oaks on long declivities,
Leaped o’er the roads along the base of these,
And now already scents the sweet perfume
Of new-mown hay, and the blue-tufted bloom
Of tall lucerne descries; and presently
The measured sweep of the long scythes hears he,
And lusty mowers bending in a row
Beholds, and grass by the keen steel laid low
In verdant swaths,—ever a pleasant sight,—
And children, and young maidens, with delight
The measured sweep of the long scythes hears he,
And lusty mowers bending in a row
Beholds, and grass by the keen steel laid low
In verdant swaths,—ever a pleasant sight,—
And children, and young maidens, with delight
Raking the hay and in cocks piling it;
While crickets, that before the mowers flit,
Hark to their singing. Also, farther on,
An ash-wood cart, by two white oxen drawn,
Where a deft cartman, piles the well-cured grass
By armfuls high and higher, till the mass
While crickets, that before the mowers flit,
Hark to their singing. Also, farther on,
An ash-wood cart, by two white oxen drawn,
Where a deft cartman, piles the well-cured grass
By armfuls high and higher, till the mass
Rises about his loins, and so conceals
The rails, the cart-beam, and the very wheels;
And, when the cart moves on, with the hay trailing,
It seems like some unwieldy vessel sailing.
But now the cartman rises, and descries
The runner, and “Hold, men! there’s trouble!” cries;
The rails, the cart-beam, and the very wheels;
And, when the cart moves on, with the hay trailing,
It seems like some unwieldy vessel sailing.
But now the cartman rises, and descries
The runner, and “Hold, men! there’s trouble!” cries;
And all his aids, who in great forkfuls carry
To him the hay, do for a moment tarry,
And wipe their streaming brows; and mowers rest
The scythe-back carefully upon the breast,
And whet the edge, as they the plain explore
That Phœbus wings his burning arrows o’er.
To him the hay, do for a moment tarry,
And wipe their streaming brows; and mowers rest
The scythe-back carefully upon the breast,
And whet the edge, as they the plain explore
That Phœbus wings his burning arrows o’er.
Began the rustic messenger straightway,
“Hear men, what our good master bade me say:
“‘Cupbearer,’ was his word, ‘upon your track
Across the fields like lightning go you back,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
“Hear men, what our good master bade me say:
“‘Cupbearer,’ was his word, ‘upon your track
Across the fields like lightning go you back,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
“‘Their sickles, and the shepherds hastily
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!’”
Then, fleeter than a goat, the faithful man
O’er the rich, madder-growing hillocks ran,—
Althen’s bequest,—and saw on every hand
The gold of perfect ripeness tinge the land,
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!’”
Then, fleeter than a goat, the faithful man
O’er the rich, madder-growing hillocks ran,—
Althen’s bequest,—and saw on every hand
The gold of perfect ripeness tinge the land,
And centaury-starred fields, and ploughmen bent
Above their ploughs and on their mules intent,
And earth, awakened from her winter-sleep,
And shapeless clods upturned from furrows deep,
And wagtails frisking o’er; and yet again,
“Hearken to what our master saith, good men!
Above their ploughs and on their mules intent,
And earth, awakened from her winter-sleep,
And shapeless clods upturned from furrows deep,
And wagtails frisking o’er; and yet again,
“Hearken to what our master saith, good men!
“‘Cupbearer,’ was his word, ‘upon your track
Across the fields like lightning go you back,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
Their sickles, and the shepherds hastily
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!’”
Across the fields like lightning go you back,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
Their sickles, and the shepherds hastily
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!’”
Then the stout runner, fleeter than the goats,
Dashed through the pieces waving with wild-oats,
Fosses o’erleaped with meadow-flowers bright,
And in great yellow wheat-fields passed from sight,
Where reapers forty, sickle each in hand,
Like a devouring fire fall on the land,
Dashed through the pieces waving with wild-oats,
Fosses o’erleaped with meadow-flowers bright,
And in great yellow wheat-fields passed from sight,
Where reapers forty, sickle each in hand,
Like a devouring fire fall on the land,
And strip her mantle rich and odorous
From off her breast, and, ever gaining thus
As wolves upon their prey, rob, hour by hour,
Earth of her gold, and summer of her flower;
While in the wake of each, in ordered line,
Falls the loose grain, like tendrils of the vine.
From off her breast, and, ever gaining thus
As wolves upon their prey, rob, hour by hour,
Earth of her gold, and summer of her flower;
While in the wake of each, in ordered line,
Falls the loose grain, like tendrils of the vine.
And the sheaf-binders, ever on the watch,
The dropping wheat in handfuls deftly catch,
And underneath the arm the same bestow
Until, so gathering, they have enow;
When, pressing with the knee, they tightly bind,
And lastly fling the perfect sheaf behind.
The dropping wheat in handfuls deftly catch,
And underneath the arm the same bestow
Until, so gathering, they have enow;
When, pressing with the knee, they tightly bind,
And lastly fling the perfect sheaf behind.
Twinkle the sickles keen like swarming bees,
Or laughing ripple upon sunny seas
Where flounders are at play. Erect and tall,
With rough beards blent, in heaps pyramidal,
The sheaves by hundreds rise. The plain afar
Shows like a tented camp in days of war;
Or laughing ripple upon sunny seas
Where flounders are at play. Erect and tall,
With rough beards blent, in heaps pyramidal,
The sheaves by hundreds rise. The plain afar
Shows like a tented camp in days of war;
Even like that which once arose upon
Our own Beaucaire, in days how long withdrawn!
When came a host of terrible invaders,
The great Simon, and all the French crusaders,
Led by a legate, and in fierce advance
Count Raymond slaughtered and laid waste Provence.
Our own Beaucaire, in days how long withdrawn!
When came a host of terrible invaders,
The great Simon, and all the French crusaders,
Led by a legate, and in fierce advance
Count Raymond slaughtered and laid waste Provence.
And here, with gleanings falling from her fingers,
Full many a merry gleaner strays and lingers;
Or in the warm lea of the stacks of corn,
Or ’mid the canes, drops languidly, o’erborne
By some long look, that e’en bewilders her,
Because Love also is a harvester.
Full many a merry gleaner strays and lingers;
Or in the warm lea of the stacks of corn,
Or ’mid the canes, drops languidly, o’erborne
By some long look, that e’en bewilders her,
Because Love also is a harvester.
And yet again the master’s word,—“Go back
Like lightning, cupbearer, upon your track,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
Their sickles, and the shepherds instantly
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!”
Like lightning, cupbearer, upon your track,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
Their sickles, and the shepherds instantly
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!”
Then fleeter than a goat sped on his way
The faithful soul, straight through the olives gray,
On, on, like a north-eastern gale descending
Upon the vineyards, and the branches rending,
Until, away in Crau, the waste, the lonely,
Behold him, where the partridge whirreth only;
The faithful soul, straight through the olives gray,
On, on, like a north-eastern gale descending
Upon the vineyards, and the branches rending,
Until, away in Crau, the waste, the lonely,
Behold him, where the partridge whirreth only;
And, still remote, discovers he the flocks
Tranquilly lying under the dwarf-oaks,
And the chief-shepherd, with his helpers young,
For noon-tide rest about the heather flung,
And little wagtails hopping at their ease
O’er sheep that ruminate unmoved by these.
Tranquilly lying under the dwarf-oaks,
And the chief-shepherd, with his helpers young,
For noon-tide rest about the heather flung,
And little wagtails hopping at their ease
O’er sheep that ruminate unmoved by these.
And slowly, slowly sailing o’er the sea
Diaphanous vapours, light and white, sees he,
And deems that up in heaven some fair saint,
Gliding too near the sun, is stricken faint
On the aerial heights, and hath let fall
Her convent-veil. And still the herald’s call:—
Diaphanous vapours, light and white, sees he,
And deems that up in heaven some fair saint,
Gliding too near the sun, is stricken faint
On the aerial heights, and hath let fall
Her convent-veil. And still the herald’s call:—
“Hark, shepherds, to the master’s word,—‘Go back
Like lightning, cupbearer, upon your track,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the reapers too let fall
Their sickles, and the shepherds instantly
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!”
Like lightning, cupbearer, upon your track,
And bid the ploughmen and the mowers all
Quit ploughs and scythes, the reapers too let fall
Their sickles, and the shepherds instantly
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!”
Then the scythes rested and the ploughs were stayed,
The forty highland reapers each his blade
Let fall, and rushed as bees on new-found wings
Forsake the hive, begin their wanderings,
And, by the din of clanging cymbals led,
Gather them to a pine. So also fled
The forty highland reapers each his blade
Let fall, and rushed as bees on new-found wings
Forsake the hive, begin their wanderings,
And, by the din of clanging cymbals led,
Gather them to a pine. So also fled
The labourers one and all; the waggoners,
And they who tended them; the rick-builders,
Gleaners, and shepherds, and of sheaves the heapers,
Binders of sheaves, rakers, mowers, and reapers,
Mustered them at the homestead. There, heart-sore
And silent, on the grass-grown treading-floor,
And they who tended them; the rick-builders,
Gleaners, and shepherds, and of sheaves the heapers,
Binders of sheaves, rakers, mowers, and reapers,
Mustered them at the homestead. There, heart-sore
And silent, on the grass-grown treading-floor,
The master and his wife sat down to bide
The coming of the hands; who, as they hied
Thither, much marvelled at the strange behest
So calling them from toil, and who addrest
These words unto old Ramoun, drawing near:
“Thou sentest for us, master. We are here.”
The coming of the hands; who, as they hied
Thither, much marvelled at the strange behest
So calling them from toil, and who addrest
These words unto old Ramoun, drawing near:
“Thou sentest for us, master. We are here.”
Then Ramoun raised his head, and thus replied;
“The great storm alway comes at harvest-tide.
However well-advised, as we advance
We must, poor souls, all stumble on mischance:
I cannot say it plainer. Friends, I pray,
Let each tell what he knows, without delay!”
“The great storm alway comes at harvest-tide.
However well-advised, as we advance
We must, poor souls, all stumble on mischance:
I cannot say it plainer. Friends, I pray,
Let each tell what he knows, without delay!”
Lauren de Gout came forward first. Now he
Had failed no single year since infancy
His quivered sickle from the hills to bring
Down into Arles when ears were yellowing.
Brown as a church-stone, he, with weather-stain,
Or ancient rock the sea-waves charge in vain.
Had failed no single year since infancy
His quivered sickle from the hills to bring
Down into Arles when ears were yellowing.
Brown as a church-stone, he, with weather-stain,
Or ancient rock the sea-waves charge in vain.
The sun might scorch, the north-west wind might roar,
But this old king of reapers evermore
Was first at work. And now with him there came
Seven rough and stalwart boys who bore his name.
Him with one voice the harvesters did make
Their chief, and justly: therefore thus he spake:
But this old king of reapers evermore
Was first at work. And now with him there came
Seven rough and stalwart boys who bore his name.
Him with one voice the harvesters did make
Their chief, and justly: therefore thus he spake:
“If it be true that, when the dawning sky
Is ruddy, there is rain or snow close by,
Then what I saw this very morn, my master,
Presageth surely sorrow and disaster.
So may God stay the earthquake! But as night
Fled westward, followed by the early light,
Is ruddy, there is rain or snow close by,
Then what I saw this very morn, my master,
Presageth surely sorrow and disaster.
So may God stay the earthquake! But as night
Fled westward, followed by the early light,
“And wet with dew as ever, I the men
First summoned briskly to their toil again,
And then myself, my sleeves uprolling gayly,
Bent me to mine own task, as I do daily;
But at the first stroke wounded thus my hand,—
A thing which hath not happened, understand,
First summoned briskly to their toil again,
And then myself, my sleeves uprolling gayly,
Bent me to mine own task, as I do daily;
But at the first stroke wounded thus my hand,—
A thing which hath not happened, understand,
“For thirty years.” His fingers then he showed,
And the deep gash, wherefrom the blood yet flowed.
Then groaned, more piteously than before,
Mirèio’s parents; while a lusty mower,
One Jan Bouquet, a knight of La Tarasque
From Tarascon, a hearing rose to ask.
And the deep gash, wherefrom the blood yet flowed.
Then groaned, more piteously than before,
Mirèio’s parents; while a lusty mower,
One Jan Bouquet, a knight of La Tarasque
From Tarascon, a hearing rose to ask.
A rough lad he, yet kind and comely too.
None with such grace in Condamino threw
The pike and flag, and never merrier fellow
Sang Lagadigadèu’s ritournello
About the gloomy streets of Tarascon,
When, once a year, they ring with shout and song,
None with such grace in Condamino threw
The pike and flag, and never merrier fellow
Sang Lagadigadèu’s ritournello
About the gloomy streets of Tarascon,
When, once a year, they ring with shout and song,
And brighten up with dances and are blithe.
He might have been a master of the scythe,
Could he have held the straight, laborious path;
But, when the fête-days came, farewell the swath,
And welcome revels underneath the trees,
And orgies in the vaulted hostelries,
He might have been a master of the scythe,
Could he have held the straight, laborious path;
But, when the fête-days came, farewell the swath,
And welcome revels underneath the trees,
And orgies in the vaulted hostelries,
And bull-baitings, and never-ending dances!
A very roisterer he who now advances,
With, “As we, master, in long sweeps were mowing,
I hailed a nest of francolines, just showing
Under a tuft of tares; and, as I bent
Over the pendent grass, with the intent
A very roisterer he who now advances,
With, “As we, master, in long sweeps were mowing,
I hailed a nest of francolines, just showing
Under a tuft of tares; and, as I bent
Over the pendent grass, with the intent
“To count the fluttering things, what do I see
But horrible red ants—oh, misery!—
In full possession of the nest and young!
Three were then dead. The rest, with vermin stung,
Their little heads out of the nest extended,
As though, poor things, they cried to be defended;
But horrible red ants—oh, misery!—
In full possession of the nest and young!
Three were then dead. The rest, with vermin stung,
Their little heads out of the nest extended,
As though, poor things, they cried to be defended;
“But a great cloud of ants, more venemous
Than nettles, greedy, eager, furious,
Them were o’erwhelming even then; and I,
Leaning upon my scythe right pensively,
Could hear, far off, the mother agonize
Over their cruel fate, with piteous cries.”
Than nettles, greedy, eager, furious,
Them were o’erwhelming even then; and I,
Leaning upon my scythe right pensively,
Could hear, far off, the mother agonize
Over their cruel fate, with piteous cries.”
This tale of woe, following upon the other,
Is a lance-thrust to father and to mother:
The worst foreboding seemeth justified.
Then, as a tempest in the hot June-tide,
Gathering silently, ascends the air,
The weather darkening ever, till the glare
Is a lance-thrust to father and to mother:
The worst foreboding seemeth justified.
Then, as a tempest in the hot June-tide,
Gathering silently, ascends the air,
The weather darkening ever, till the glare
Of lightning shows in the north-east, and loud
Peal follows peal, another left the crowd,
One Lou Marran. It was a name renowned
In all the farms when winter-eves came round,
And labourers, chatting while the mules were stalled
And pulling lucerne from the rack, recalled
Peal follows peal, another left the crowd,
One Lou Marran. It was a name renowned
In all the farms when winter-eves came round,
And labourers, chatting while the mules were stalled
And pulling lucerne from the rack, recalled
What things befell when first this man was hired,
Until the lights for lack of oil expired.
Seed-time it was, and every other man
Was opening up his furrow save Marran;
Who, hanging back, eyed coulter, tackle, share,
As he the like had seen not anywhere.
Until the lights for lack of oil expired.
Seed-time it was, and every other man
Was opening up his furrow save Marran;
Who, hanging back, eyed coulter, tackle, share,
As he the like had seen not anywhere.
Till the chief-ploughman spake: “Here is a lout
To plough for hire! Why, a hog with his snout
I wager would work better!”—“I will take
Thy bet,” said Lou Marran; “and be the stake
Three golden louis! Either thou or I,
Master, that sum will forfeit presently.”
To plough for hire! Why, a hog with his snout
I wager would work better!”—“I will take
Thy bet,” said Lou Marran; “and be the stake
Three golden louis! Either thou or I,
Master, that sum will forfeit presently.”
“Let blow the trumpet!” Then the ploughmen twain
In two unswerving lines upturn the plain,
Making for the chosen goal,—two poplars high.
The sun-rays gild the ridges equally,
And all the labourers call out, “Well done!
Thy furrow, chieftain, is a noble one;
In two unswerving lines upturn the plain,
Making for the chosen goal,—two poplars high.
The sun-rays gild the ridges equally,
And all the labourers call out, “Well done!
Thy furrow, chieftain, is a noble one;
“Yet, sooth to say, so straight the other is,
One might an arrow shoot the length of this.”
And Lou Marran was winner,—he who here
Before the baffled council doth appear,
All pale, his bitter evidence to bear:
“Comrades, as I was whistling, at my share,
One might an arrow shoot the length of this.”
And Lou Marran was winner,—he who here
Before the baffled council doth appear,
All pale, his bitter evidence to bear:
“Comrades, as I was whistling, at my share,
“Not long ago, methought the land was rough,
And we would stretch, the day to finish off;
When, lo! my beasts with fear began to quake,
Bristled their hairy sides, their ears lay back.
They stopped; and, with dazed eyes, I saw all round
The field-herbs fade, and wither to the ground.
And we would stretch, the day to finish off;
When, lo! my beasts with fear began to quake,
Bristled their hairy sides, their ears lay back.
They stopped; and, with dazed eyes, I saw all round
The field-herbs fade, and wither to the ground.
“I touch my pair. Baiardo sadly eyes
His master, but stirs not. Falet applies
His nostril to the furrow. Then I lash
Their shins; and, all in terror, off they dash,
So that the ash-wood beam—the beam, I say—
Is rent, and yoke and tackle borne away.
His master, but stirs not. Falet applies
His nostril to the furrow. Then I lash
Their shins; and, all in terror, off they dash,
So that the ash-wood beam—the beam, I say—
Is rent, and yoke and tackle borne away.
“Then grew I pale, and all my breath was gone;
And, seized as with a strong convulsion,
I ground my jaws. A dreadful shudder grew
Upon me,—and my hair upraised, I knew,
As thistle-down is raised by the wind’s breath;
But the wind sweeping over me was Death.”
And, seized as with a strong convulsion,
I ground my jaws. A dreadful shudder grew
Upon me,—and my hair upraised, I knew,
As thistle-down is raised by the wind’s breath;
But the wind sweeping over me was Death.”
“Mother of God!” Mirèio’s mother cried
In torture, “do thou in thy mantle hide
Mine own sweet child!” and on her knees she dropped
With lifted eyes and parted lips: yet stopped
Ere any word was spoken, for she saw
Antéume, shepherd-chief and milker, draw
In torture, “do thou in thy mantle hide
Mine own sweet child!” and on her knees she dropped
With lifted eyes and parted lips: yet stopped
Ere any word was spoken, for she saw
Antéume, shepherd-chief and milker, draw
Hurriedly toward them. “And why,” he was panting,
“Was she the junipers untimely haunting?”
Then, the ring entering, his tale he told.
“This morn, as we were milking in the fold,—
So early that above the bare plain showed
The sky yet hob-nailed with the stars of God,—
“Was she the junipers untimely haunting?”
Then, the ring entering, his tale he told.
“This morn, as we were milking in the fold,—
So early that above the bare plain showed
The sky yet hob-nailed with the stars of God,—
“A soul, a shadow, or a spectre swept
Across the way. The dogs all silence kept,
As if afraid, and the sheep huddled close.
Thought I,—who scarce have time, as master knows,
Ever an Ave in the church to offer,—
‘Speak, soul, if thou art blest. If not, go suffer!’
Across the way. The dogs all silence kept,
As if afraid, and the sheep huddled close.
Thought I,—who scarce have time, as master knows,
Ever an Ave in the church to offer,—
‘Speak, soul, if thou art blest. If not, go suffer!’
“Then came a voice I knew,—it never varies,—
‘Will none go with me to the holy Maries,
Of all the shepherds?’ Ere the word was said,
Afar over the plain the voice had fled.
Wilt thou believe it, master?—it was she,
Mirèio!” Cried the people, “Can it be?”
‘Will none go with me to the holy Maries,
Of all the shepherds?’ Ere the word was said,
Afar over the plain the voice had fled.
Wilt thou believe it, master?—it was she,
Mirèio!” Cried the people, “Can it be?”
“It was herself!” the shepherd-chief replied:
“I saw her in the star-light past me glide,
Not, surely, as she was in other days,
But lifting up a wan, affrighted face;
Whereby she was a living soul, I knew,
And stung by some exquisite anguish too.”
“I saw her in the star-light past me glide,
Not, surely, as she was in other days,
But lifting up a wan, affrighted face;
Whereby she was a living soul, I knew,
And stung by some exquisite anguish too.”
At this dread word, the labourers groan, and wring
Each other’s horny palms. “But who will bring,”
The stricken mother began wildly shrieking,
“Me to the saints? My bird I must be seeking!
My partridge of the stony field,” she said,
“I must o’ertake, wherever she has fled.
Each other’s horny palms. “But who will bring,”
The stricken mother began wildly shrieking,
“Me to the saints? My bird I must be seeking!
My partridge of the stony field,” she said,
“I must o’ertake, wherever she has fled.
“And if the ants attack her, then these teeth
Shall grind them and their hill! If greedy Death
Dare touch my darling rudely, then will I
Break his old, rusty scythe, and she shall fly
Away across the jungle!” Crying thus,
Jano Mario fled delirious
Shall grind them and their hill! If greedy Death
Dare touch my darling rudely, then will I
Break his old, rusty scythe, and she shall fly
Away across the jungle!” Crying thus,
Jano Mario fled delirious
Back to the home; while Ramoun order gave,
“Cartman, set up the cart-tilt, wet the nave,
And oil the axle, and without delay
Harness Moureto. We go far to-day,
And it is late.” The mother, in despair,
Mounted the cart; and more and more the air
“Cartman, set up the cart-tilt, wet the nave,
And oil the axle, and without delay
Harness Moureto. We go far to-day,
And it is late.” The mother, in despair,
Mounted the cart; and more and more the air
Resounded with the transports of her woe:
“O pretty dear! O wilderness of Crau!
O endless, briny plains! O dreadful sun,
Be kind, I pray you, to the fainting one!
But for her,—the accursèd witch Taven,—
Who lured my darling into her foul den,
“O pretty dear! O wilderness of Crau!
O endless, briny plains! O dreadful sun,
Be kind, I pray you, to the fainting one!
But for her,—the accursèd witch Taven,—
Who lured my darling into her foul den,
And poured before her, as I know right well,
Her philters and her potions horrible,
And made her drink,—now may the demons all
Who lured St. Anthony upon her fall,
And drag her body o’er the rocks of Baux!”
As the unhappy soul lamented so,
Her philters and her potions horrible,
And made her drink,—now may the demons all
Who lured St. Anthony upon her fall,
And drag her body o’er the rocks of Baux!”
As the unhappy soul lamented so,
Her tones were smothered by the cart’s rude shaking;
And the farm-labourers, a last look taking
To see if none were coming o’er the plain,
Turned slowly, sadly, to their toil again;
While swarms of gnats, the idle, happy things,
Filled the green walks with sound of humming wings.
And the farm-labourers, a last look taking
To see if none were coming o’er the plain,
Turned slowly, sadly, to their toil again;
While swarms of gnats, the idle, happy things,
Filled the green walks with sound of humming wings.
CANTO X.
Camargue.
LISTEN to me, good people of Provence,
Countrymen one and all, from Arles to Vence,
From Vanensolo even to Marseilles,
And, if the heat oppress you, come, I pray,
To Durancolo banks, and, lying low,
Hear the maid’s tale, and weep the lover’s woe!
Countrymen one and all, from Arles to Vence,
From Vanensolo even to Marseilles,
And, if the heat oppress you, come, I pray,
To Durancolo banks, and, lying low,
Hear the maid’s tale, and weep the lover’s woe!
The little boat, in Andreloun’s control,
Parted the water silent as a sole,
The while the enamoured maiden whom I sing,
Herself on the great Rhone adventuring,
Beside the urchin sat, and scanned the wave
Intently, with a dreamy eye and grave,
Parted the water silent as a sole,
The while the enamoured maiden whom I sing,
Herself on the great Rhone adventuring,
Beside the urchin sat, and scanned the wave
Intently, with a dreamy eye and grave,
Till the boy-boatman spake: “Now knewest thou ever,
Young lady, how immense is the Rhone river?
Betwixt Camargue and Crau might holden be
Right noble jousts! That is Camargue!” said he;
“That isle so vast it can discern, I deem,
All the seven mouths of the Arlesian stream.”
Young lady, how immense is the Rhone river?
Betwixt Camargue and Crau might holden be
Right noble jousts! That is Camargue!” said he;
“That isle so vast it can discern, I deem,
All the seven mouths of the Arlesian stream.”
The rose-lights of the morn were beauteous
Upon the river, as he chatted thus.
And the tartanes, with snowy sails outswelled,
Tranquilly glided up the stream, impelled
By the light breeze that blew from off the deep,
As by a shepherdess her milk-white sheep.
Upon the river, as he chatted thus.
And the tartanes, with snowy sails outswelled,
Tranquilly glided up the stream, impelled
By the light breeze that blew from off the deep,
As by a shepherdess her milk-white sheep.
And all along the shore was noble shade
By feathery ash and silver poplar made,
Whose hoary trunks the river did reflect,
And giant limbs with wild vines all bedeckt
With ancient vines and tortuous, that upbore
Their knotty, clustered fruit the waters o’er.
By feathery ash and silver poplar made,
Whose hoary trunks the river did reflect,
And giant limbs with wild vines all bedeckt
With ancient vines and tortuous, that upbore
Their knotty, clustered fruit the waters o’er.
Majestically calm, but wearily
And as he fain would sleep, the Rhone passed by
Like some great veteran dying. He recalls
Music and feasting in Avignon’s halls
And castles, and profoundly sad is he
To lose his name and waters in the sea.
And as he fain would sleep, the Rhone passed by
Like some great veteran dying. He recalls
Music and feasting in Avignon’s halls
And castles, and profoundly sad is he
To lose his name and waters in the sea.
Meanwhile the enamoured maiden whom I sing
Had leaped ashore; and the boy, tarrying
Only to say, “The road that lies before
Is thine! The Saints will guide thee to the door
Of their great chapel,” took his oars in hand,
And swiftly turned his shallop from the land.
Had leaped ashore; and the boy, tarrying
Only to say, “The road that lies before
Is thine! The Saints will guide thee to the door
Of their great chapel,” took his oars in hand,
And swiftly turned his shallop from the land.
Under the pouring fire of the June sky,
Like lightning doth Mirèio fly and fly.
East, west, north, south, she seems to see extend
One weary plain, savannas without end,
With glimpses of the sea, and here and there
Tamarisks lifting their light heads in air.
Like lightning doth Mirèio fly and fly.
East, west, north, south, she seems to see extend
One weary plain, savannas without end,
With glimpses of the sea, and here and there
Tamarisks lifting their light heads in air.
Golden-herb, samphire, shave-grass, soda,—these
Alone grow on the bitter prairies,
Where the black bulls in savage liberty
Rejoice, where the white horses all are free
To roam abroad and breast the briny gale,
Or air surcharged with sea-fog to inhale.
Alone grow on the bitter prairies,
Where the black bulls in savage liberty
Rejoice, where the white horses all are free
To roam abroad and breast the briny gale,
Or air surcharged with sea-fog to inhale.
But now o’er all the marsh, dazzling to view,
Soars an immeasurable vault of blue,
Intense, profound. The only living thing
A solitary gull upon the wing
Or hermit-bird whereof the shadow falls
Over the desert meres at intervals,
Soars an immeasurable vault of blue,
Intense, profound. The only living thing
A solitary gull upon the wing
Or hermit-bird whereof the shadow falls
Over the desert meres at intervals,
Or red-legged chevalier, or hern, wild-eyed
With crest of three white plumes upraised in pride.
But soon the sun so beats upon the plain
That the poor, weary wanderer is fain
To loose and lift her folded neckerchief,
So from the burning heat to find relief.
With crest of three white plumes upraised in pride.
But soon the sun so beats upon the plain
That the poor, weary wanderer is fain
To loose and lift her folded neckerchief,
So from the burning heat to find relief.
Yet grows the torment ever more and more;
The sun ascending higher than before,
Till, as a starvèd lion’s eye devours
The Abyssinian desert that he scours,
Yon lidless orb the very zenith gains
And pours a flood of fire o’er all the plains.
The sun ascending higher than before,
Till, as a starvèd lion’s eye devours
The Abyssinian desert that he scours,
Yon lidless orb the very zenith gains
And pours a flood of fire o’er all the plains.
Now were it sweet beneath a beech to slumber!
Now, like a swarm of hornets without number,—
An angry swarm, fierce darting high and low,—
Or liks the hot sparks from a grindstone, grow
The pitiless rays; and Love’s poor pilgrim, worn
And gasping, and by weariness o’erborne,
Now, like a swarm of hornets without number,—
An angry swarm, fierce darting high and low,—
Or liks the hot sparks from a grindstone, grow
The pitiless rays; and Love’s poor pilgrim, worn
And gasping, and by weariness o’erborne,
Forth from her bodice draws its golden pin,
So that her panting bosom shows within.
All dazzling white, like the campanulas
That bloom beside the summer sea, it was,
And, like twin-billows in a brooklet, full.
Anon, the solitary scene and dull
So that her panting bosom shows within.
All dazzling white, like the campanulas
That bloom beside the summer sea, it was,
And, like twin-billows in a brooklet, full.
Anon, the solitary scene and dull
Loses a little of its sadness, and
A lake shows on the limit of the land,—
A spacious lake, whose wavelets dance and shine,—
While shrubs of golden-herb and jessamine
On the dark shore appear to soar aloft
Until they cast a shadow cool and soft.
A lake shows on the limit of the land,—
A spacious lake, whose wavelets dance and shine,—
While shrubs of golden-herb and jessamine
On the dark shore appear to soar aloft
Until they cast a shadow cool and soft.
It seems to the poor maid a heavenly vision,
A heartening glimpse into the land elysian.
And soon, afar, by that blue wave she sees
A town with circling walls and palaces,
And fountains gay, and churches without end,
And slender spires that to the sun ascend,
A heartening glimpse into the land elysian.
And soon, afar, by that blue wave she sees
A town with circling walls and palaces,
And fountains gay, and churches without end,
And slender spires that to the sun ascend,
And ships and lesser sailing-craft, sun-bright,
Entering the port; and the wind seemeth light.
So that the oriflambs and streamers all
Languidly round the masts arise and fall.
“A miracle!” the maiden thought, and now
Wipes the abundant moisture from her brow,
Entering the port; and the wind seemeth light.
So that the oriflambs and streamers all
Languidly round the masts arise and fall.
“A miracle!” the maiden thought, and now
Wipes the abundant moisture from her brow,
And, with new hope, toward the town doth fare,
Deeming the Maries’ tomb is surely there.
Alas! alas! be her flight ne’er so speedy,
A change will pass upon the scene. Already
The sweet illusion seems to fade and flit;
Recedes the vision as she follows it.
Deeming the Maries’ tomb is surely there.
Alas! alas! be her flight ne’er so speedy,
A change will pass upon the scene. Already
The sweet illusion seems to fade and flit;
Recedes the vision as she follows it.
An airy show, the substance of a dream,
By spirit woven out of a sunbeam,
And all its fair hues borrowed from the sky,—
The filmy fabric wavers presently,
And melts away, and like a mist is gone.
Bewildered by the heat, and quite alone,
By spirit woven out of a sunbeam,
And all its fair hues borrowed from the sky,—
The filmy fabric wavers presently,
And melts away, and like a mist is gone.
Bewildered by the heat, and quite alone,
Is left Mirèio: yet her way she keeps,
Toiling over the burning, yielding heaps
Of sand; over the salt-encrusted waste—
Seamed, swollen, dazzling to the eye—doth haste.
On through the tall marsh-grasses and the reeds
And rushes, haunted by the gnat, she speeds,
Toiling over the burning, yielding heaps
Of sand; over the salt-encrusted waste—
Seamed, swollen, dazzling to the eye—doth haste.
On through the tall marsh-grasses and the reeds
And rushes, haunted by the gnat, she speeds,
With Vincen ever in her thought. And soon,
Skirting the lonesome Vacarès lagune,
She sees it loom at last in distance dim,—
She sees it grow on the horizon’s rim,—
The Saints’ white tower, across the billowy plain,
Like vessel homeward bound upon the main.
Skirting the lonesome Vacarès lagune,
She sees it loom at last in distance dim,—
She sees it grow on the horizon’s rim,—
The Saints’ white tower, across the billowy plain,
Like vessel homeward bound upon the main.
And, even at that blessèd moment, one
Of the hot shafts of the unpitying sun
The ill-starred maiden’s forehead pierced, and she
Staggered, death-smitten, by the glassy sea,
And dropped upon the sand. Weep, sons of Crau,
The sweetest flower in all the land lies low.
Of the hot shafts of the unpitying sun
The ill-starred maiden’s forehead pierced, and she
Staggered, death-smitten, by the glassy sea,
And dropped upon the sand. Weep, sons of Crau,
The sweetest flower in all the land lies low.
When, in a valley by the river-side,
Young turtle-doves a huntsman bath espied,
Some innocently drinking, others cooing,
He, through the copse-wood with his gun pursuing,
At the most fair takes alway his first aim,—
The cruel sun had only done the same.
Young turtle-doves a huntsman bath espied,
Some innocently drinking, others cooing,
He, through the copse-wood with his gun pursuing,
At the most fair takes alway his first aim,—
The cruel sun had only done the same.
Now, as she lay in swoon upon the shore,
A swarm of busy gnats came hovering o’er,
Who seeing the white breast and fluttering breath,
And the poor maiden fainting to her death,
With ne’er a friendly spray of juniper
From all the pulsing fire to shelter her,
A swarm of busy gnats came hovering o’er,
Who seeing the white breast and fluttering breath,
And the poor maiden fainting to her death,
With ne’er a friendly spray of juniper
From all the pulsing fire to shelter her,
Each one the viol of his tiny wings
Imploring played with plaintive murmurings,—
“Get thee up quickly, quickly, damsel fair!
For aye malignant is this burning air,”
And stung the drooping head; and sea-spray flew,
Sprinkling the fevered face with bitter dew:
Imploring played with plaintive murmurings,—
“Get thee up quickly, quickly, damsel fair!
For aye malignant is this burning air,”
And stung the drooping head; and sea-spray flew,
Sprinkling the fevered face with bitter dew:
Until at last Mirèio rose again,
And, with a feeble moan of mortal pain,
“My head! my head!” she dragged her way forlorn
And slow from salicorne to salicorne,—
Poor little one!—until her heavy feet
Arrived before the seaside Saints’ retreat.
And, with a feeble moan of mortal pain,
“My head! my head!” she dragged her way forlorn
And slow from salicorne to salicorne,—
Poor little one!—until her heavy feet
Arrived before the seaside Saints’ retreat.
There, her sad eyes with tears all brimming o’er,
Upon the cold flags of the chapel-floor,
Wet with the infiltration of the sea,
She sank, and clasped her brow in agony;
And on the pinions of the waiting air
Was borne aloft Mirèio’s faltering prayer:—
Upon the cold flags of the chapel-floor,
Wet with the infiltration of the sea,
She sank, and clasped her brow in agony;
And on the pinions of the waiting air
Was borne aloft Mirèio’s faltering prayer:—
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
“And when you see my cruel care
And misery,
Then look in mercy down the air,
And side with me!
And misery,
Then look in mercy down the air,
And side with me!
“I am so young, dear Saints above,
And there’s a youth—
My handsome Vincen—whom I love
With utter truth!
And there’s a youth—
My handsome Vincen—whom I love
With utter truth!
“I love him as the wayward stream
Its wanderings;
As loves the new-fledged bird, I deem,
To try its wings.
Its wanderings;
As loves the new-fledged bird, I deem,
To try its wings.
“And now they tell me I must quench
This fire eternal;
Must from the blossoming almond wrench
Its flowers vernal.
This fire eternal;
Must from the blossoming almond wrench
Its flowers vernal.
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
“Now am I come, dear Saints, from far,
To sue for peace:
Nor mother-prayer my way could bar,
Nor wilderness;
To sue for peace:
Nor mother-prayer my way could bar,
Nor wilderness;
“The sun, that cruel archer, shot
Into my brain,—
Thorns, as it were, and nails red-hot,—
Sharp is the pain;
Into my brain,—
Thorns, as it were, and nails red-hot,—
Sharp is the pain;
“Yet give me but my Vincen dear:
Then will we duly,
We two, with glad hearts worship here,—
Oh, I say truly!
Then will we duly,
We two, with glad hearts worship here,—
Oh, I say truly!
“Then the dire pain will rend no more
These brows of mine,
And the face bathed in tears before
Will smile and shine.
These brows of mine,
And the face bathed in tears before
Will smile and shine.
“My sire mislikes our love; is cold
And cruel often:
’Twere naught to you, fair Saints of gold,
His heart to soften.
And cruel often:
’Twere naught to you, fair Saints of gold,
His heart to soften.
“Howe’er so hard the olive grow,
’Tis mollified
By all the winds that alway blow
At Advent-tide.
’Tis mollified
By all the winds that alway blow
At Advent-tide.
“The medlar and the service-plum,
So sharp to taste
When gathered, strewn on straw become
A pleasant feast.
So sharp to taste
When gathered, strewn on straw become
A pleasant feast.
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
. . . . . . . . . .
“Oh, what can mean this dazzling light?
The church is riven
O’erhead; the vault with stars is bright.
Can this be heaven?
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
. . . . . . . . . .
“Oh, what can mean this dazzling light?
The church is riven
O’erhead; the vault with stars is bright.
Can this be heaven?
“Oh, who so happy now as I?
The Saints, my God,—
The shining Saints,—toward me fly,
Down yon bright road!
The Saints, my God,—
The shining Saints,—toward me fly,
Down yon bright road!
“O blessed patrons, are you there
To help, to stay me?
Yet hide the dazzling crowns you wear,
Or these will slay me.
To help, to stay me?
Yet hide the dazzling crowns you wear,
Or these will slay me.
“Veil in a cloud the light appalling!
My eyes are heavy.
Where is the chapel? Are you calling?
O Saints, receive me!”
My eyes are heavy.
Where is the chapel? Are you calling?
O Saints, receive me!”
So, in a trance and past all earthly feeling,
The stricken girl upon the pavement kneeling,
With pleading hands, and head thrown backward, cried.
Her large and lovely eyes were opened wide,
As she beyond the veil of flesh discerned
St. Peter’s gates, and for the glory yearned.
The stricken girl upon the pavement kneeling,
With pleading hands, and head thrown backward, cried.
Her large and lovely eyes were opened wide,
As she beyond the veil of flesh discerned
St. Peter’s gates, and for the glory yearned.
Mute were her lips now; but her face yet shone,
And wrapped in glorious contemplation
She seemed. So, when the gold-red rays of dawn
Early alight the poplar-tips upon,
The flickering night-lamp turneth pale and wan
In the dim chamber of a dying man.
And wrapped in glorious contemplation
She seemed. So, when the gold-red rays of dawn
Early alight the poplar-tips upon,
The flickering night-lamp turneth pale and wan
In the dim chamber of a dying man.
And, as at daybreak, also, flocks arouse
From slumber and disperse, the sacred house
Appeared to open, all its vaulted roof
To part, and pillars tall to stand aloof,
Before the three fair women,—heavenly fair,—
Who on a starry path came down the air.
From slumber and disperse, the sacred house
Appeared to open, all its vaulted roof
To part, and pillars tall to stand aloof,
Before the three fair women,—heavenly fair,—
Who on a starry path came down the air.
White in the ether pure, and luminous,
Came the three Maries out of heaven thus.
One of them clasped an alabaster vase
Close to her breast, and her celestial face
In splendour had that star alone for peer
That beams on shepherds when the nights are clear.
Came the three Maries out of heaven thus.
One of them clasped an alabaster vase
Close to her breast, and her celestial face
In splendour had that star alone for peer
That beams on shepherds when the nights are clear.
The next came with a palm in her hand holden,
And the wind lifting her long hair and golden.
The third was young, and wound a mantle white
About her sweet brown visage; and the light
Of her dark eyes, under their falling lashes,
Was greater than a diamond’s when it flashes.
And the wind lifting her long hair and golden.
The third was young, and wound a mantle white
About her sweet brown visage; and the light
Of her dark eyes, under their falling lashes,
Was greater than a diamond’s when it flashes.
So, nearer to the mourner drew these three,
And leaned above, and spake consolingly.
And bright and tender were the smiles that wreathed
Their lips, and soft the message that they breathed.
They made the thorns of cruel martyrdom,
That pierced Mirèio, into flowers bloom.
And leaned above, and spake consolingly.
And bright and tender were the smiles that wreathed
Their lips, and soft the message that they breathed.
They made the thorns of cruel martyrdom,
That pierced Mirèio, into flowers bloom.
✠
“Be of good cheer, thou poor Mirèio;
For we are they men call the Saints of Baux,—
The Maries of Judæa: and we three—
Be of good cheer!—we watch the stormy sea,
Whereby we succour many a craft distresst;
For the wild waves are still at our behest.
For we are they men call the Saints of Baux,—
The Maries of Judæa: and we three—
Be of good cheer!—we watch the stormy sea,
Whereby we succour many a craft distresst;
For the wild waves are still at our behest.
“Look up along St. James’s path in air!
A moment since we stood together there,
At the celestial end thereof, remote,
And, gazing through the clustered stars, took note
How faithful souls to Campoustello throng
To seek the dear Saint’s tomb, and worship long.
A moment since we stood together there,
At the celestial end thereof, remote,
And, gazing through the clustered stars, took note
How faithful souls to Campoustello throng
To seek the dear Saint’s tomb, and worship long.
“And, with the tune of falling fountains blending,
We heard the solemn litanies ascending
From pilgrims gathered in the fields at even,
And pealing of church-bells, and glory given
Unto our son and nephew, by his names
Of Spain’s apostle and the greater James.
We heard the solemn litanies ascending
From pilgrims gathered in the fields at even,
And pealing of church-bells, and glory given
Unto our son and nephew, by his names
Of Spain’s apostle and the greater James.
“Then were we glad of all the pious vows
Paid to his memory; and, on the brows
Of those poor pilgrims, dews of peace shed we,
And their souls flooded with serenity;
When, suddenly, thy warm petition came,
And seemed to smite us like a jet of flame.
Paid to his memory; and, on the brows
Of those poor pilgrims, dews of peace shed we,
And their souls flooded with serenity;
When, suddenly, thy warm petition came,
And seemed to smite us like a jet of flame.
“Dear child, thy faith is great; yet thy request
Our pitying hearts right sorely hath opprest.
For thou wouldst drink the waters of pure love,
Or ever to its source thee Death remove,
The bliss we have in God himself to share.
Hast thou, then, seen contentment anywhere
Our pitying hearts right sorely hath opprest.
For thou wouldst drink the waters of pure love,
Or ever to its source thee Death remove,
The bliss we have in God himself to share.
Hast thou, then, seen contentment anywhere
“On earth? Is the rich blest, who softly lies,
And in his haughty heart his God denies,
And cares not for his fellow-man at all?
Thou knowest the leech when it is gorged will fall,
And he before the judgment-seat must pass
Of One who meekly rode upon an ass.
And in his haughty heart his God denies,
And cares not for his fellow-man at all?
Thou knowest the leech when it is gorged will fall,
And he before the judgment-seat must pass
Of One who meekly rode upon an ass.
“Is the young mother happy to impart
Unto her baby, with a swelling heart,
The first warm jet of milk? One bitter drop,
Mingled therewith, may poison all her hope.
Now see her lean, distraught, the cradle over,
And a fair little corse with kisses cover.
Unto her baby, with a swelling heart,
The first warm jet of milk? One bitter drop,
Mingled therewith, may poison all her hope.
Now see her lean, distraught, the cradle over,
And a fair little corse with kisses cover.
“And hath she happiness, the promised bride,
Wandering churchward by her lover’s side?
Ah, no! The path under those lingering feet
Thornier shall prove, to those who travel it,
Than sloe-bush of the moorland. Here below
Are only trial sharp and weary woe.
Wandering churchward by her lover’s side?
Ah, no! The path under those lingering feet
Thornier shall prove, to those who travel it,
Than sloe-bush of the moorland. Here below
Are only trial sharp and weary woe.
“And here below the purest waters ever
Are bitter on the lips of the receiver;
The worm is born within the fruit alway;
And all things haste to ruin and decay.
The orange thou hast chosen, out of all
The basket’s wealth, shall one day taste as gall.
Are bitter on the lips of the receiver;
The worm is born within the fruit alway;
And all things haste to ruin and decay.
The orange thou hast chosen, out of all
The basket’s wealth, shall one day taste as gall.
“And in thy world, Mirèio, they who seem
To breathe, sigh only. And should any dream
Of drinking at the founts that run not dry,
Anguish alone such bitter draught will buy.
So must the stone be broken evermore,
Ere thou extract the shining silver ore.
To breathe, sigh only. And should any dream
Of drinking at the founts that run not dry,
Anguish alone such bitter draught will buy.
So must the stone be broken evermore,
Ere thou extract the shining silver ore.
“Happy is he who cares for others’ woe,
And toils for men, and wearies only so;
From his own shoulders tears their mantle warm,
Therein to fold some pale and shivering form;
Is lowly with the lowly, and can waken
Fire-light on cold hearths of the world-forsaken.
And toils for men, and wearies only so;
From his own shoulders tears their mantle warm,
Therein to fold some pale and shivering form;
Is lowly with the lowly, and can waken
Fire-light on cold hearths of the world-forsaken.
“Hark to the sovereign word, of man forgot,
‘Death too is Life;’ and happy is the lot
Of the meek soul and simple,—he who fares
Quietly heavenward, wafted by soft airs;
And lily-white forsakes this low abode,
Where men have stoned the very saints of God.
‘Death too is Life;’ and happy is the lot
Of the meek soul and simple,—he who fares
Quietly heavenward, wafted by soft airs;
And lily-white forsakes this low abode,
Where men have stoned the very saints of God.
“And if, Mirèio, thou couldst see before thee,
As we from empyrean heights of glory,
This world; and what a sad and foolish thing
Is all its passion for the perishing,
Its churchyard terrors,—then, O lambkin sweet,
Mayhap thou wouldst for death and pardon bleat!
As we from empyrean heights of glory,
This world; and what a sad and foolish thing
Is all its passion for the perishing,
Its churchyard terrors,—then, O lambkin sweet,
Mayhap thou wouldst for death and pardon bleat!
“But, ere the wheat-ear hath its feathery birth,
Ferments the grain within the darksome earth,—
Such ever is the law; and even we,
Before we wore our crowns of majesty,
Drank bitter draughts. Therefore, thy soul to stay,
We’ll tell the pains and perils of our way.”
Ferments the grain within the darksome earth,—
Such ever is the law; and even we,
Before we wore our crowns of majesty,
Drank bitter draughts. Therefore, thy soul to stay,
We’ll tell the pains and perils of our way.”
Paused for a moment, then, the holy three.
The waves, being fain to listen, coaxingly
Had flocked along the ocean sand; the pines
Unto the rustling water-weeds made signs;
And teal and gull beheld, with deep amaze,
Peace on the restless heart of Vacarès;
The waves, being fain to listen, coaxingly
Had flocked along the ocean sand; the pines
Unto the rustling water-weeds made signs;
And teal and gull beheld, with deep amaze,
Peace on the restless heart of Vacarès;
The sun and moon, afar the desert o’er,
Bow their great crimson foreheads, and adore;
And all Camargue—salt-sown, forsaken isle—
Seems thrilled with sacred expectation; while
The saints, to hearten for her mortal strife
Love’s martyr, tell the story of their life.
Bow their great crimson foreheads, and adore;
And all Camargue—salt-sown, forsaken isle—
Seems thrilled with sacred expectation; while
The saints, to hearten for her mortal strife
Love’s martyr, tell the story of their life.