Mirèio, a Provençal Poem

by Frédéric Mistral

XIII.

A Martigau, mending his nets
One eve, made this ditty.
Our admiral bade us farewell,
And sought the great city.

Were they wroth with his glory up there at the court? Who can say?
But we saw our beloved commander no more from that day!

A timely ending thus the minstrel made,
Else the fast-coming tears his tale had stayed;
But for the labourers—they sat intent,
Mute all, with parted lips, and forward bent
As if enchanted. Even when he was done,
For a brief space they seemed to hearken on.

“And such were aye the songs,” said the old man,
“Sung in the good old days when Martha span.
Long-winded, maybe, and the tunes were queer.
But, youngsters, what of that? They suit my ear.
Your new French airs mayhap may finer be;
But no one understands the words, you see!”

Whereon the men, somewhat as in a dream,
From table rose, and to the running stream
They led their patient mules, six yoke in all.
The long vine-branches from a trellised wall
Waved o’er them waiting, and, from time to time,
Humming some fragment of the weaver’s rhyme.

Mirèio tarried, but not quite alone.
A social spirit had the little one,
And she and Vincen chatted happily.
Twas a fair sight, the two young heads to see
Meeting and parting, coming still and going
Like aster-flowers when merry winds are blowing.

“Now tell me, Vincen,” thus Mirèio,
“If oftentimes as you and Ambroi go
Bearing your burdens the wild country over,
Some haunted castle you do not discover,
Or joyous fête, or shining palace meet,
While the home-nest is evermore our seat.”

“’Tis even so, my lady, as you think.
Why, currants quench the thirst as well as drink!
What though we brave all weathers in our toil?
Sure, we have joys that rain-drops cannot spoil
The sun of noon beats fiercely on the head,
But there are wayside trees unnumberèd.

“And whenso’er return the summer hours,
And olive-trees are all bedecked with flowers,
We hunt the whitening orchards curiously,
Still following the scent, till we descry
In the hot noontide, by its emerald flash,
The tiny cantharis upon the ash.

“The shops will buy the same. Or off we tramp
And gather red-oak apples in the swamp,
Or beat the pond for leeches. Ah, that’s grand!
You need nor bait nor hook, but only stand
And strike the water, and then one by one
They come and seize your legs, and all is done.

“And thou wert never at Li Santo even!
Dear heart! The singing there must be like heaven.
’Tis there they bring the sick from all about
For healing; and the church is small, no doubt:
But, ah, what cries they lift! what vows they pay
To the great saints! We saw it one fête-day.

“It was the year of the great miracle.
My God, that was a sight! I mind it well.
A feeble boy, beautiful as Saint John,
Lay on the pavement, sadly calling on
The saints to give sight to his poor blind eyes,
And promising his pet lamb in sacrifice.

“‘My little lamb, with budding horns!’ he said,
‘Dear saints!’ How we all wept! Then from o’erhead
The blessed reliquaries came down slowly,
Above the throngèd people bending lowly,
And crying, ‘Come, great saints, mighty and good!
Come, save!’ The church was like a wind-swept wood.

“Then the godmother held the child aloft,
Who spread abroad his fingers pale and soft,
And passionately grasped the reliquaries
That held the bones of the three blessed Maries;
Just as a drowning man, who cannot swim,
Will clutch a plank the sea upheaves to him.

“And then, oh! then,—I saw it with these eyes,—
By faith illumined, the blind boy outcries,
‘I see the sacred relics, and I see
Grandmother all in tears! Now haste,’ said he,
‘My lambkin with the budding horns to bring
To the dear saints for a thank-offering!’

“But thou, my lady, God keep thee, I pray,
Handsome and happy as thou art to-day!
Yet if a lizard, wolf, or horrid snake
Ever should wound thee with its fang, betake
Thyself forthwith to the most holy saints,
Who cure all ills and hearken all complaints.”

So the hours of the summer evening passed.
Hard-by the big-wheeled cart its shadow cast
On the white yard. Afar arose and fell
The frequent tinkle of a little bell
In the dark marsh: a nightingale sang yonder;
An owl made dreamy, sorrowful rejoinder.

“Now, since the night is moonlit, so the mere
And trees are glorified, wilt thou not hear,”
The boy besought, “the story of a race
In which I hoped to win the prize?”—“Ah, yes!”
The little maiden sighed; and, more than glad,
Still gazed with parted lips upon the lad.

“Well, then, Mirèio, once at Nismes,” he said,
“They had foot-races on the esplanade;
And on a certain day a crowd was there
Collected, thicker than a shock of hair.
Some shoeless, coatless, hatless, were to run:
The others only came to see the fun.

“When all at once upon the scene appears
One Lagalanto, prince of foot-racers.
In all Provence, and even in Italy,
The fleetest-footed far behind left he.
Yes: Lagalanto, the great Marseillais,—
Thou wilt have heard his name before to-day.

“A leg, a thigh, he had would not look small
By John of Cossa’s, the great seneschal;
And in his dresser many a pewter plate,
With all his victories carved thereon in state;
And you’d have said, to see his scarfs, my lady,
A wainscot all festooned with rainbows had he.

“The other runners, of whate’er condition,
Threw on their clothes at this dread apparition:
The game was up when Lagalanto came.
Only one stout-limbed lad, Lou Cri by name,
Who into Nismes had driven cows that day,
Durst challenge the victorious Marseillais.

“Whereon, ‘Oh, bah!’ cried foolish little I
(Just think!—I only chanced to stand thereby),
‘I can run too!’ Forthwith they all surround me:
‘Run, then!’ Alas! my foolish words confound me;
For I had run with partridges alone,
And only the old oaks for lookers-on.

“But now was no escape. ‘My poor boy, hasten,’
Says Lagalanto, ‘and your latchets fasten.’
Well, so I did. And the great man meanwhile
Drew o’er his mighty muscles, with a smile,
A pair of silken hose, whereto were sewn
Ten tiny golden bells of sweetest tone.

“So ’twas we three. Each set between his teeth
A bit of willow, thus to save his breath;
Shook hands all round; then, one foot on the line,
Trembling and eager we await the sign
For starting. It is given. Off we fly;
We scour the plain like mad,—’tis you! ’tis I!

“Wrapped in a cloud of dust, with smoking hair,
We strain each nerve. Ah, what a race was there!
They thought we should have won the goal abreast,
Till I, presumptuous, sprang before the rest:
And that was my undoing; for I dropped
Pale, dying as it seemed. But never stopped

“The others. On, on, on, with steady gait,
Just like the pasteboard horses at Aix fête.
The famous Marseillais thought he must win
(They used to say of him he had no spleen);
But, ah! my lady, on that day of days,
He found his man,—Lou Cri of Mouriès.

“For now they pass beyond the gazing line,
And almost touch the goal. O beauty mine!
Couldst thou have seen Lou Cri leap forward then!
Never, I think, in mountain, park, or glen,
A stag, a hare, so fleet of foot you’d find.
Howled like a wolf the other, just behind.

“Lou Cri is victor!—hugs the post for joy.
Then all of Nismes comes flocking round the boy,
To learn the birthplace of this wondrous one.
The pewter plate is flashing in the sun,
The hautboys flourish, cymbals clang apace,
As he receives the guerdon of the race.”

“And Lagalanto?” asks Mirèio.
“Why, he upon the ground was sitting low,
Powdered with dust, the shifting folk among,
Clasping his knees. With shame his soul was wrung
And, with the drops that from his forehead fell,
Came tears of bitterness unspeakable.

“Lou Cri approached, and made a modest bow.
‘Brother, let’s to the ale-house arbour now,
Behind the amphitheatre. Why borrow,
Upon this festive day, tears for the morrow?
The money left we’ll drink together thus:
There’s sunshine yet enough for both of us.’

“Then trembling rose the runner of Marseilles,
And from his limbs made haste to tear away
The silken hose, the golden bells. ‘Here, lad!’
Raising his pallid face, ‘take them!’ he said.
‘I am grown old; youth decks thee like a swan;
So put the strong man’s gear with honour on.’

“He turned, stricken like an ash the storm bereaves
In summer-time of all its tower of leaves.
The king of runners vanished from the place;
And never more ran he in any race,
Nor even leaped on the inflated hide,
In games at Saint John’s or St. Peter’s tide.”

So Vincen told the story, waxing warm,
Of all he’d seen, before the Lotus Farm.
His cheeks grew red, his eyes were full of light;
He waved his hand to point his speech aright,—
Abundant was the same as showers in May
That fall upon a field of new-mown hay.

The crickets, chirruping amid the dew,
Paused more than once to listen. Often, too,
The bird of evening, the sweet nightingale,
Kept silence; thrilling so at Vincen’s tale,
As aye she harked her leafy perch upon,
She might have kept awake until the dawn.

“Oh, mother!” cried Mirèio, “surely never
Was weaver-lad so marvellously clever!
I love to sleep, dear, on a winter night;
But now I cannot,—it is all too light.
Ah, just one story more before we go,
For I could pass a lifetime listening so!”

CANTO II.
The Leaf-picking.

SING, magnarello, merrily,
As the green leaves you gather!
In their third sleep the silk-worms lie,
And lovely is the weather
Like brown bees that in open glades
From rosemary gather honey,
The mulberry-trees swarm full of maids,
Glad as the air is sunny!

It chanced one morn—it was May’s loveliest—
Mirèio gathered leaves among the rest.
It chanced, moreover, on that same May morning,
The little gypsy, for her own adorning,
Had cherries in her ears, for rings, suspended,
Just as our Vincen’s footsteps thither tended.

Like Latin seaside people everywhere,
He wore a red cap on his raven hair,
With a cock’s feather gayly set therein;
And, prancing onward, with a stick made spin
The flints from wayside stone-heaps, and set flying
The lazy adders in his pathway lying.

When suddenly, from the straight, leafy alley,
“Whither so fast?” a voice comes musically.
Mirèio’s. Vincen darts beneath the trees,
Looks up, and soon the merry maiden sees.
Perched on a mulberry-tree, she eyed the lad
Like some gray-crested lark, and he was glad.

“How then, Mirèio, comes the picking on?
Little by little, all will soon be done!
May I not help thee?”—“That were very meet,”
She said, and laughed upon her airy seat.
Sprang Vincen like a squirrel from the clover,
Ran nimbly up the tree, and said, moreover—

“Now since old Master Ramoun hath but thee,
Come down, I pray, and strip the lower tree!
I’ll to the top!” As busily the maiden
Wrought on, she murmured, “How the soul doth gladden
To have good company! There’s little joy
In lonely work!”—“Ay is there!” said the boy:

“For when in our old hut we sit alone,
Father and I, and only hear the Rhone
Rush headlong o’er the shingle, ’tis most drear!
Not in the pleasant season of the year,
For then upon our travels we are bound,
And trudge from farm to farm the country round.

“But when the holly-berries have turned red,
And winter comes, and nights are long,” he said,
“And sitting by the dying fire we catch
Whistle or mew of goblin at the latch;
And I must wait till bed-time there with him,
Speaking but seldom, and the room so dim,”—

Broke in the happy girl, unthinkingly,
“Ah! but your mother, Vincen, where is she?”
“Mother is dead.” The two were still awhile:
Then he, “But Vinceneto could beguile
The time when she was there. A little thing,
But she could keep the hut.”—“I’m wondering—

“You have a sister, Vincen?”—“That have I!
A merry lass and good,” was the reply:
“For down at Font-dou-Rèi, in Beaucaire,
Whither she went to glean, she was so fair
And deft at work that all were smitten by her;
And there she stays as servant by desire.”

“And you are like her?”—“Now that makes me merry.
Why, she is blonde, and I brown as a berry!
But wouldst thou know whom she is like, the elf?
Why, even like thee, Mirèio, thine own self!
Your two bright heads, with all their wealth of hair
Like myrtle-leaves, would make a perfect pair.

“But, ah! thou knowest better far to gather
The muslin of thy cap than doth the other!
My little sister is not plain nor dull,
But thou,—thou art so much more beautiful!”
“Oh, what a Vincen!” cried Mirèio,
And suddenly the half-culled branch let go.

Sing, magnarello, merrily,
As the green leaves you gather!
In their third sleep the silk-worms lie,
And lovely is the weather.
Like brown bees that in open glades
From rosemary gather honey,
The mulberry-trees swarm full of maids,
Glad as the air is sunny!

“And so you fancy I am fair to view,
Fairer than Vinceneto?” “That I do!”
“But what advantage have I more than she?”
“Mother divine!” he cried, impetuously,
“That of the goldfinch o’er the fragile wren—
Grace for the eye—song for the hearts of men

“What more? Ah, my poor sister! Hear me speak,—
Thou wilt not get the white out of the leek:
Her eyes are like the water of the sea,
Blue, clear—thine, black, and they flash gloriously.
And, O Mirèio! when on me they shine,
I seem to drain a bumper of cooked wine!

“My sister hath a silver voice and mellow,—
I love to hear her sing the Peirounello,—
But, ah! my sweet young lady, every word
Thou’st given me my spirit more hath stirred,
My ear more thrilled, my very heart-strings wrung,
More than a thousand songs divinely sung!

“With roaming all the pastures in the sun,
My little sister’s face and neck are dun
As dates; but thou, most fair one, I think well,
Art fashioned like the flowers of Asphodel.
So the bold Summer with his tawny hand
Dare not caress thy forehead white and bland.

“Moreover, Vinceneto is more slim
Than dragon-flies that o’er the brooklet skim.
Poor child! In one year grew she up to this;
But verily in thy shape is naught amiss.”
Again Mirèio, turning rosy red,
Let fall her branch, and “What a Vincen!” said.

Sing, magnarello, merrily,
The green leaves ever piling!
Two comely children sit on high,
Amid the foliage, smiling.
Sing, magnarello, loud and oft:
Your merry labour hasten.
The guileless pair who laugh aloft
Are learning love’s first lesson.

Cleared from the hills meanwhile the mists of morn,
And o’er the ruined towers, whither return
Nightly the grim old lords of Baux, they say;
And o’er the barren rocks ’gan take their way
Vultures, whose large, white wings are seen to gleam
Resplendent in the noontide’s burning beam.

Then cried the maiden, pouting, “We have done
Naught! Oh, shame to idle so! Some one
Said he would help me; and that some one still
Doth naught but talk, and make me laugh at will.
Work now, lest mother say I am unwary
And idle, and too awkward yet to marry!

“Ah! my brave friend, I think should one engage you
To pick leaves by the quintal, and for wage, you
Would all the same sit still and feast your eyes,
Handling the ready sprays in dreamy wise!”
Whereat the boy, a trifle disconcerted,
“And so thou takest me for a gawky!” blurted.

“We’ll see, my fair young lady,” added he,
“Which of us two the better picker be!”
They ply both hands now. With vast animation,
They bend and strip the branches. No occasion
For rest or idle chatter either uses
(The bleating sheep, they say, her mouthful loses),

Until the mulberry-tree is bare of leaves,
And these the ready sack at once receives,
At whose distended mouth—ah, youth is sweet!—
Mirèio’s pretty taper hand will meet
In strange entanglement that somehow lingers
That Vincen’s, with its brown and burning fingers.

Both started. In their cheeks the flush rose higher:
They felt the heat of some mysterious fire.
They dropped the mulberry-leaves as if afraid,
And, tremulous with passion, the boy said,—
“What aileth thee, my lady? answer me!
Did any hidden hornet dare sting thee?”

Well-nigh inaudible, with head bent low,
“I know not, Vincen,”—thus Mirèio.
And so they turned a few more leaves to gather,
And for a while spake not again, but rather
Exchanged bright looks and sidelong, saying well
The one who first should laugh, would break the spell.

Their hearts beat high, the green leaves fell like rain;
And, when the time for sacking came again,
Whether by chance or by contrivance, yet
The white hand and the brown hand always met.
Nor seemed there any lack of happiness
The while their labour failed not to progress.

Sing, magnarello, merrily,
As the green leaves you gather!
The sun of May is riding high,
And ardent is the weather.

Now suddenly Mirèio whispered, “Hark!
What can that be?” and listened like a lark
Upon a vine, her small forefinger pressing
Against her lip, and eager eyes addressing
To a bird’s nest upon a leafy bough,
Just opposite the one where she was now.

“Ah! wait a little while!” with bated breath,
So the young basket-weaver answereth,
And like a sparrow hopped from limb to limb
Toward the nest. Down in the tree-trunk dim,
Close peering through a crevice in the wood,
Full-fledged and lively saw he the young brood.

And, sitting firmly the rough bough astride,
Clung with one hand, and let the other glide
Into the hollow trunk. Above his head
Mirèio leaned with her cheeks rosy red.
“What sort?” she whispered from her covert shady.
“Beauties!”—“But what?”—“Blue tomtits, my young lady!”

Then laughed the maiden, and her laugh was gay:
“See, Vincen! Have you never heard them say
That when two find a nest in company,
On mulberry, or any other tree,
The Church within a year will join those two?
And proverbs, father says, are always true.”

“Yea,” quoth the lad; “but do not thou forget
That this, our happy hope, may perish yet,
If all the birdies be not caged forthwith.”
“Jesu divine!” the maiden murmureth:
“Put them by quickly! It concerns us much
Our birdies should be safe from alien touch.”

“Why, then, the very safest place,” said he,
“Methinks, Mirèio, would thy bodice be!”
“Oh, surely!” So the lad explores the hollow,
His hand withdrawing full of tomtits callow.
Four were they; and the maid in ecstacy
Cries “Mon Dieu!” and lifts her hands on high.

“How many! What a pretty brood it is!
There! There, poor darlings, give me just one kiss!”
And, lavishing a thousand fond caresses,
Tenderly, carefully, the four she presses
Inside her waist, obeying Vincen’s will;
While he, “Hold out thy hands! there are more still!”

“Oh sweet! The little eyes in each blue head
Are sharp as needles,” as Mirèio said
Softly, three more of the wee brood she pressed
Into their smooth, white prison with the rest,
Who, when bestowed within that refuge warm,
Thought they were in their nest and safe from harm.

“Are there more, Vincen?”—“Ay!” he answered her.
“Then, Holy Virgin! you’re a sorcerer!”
“Thou simple maid! About St. George’s day,
Ten, twelve, and fourteen eggs, these tomtits lay.
Ay, often. Now let these the others follow!
They are the last: so good-bye, pretty hollow!”

But ere the words were spoken, and the maid
In her flowered neckerchief had fairly laid
Her little charge, she gave a piercing wail:
“Oh me! oh me!” then murmured, and turned pale;
And, laying both her hands upon her breast,
Moaned, “I am dying!” and was sore distressed,

And could but weep: “Ah, they are scratching me!
They sting! Come quickly, Vincent, up the tree!”
For on the last arrival had ensued
Wondrous commotion in the hidden brood;
The fledglings latest taken from the nest
Had sore disorder wrought among the rest.

Because within so very small a valley
All could not lie at ease, so must they gayly
Scramble with claw and wing down either slope,
And up the gentle hills, thus to find scope:
A thousand tiny somersets they turn,
A thousand pretty rolls they seem to learn.

And “Ah, come quick!” is still the maiden’s cry,
Trembling like vine-spray when the wind is high,
Or like a heifer stung with cattle-flies.
And, as she bends and writhes in piteous wise,
Leaps Vincen upward till he plants his feet
Once more beside her on her airy seat.

Sing, magnarello, heap your leaves,
While sunny is the weather!
He comes to aid her when she grieves:
The two are now together.

“‘Thou likest not this tickling?” kindly said he.
“What if thou wert like me, my gentle lady,
And hadst to wander barefoot through the nettles?”
So proffering his red sea-cap, there he settles
Fast as she draws them from her neckerchief
The birdies, to Mirèio’s vast relief.

Yet ah, poor dear, the downcast eyes of her!
She dares not look at her deliverer
For a brief space. But soon a smile ensues,
And the tears vanish, as the morning dews
That drench the flowers and grass at break of day
Roll into little pearls and pass away.

And then there came a fresh catastrophe:
The branch whereon they sat ensconced in glee
Snapped, broke asunder, and with ringing shriek
Mirèio flung her arms round Vincen’s neck,
And he clasped hers, and they whirled suddenly
Down through the leaves upon the supple rye.

Listen, wind of the Greek, wind of the sea,
And shake no more the verdant canopy!
Hush for one moment, O thou childish breeze!
Breathe soft and whisper low, beholding these!
Give them a little time to dream of bliss,—
To dream at least, in such a world as this!

Thou too, swift streamlet of the prattling voice,
Peace, prithee! In this hour, make little noise
Among the vocal pebbles of thy bed!
Ay, little noise! Because two souls have sped
To one bright region. Leave them there, to roam
Over the starry heights,—their proper home!

A moment, and she struggled to be free
From his embrace. The flower of the quince-tree
Is not so pale. Then backward the two sank,
And gazed at one another on the bank,
Until the weaver’s son the silence brake,
And thus in seeming wrath arose and spake:

“Shame on thee, thou perfidious mulberry!
A devil’s tree! A Friday-planted tree!
Blight seize and wood-louse eat thee! May thy master
Hold thee in horror for this day’s disaster!
Tell me thou art not hurt, Mirèio!”
Trembling from head to foot, she answered, “No:

“I am not hurt; but as a baby weeps
And knows not why,—there’s something here that keeps
Perpetual tumult in my heart. A pain
Blinds me and deafens me, and fills my brain,
So that my blood in a tumultuous riot
Courses my body through, and won’t be quiet.”

“May it not be,” the simple boy replied,
“Thou fearest to have thy mother come and chide
Thy tardy picking,—as when I come back
Late from the blackberry-field with face all black,
And tattered clothes?” Mirèio sighed again,
“Ah, no! This is another kind of pain!”

“Or possibly a sun-stroke may have lighted
Upon thee!” And the eager Vincen cited
An ancient crone among the hills of Baux,
Taven by name, “who on the forehead,—so,—
A glass of water sets: the ray malign
The dazed brain for the crystal will resign.”

“Nay, nay!” impetuously the maiden cried,
“Floods of May sunshine never terrified
The girls of Crau. Why should I hold you waiting?
Vincen, in vain my heart is palpitating!
My secret cannot bide a home so small:
I love you, Vincen, love you!—That is all!”

The river-banks, the close-pruned willows hoary,
Green grass and ambient air, hearing this story,
Were full of glee. But the poor basket-weaver,
“Princess, that thou who art so fair and clever,
Shouldst have a tongue given to wicked lying!
Why, it confounds me! It is stupefying!

“What! thou in love with me? Mirèio,
My poor life is yet happy. Do not go
And make a jest thereof! I might believe
Just for one moment, and thereafter grieve
My soul to death. Ah, no! my pretty maid,
Laugh no more at me in this wise!” he said.

“Now may God shut me out of Paradise,
Vincen, if I have ever told you lies!
Go to! I love you! Will that kill you, friend?
But if you will be cruel, and so send
Me from your side, ’tis I who will fall ill,
And at your feet lie low till sorrow kill!”

“No more! no more!” cried Vincen, desperately:
“There is a gulf ’twixt thee and me! The stately
Queen of the Lotus Farm art thou, and all
Bow at thy coming, hasten to thy call,
While I, a vagrant weaver, only wander,
Plying my trade from Valabrègo yonder.”

“What care I?” cried the fiery girl at once.
Sharp as a sheaf-binder’s came her response.
“May not my lover, then, a baron be,
Or eke a weaver, if he pleases me?
But if you will not have me pine away,
Why look so handsome, even in rags, I say?”

He turned and faced her. Ah, she was enchanting!
And as a charmèd bird falls dizzy, panting,
So he. “Mirèio, thou’rt a sorceress!
And I bedazzled by thy loveliness.
Thy voice, too, mounts into this head of mine,
And makes me like a man o’ercome with wine.

“Why, can it be, Mirèio? Seest thou not
Even now with thy embrace my brain is hot.
I am a pack-bearer, and well may be
A laughing-stock for evermore to thee,
But thou shalt have the truth, dear, in this hour:
I love thee, with a love that could devour!

“Wert thou to ask,—lo, love I thee so much!—
The golden goat, that ne’er felt mortal touch
Upon its udders, but doth only lick
Moss from the base of the precipitous peak
Of Baux,—I’d perish in the quarries there,
Or bring thee down the goat with golden hair!

“So much, that, if thou saidst, ‘I want a star,’
There is no stream so wild, no sea so far,
But I would cross; no headsman, steel or fire,
That could withhold me. Yea, I would climb higher
Than peaks that kiss the sky, that star to wrest;
And Sunday thou shouldst wear it on thy breast!

“O my Mirèio! Ever as I gaze,
Thy beauty fills me with a deep amaze.
Once, when by Vaucluse grotto I was going,
I saw a fig-tree in the bare rock growing;
So very spare it was, the lizards gray
Had found more shade beneath a jasmine spray.

“But, round about the roots, once every year
The neighbouring stream comes gushing, as I hear,
And the shrub drinks the water as it rises,
And that one drink for the whole year suffices.
Even as the gem is cut to fit the ring,
This parable to us is answering.

“I am the fig-tree on the barren mountain;
And thou, mine own, art the reviving fountain!
Surely it would suffice me, could I feel
That, once a year, I might before thee kneel,
And sun myself in thy sweet face, and lay
My lips unto thy fingers, as to-day!”

Trembling with love, Mirèio hears him out,
And lets him wind his arms her neck about
And clasp her as bewildered. Suddenly,
Through the green walk, quavers an old wife’s cry:
“How now, Mirèio? Are you coming soon?
What will the silk-worms have to eat at noon?”

As ofttimes, at the coming on of night,
A flock of sparrows on a pine alight
And fill the air with joyous chirruping,
Yet, if a passing gleaner pause and fling
A stone that way, they to the neighbouring wood,
By terror winged, their instant flight make good;

So, with a tumult of emotion thrilled,
Fled the enamoured two across the field.
But when, her leaves upon her head, the maid
Turned silently toward the farm, he stayed,—
Vincen,—and breathless watched her in her flight
Over the fallow, till she passed from sight.

CANTO III.
The Cocooning.

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:—