Upon a smooth and rockless strand
Alleluiah! our ship doth land.
Prostrate we fall on the wet sand, crying:
“Our lives, that He from storm did save,
Here are they ready, Death to brave,
And preach the law that once He gave,
O Christ, we swear it, even dying!”
At that glad name, most glorious still,
Noble Provence seemed all a-thrill;
Forest and moor throughout their being
Were stirred and answered that new cry;
As when a dog, his master nigh,
Goes out to meet him joyfully,
And welcome gives, the master seeing.
The sea some shells to shore had cast ...
Thou gav’st a feast to our long fast—
Our Father, Thou who art in Heaven;
And for our thirst, a fountain clear
Rose limpid ’mid the sea-plants here;
And, marvellous, still rises near
The church where we were burial given.
(Trans. Alma Strettell.)
CHAPTER XV
JEAN ROUSSIÈRE
“Good morning, Mr. Frédéric. They tell me that you have need of a man on the farm.”
“Yes—from whence comest thou?”
“From Villeneuve, the country of the ‘lizards’—near to Avignon.”
“And what canst thou do?”
“A little of everything. I have been helper at the oil mills, muleteer, carrier, labourer, miller, shearer, mower if necessary, wrestler on occasions, pruner of poplars, a high-class trade, and even cleaner of sewers, which is the lowest of all!”