“Doth all this tumult, comrades, bode disaster?”
Appealed the brander, growing pale as plaster.
“And will you drown me?” Brake the pilot out,
“I cannot hold the craft! She springs about
And wriggles like a carp. Villain, I know
You’ve murdered some one, and not long ago!”
“Who told you that? May Satan if I have
Thrust me with his pitch-fork beneath the wave.”
“Ah!” said the livid pilot, “then I err!
I had forgot the cause of all this stir.
’Tis Saint Medard’s to-night, when poor drowned men
Come from their dismal pits to land again,
“How deep and dark soe’er their watery prison.
Look! Even now hath from the wave arisen
The long procession of the weeping dead!
Barefoot, poor things! the shingly shore they tread,
The turbid water dripping, dripping, see,
From matted hair and stained clothes heavily.
“See them defile under the poplars tall,
Carrying lighted tapers, one and all.
While up the river’s bank, now and anon,
Eagerly clambereth another one.
’Tis they who toss our wretched craft about
So like a raging storm, I make no doubt.
“Their cramped legs and their mottled arms—ah, see!—
And heavy heads they from the weeds would free.
Oh, how they watch the stars as on they go,
Quaff the fresh air and thrill at sight of Crau,
And scent the harvest odours the winds bring,
In their brief hour of motion revelling!
“And still the water from their garments raineth,
And still another and another gaineth
The river-bank. And there,” the boatman moans,
“Are the old men, women, and little ones:
They spurn the clinging mud. Ah me!” he said,
“Yon ghastly things abhor the fisher’s trade.
“The lamprey and the perch they made their game,
And now are they become food for the same.
But what is this? Another piteous band,
Travelling in a line along the sand?
Ah, yes! the poor deserted maids,” quoth he,
“Who asked the Rhone for hospitality,
“And sought to hide their shame in the great river.
Alas! alas! They seem to moan for ever.
And, oh, how painfully, fond hearts, ill fated,
Labour the bosoms by the dank weeds weighted!
Is it the water dripping that one hears
From their long veils of hair, or is it tears?”
He ceased. The wending souls bare each a light,
Intently following in the silent night
The river-shore. And those two listening
Might even have heard the whirr of a moth’s wing.
“Are they not, pilot,” asked the awe-struck brander,
“Seeking somewhat in the gloom where they wander?”
“Ah, yes, poor things!” the master-boatman said.
“See how from side to side is turned each head.
’Tis their good works they seek,—their acts of faith
Sown upon earth ere their untimely death.
And when they spy the same, ’tis said moreover,
They haste thereto, as haste the sheep to clover,
“The good work or the act of faith to cull.
And when of such as these their hands are full,
Lo, they all turn to flowers! And they who gather
Go tender them with joy to God the Father,
Being by the flowers to Peter’s gate conveyed.
Thus those who find a watery grave,” he said,