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.
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.
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,
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:
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.
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:—
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
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!
“I am so young, dear Saints above,
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.