“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.