Lit are the tapers, and, in violet stole
Begirt, the priest, to stay the passing soul,
Lays angel’s bread to those dry lips of hers,
And the last unction so administers;
Then of her body the seven parts anoints
With holy oil, as holy church appoints.
The hour was calm. Upon the tiles no word
Save the oremus of the priest was heard.
The last red shaft of the declining day
Struck on the wall and passed, and heaven turned gray.
The sea’s long waves came slowly up the shore,
Brake with a murmur soft, and were no more.
Beside the maid knelt father, mother, lover,
And hoarsely sobbed at intervals above her;
Till once again her lips moved, and she spake;
“Now is the parting close at hand! So take
My hand, and press it quickly, dears. Lo, now
The glory grows on either Mary’s brow!
“The pink flamingoes flock from the Rhone shore,
The tamarisks in blossom all adore.
The dear Saints beckon me to them,” she said.
“They tell me I need never be afraid:
They know the constellations of the skies;
Their bark will take us quick to Paradise!”
“My little pet,” said Ramoun, quite undone,
“You will not go, and leave the home so lone!
Why have I felled my oaks with such ado?
The zeal that nerved me only came of you.
If the hot sun on sultry glebe o’ertook me,
I thought of you, and heat and thirst forsook me.”
“Dear father, if a moth shall sometime fly
About your lamp at night, that will be I.
But see! the Saints are standing on the prow!
They wait. I’m coming in a moment now!
Slowly I move, good Saints, for I am ailing.”
“It is too much!” the mother brake out, wailing.
“Oh, stay with me! I cannot let you die.
And, when you’re well, Mirèio, by and by
We’ll go some day to Aunt Aurano’s, dear,
And carry pomegranates. Do you hear?
Maiano is not distant from our home;
And, in one day, one may both go and come.”
“Not very distant, mother,—that I know;
But all alone thou wilt the journey go!
Now give me my white raiment, mother mine.
Oh, how the mantles of the Maries shine!
Sawest thou ever such a dazzling sight?
The snow upon the hillsides is less white!”
“O thou,” cried the dark weaver, “who didst ope
The palace of thy love to me, my hope,
My queen, my all! A blossoming alms thou gavest;
The mire of my low life in thine thou lavest,
Till it shines like a mirror, and dost place
Me in eternal honour by thy grace.
“Pearl of Provence! of my young days the sun!
Shall it be ever said of such an one,
I saw upon her forehead the death-dew?
Shall it be said, puissant Saints, of you,
You looked unmoved upon her mortal pain,
Letting her clasp your sacred sill in vain?”