If
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MIRfilO
 
 Pour eviter toute conlrefacon , chaque exemplaire est 
 rev6tu de la signature du traducteur. 
 
 ^-^^::^>tI^z!^^ 
 
 AVIGNON. - IMPRIMERIE GROS FRERES, RUE GELINE.
 
 AN 
 
 ENGLISH VERSION 
 
 (the original crowned by the French Academy) 
 
 OF 
 
 M-- FREDERIC MISTRAL'S 
 
 MIREIO 
 
 FROM THE ORIGINAL PROVENCAL 
 
 UNDER THE author's SANCTION 
 
 - 9 9. U? P p ^ 
 
 AVIGNON 
 J. ROtMAMLlE, Libraire-Edileur. 
 
 MARSEILLE 
 CAMOIN, Libraire. 
 
 PARIS 
 
 A.i\V.GALlG.\AJil, ruedeRi>oli. 
 
 NICE 
 VISCONTI, Libraire. 
 
 AVIGNON, OECEMBEU, 
 
 d SG-r
 
 PC 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The original of this work was published by 
 the author, M^ Frederic Mistral, in Septem- 
 ber 1859, and his fourth edition appeared 
 within three years after. He has since been 
 engaged on another, entitled Calendau, which 
 came out in January last, and has been re- 
 viewed by the Paris press with perhaps equal 
 praise, though certainly not the enthusiasm 
 with which Mireio was greeted. The I^evue 
 des deux mondes of the 1*' April of this year 
 with reference to Mireio says : 
 
 « Our readers will not have forgotten the 
 sensation excited by M^ Frederic Mistral's 
 Mireio some eight years ago. *** It was greeted 
 with tumultuous applause. It was primitive 
 poesy ! It was inspiration from the fountain 
 
 919999
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 head! *** Ah! certes if we examine M^ Mis- 
 tral's work carefully, how many skilful com- 
 binations, what ingenious artifices, do we not 
 discover ! His originality however consists not 
 in these: an industrious arranger he is, and a 
 philological poet ; but besides he has verily the 
 sense of things primitive, a taste for the simple 
 and the grand. The nature of which he imbi- 
 bed the milk was a strong one evidently \ and 
 his heroes who are shepherds, cattle-breakers 
 and branders, keepers of wild horses (and the 
 like), assume proportions under his hand truly 
 epic. Mireio, Vincen (her lover), Ourrias, Alari, 
 are henceforth types to which the Arlesian 
 bard has set his seal. « 
 
 Athough the translator cannot hope that 
 his version of Mireio will give the same degree 
 of pleasure as that derived from reading the 
 poet in his own language, still he hopes it 
 will give pleasure of the same kind, notwith- 
 standing any inferiority in strength and spirit 
 of his English to the Provencal. 
 
 1. On voit qu'il a suc6 le lait d'une forte nature.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To Lamartine 
 
 To you 1 dedicate Mireio : 
 
 'Tis my heart and soul; 
 
 It is the flower of my years; 
 
 It is a hunch of Crau grapes, 
 
 Which with all its leaves a peasant brings you. 
 
 Mistral. 
 
 Maillane (Bouclies-du-Rhune), S"- September <859.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO 1 
 
 THE FALABREGO-MAS 
 
 A Provence 2 maid I sing, 
 
 Whom through the love-tale of her youth, the corn, 
 
 Across La Grau^, far as the sea, 
 
 I mean to follow, as an humble pupil 
 
 Of great Homer. Being but a daughter 
 
 Of the soil she, beyond La Crau, 
 
 Was little known. 
 
 What though youth's halo only decked her brow! 
 
 What though she wore 
 
 No diadem of gold or damask cloak! 
 
 I'll have her raised to glory like a Queen, 
 
 And honored in our own despised tongne; 
 
 For 'tis for you we sing, 
 
 shepherds and /nax-d welling folk.
 
 Z I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 Thou, Lord God of my country, 
 
 Who wast lowly among shepherds born, 
 
 With words of flame inspire me! 
 
 Thou knowest that amid the verdure, 
 
 In the sunshine, and at dew-fall. 
 
 When the figs are ripening, comes greedy 
 
 Wolfish man and quite despoils the tree. 
 
 But on the tree that he despoils 
 
 Some branch thou always raisest, 
 
 Tender, airy, which insatiate man 
 
 Cannot attain to ; 
 
 Odorous and virginal. 
 
 With Magdalen-ripe '' fruit, to which the birds 
 
 Will come their hunger to appease. 
 
 I see it now, the little branch: 
 
 Its freshness is provoking ! yea, I see it 
 
 By the light breeze stirred and waving 
 
 In mid-air its foliage and immortal fruit. 
 
 Bright God ! God friendly ! help me on the wings 
 
 Of our Provencal tongue to reach 
 
 The branch aerial sacred to the birds ! 
 
 Among the willows by the river-side, 
 
 •The Rhone with poplars bordered, 
 
 In a poor damp mouldy hut, 
 
 A basket-weaver dwelt. 
 
 Who, with his son 
 
 At times went round from mas to mas, 
 
 And patched old cribs and baskets full of holes.
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. d 
 
 One day as with their ozier-bundles shouldered 
 
 They were on their rounds, 
 
 Look at the sun ! cries Vincen, 
 
 Father, look at Magalouno ^ ! 
 
 How the clouds suj-round it ! 
 
 If the rampart should come down, 
 
 We'll catch it, father, ere we reach the mas. 
 
 Oh! that's the vent-larg^ rustling the leaves: 
 
 No, no, we shan't have rain, 
 
 The old man answered. Ah ! if 'I were the Rau ^ 
 
 It would be dillerent. Father, have they many 
 
 Ploughs at labor at the Falabrego? 
 
 Six, replied the basket-man. 
 
 Ah! that's the finest freehold in La Grau. 
 
 There, that's their olive-orchard ! 
 
 Interspersed with rows of vine and almond-trees. 
 
 The beauty of it is, 
 
 (And there are not two like it on the coast. 
 
 The beauty of it is,) it has as many walks 
 
 As the whole year has days ; and though there be 
 
 So many walks, in each there are as many trees. 
 
 Why, caspitello » ! Vincen cried, 
 
 How many pickers they must need 
 
 To strip so many tr^es. Oh' that's all cared for : 
 
 Hallowmas is coming ; the Bausscnco ' girls 
 
 Will quickly till you sheets "* and sacks 
 
 With olives green and purple. Many more 
 
 They'd gather, singuig all the time.
 
 4 I, THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 While Master Ambroi talked 
 
 The sun behind the hills descended, 
 
 Tinting the light clouds with glowing hues. 
 
 The laborers were coming slowly 
 
 To their evening meal upon their yoked beasts 
 
 Sitting side-ways, with their goads erect. 
 
 The shades of night were low'ring on the distant moor. 
 
 I see their straw-heap on the treading-floor : 
 
 We're at the refuge, father ; 
 
 Gome along! cried Vincen. 
 
 But the old man noticed, 
 
 Here's the place for thriving sheep ! 
 
 In summer they've the pine-wood, and in winter 
 
 The vast plain. They've, hou ^' ! plenty here. 
 
 And see the large trees there to shade the tiles ; 
 
 And that delicious spring the vivary 
 
 Supplying ; and the bees, 
 
 That every Autumn plunders, 
 
 Yet as soon as May awakes 
 
 The falabrego-irees encumber 
 
 With a hundred swarms. 
 
 Oh! then, in all the earth, 
 
 Here interrupted Vincen, 
 
 Father, what most charms me is 
 
 The ww6-maid's self. If thou '^ remember, father, 
 
 She last summer ordered of us 
 
 Two new olive-picker's baskets, and moreover 
 
 Got us to put handles to her little hand one.
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. Ti 
 
 Talking on together thus 
 
 They reached the door. 
 
 The maid had just leaves given to her silkworms. 
 
 Now upon the door-step, in the dew, 
 
 Distal! in hand, she stood. Good evening 
 
 To the company ! the basket- we aver, 
 
 Lowering his oziers, said. 
 
 The same to thee, returned the maid 
 
 To Master Ambroi. 
 
 I am threading this, 
 
 My distaff's point, you see. How late you are ! 
 
 Where arc you from ? From Valabrego *'^ ? 
 
 Even so : it's late, we said, the Falabrego 
 
 Are at hand; we'll sleep upon their straw-heap. 
 
 After which, without more words. 
 
 The weaver and his son 
 
 Upon a roller went and sat. 
 
 And set to work at once 
 
 Upon a cradle 
 
 Which already was begun. 
 
 And bent and crossed the supple ozier. 
 
 Gertes, in face and figure 
 
 Vinccn was a fine lad; 
 
 Hardly sixteen, cheeks 
 
 As swarthy as you choose; 
 
 But darkish land is known to yield 
 
 The finest wheat, and black grapes 
 
 Make the wine that sets all dancing.
 
 6 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 How the ozier is prepared 
 
 And worked up, thoroughly he knew. 
 
 Not that on fine work 
 
 Usually hi wrought; but mostly 
 
 Panniers made for hjasls of burden, 
 
 And whatever needed was in farmsteads, 
 
 Such as rough, or neat and handy, baskets, 
 
 Split cane baskets, 
 
 Brooms of millet-grass, and many more 
 Such like ; all ar icles of ready sale. 
 He made Hum neatly, strong, 
 And quickly, with a master's hand. 
 But from the waste and fallow land 
 The laborers already had returned; 
 
 Already out of doors 
 
 The gentle maiden of the mas, Mireio, 
 
 Had the platter set upon the table of stone ; 
 
 Already were the servants of the farm 
 
 Their wooden ladlss 
 
 Plunging into the capacious dish. 
 
 Meanwhile the old man and his son weaved on. 
 
 Then Master Ramoun, owner of the mas, 
 
 Ejaculated in his rather peevish tone, 
 
 How! Master Ambroi, 
 
 Not to supper coming ? 
 
 Tut, man, put away the crib ; the stars are out. 
 
 Mireio, fetch a bowl. 
 
 Now come to supper for you must be tired.
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 7 
 
 Let's go, the basket-weaver said, 
 And to a corner of the table 
 They repaired and cut some bread. 
 Mireio, graceful and alert, 
 With olive-oil seasoned them 
 A. dish of beans, 
 And running brought it them. 
 
 Mireio wasn't quite fifteen. 
 
 Blue coasts of Font-Vieio ^\ 
 
 You Baussenco hills, and you Gran plains, 
 
 Have never since seen one so fair ! 
 
 The cheery sun had hatched her ! 
 
 And her fresh ingenuous face 
 
 A dimple on it had on either cheek. 
 
 Her look, as limpid as the dew-drop, 
 
 Banished sorrow; 
 
 Of the stars the rays 
 
 Less soft were and less pure; 
 
 Her bright black tresses fell about in wavy curls ; 
 
 A double peach, not yet quite ripe, 
 
 Her rounded bosom seemed. 
 
 And somewhat shy; 
 
 Yet merry, laughter loving. 
 
 In a glass of water, ah! me. 
 
 Seeing so much beauty, you'd have drunk her up ! 
 
 But to our tale. When every one, 
 
 As custom was, had spoken of his work, 
 
 As in my father's mas they used to, / ! i ! i! '*
 
 8 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 Has Master Ambroi got 
 
 No song to sing to us to-night? 
 
 They asked ; it seems this is the meal to sleep at ! 
 
 Peace, good friends, retorted the old man; 
 
 On him that jests God blows, 
 
 And makes him spin round like a top. 
 
 Lads, sing yourselves, you who are young and hearty. 
 
 Nay ! but we're not jesting. 
 
 Master Ambroi, said the laborers ; 
 
 But see ! the Grau wine 
 
 In your goblet's running over : 
 
 Drink it off w^ith us, good father. 
 
 Ah! rejoined the basket- weaver, in my youth 
 
 I was a singer; now, alas ! my, lyre is broken. '^ 
 
 Master Ambroi, urged Mireio, 
 
 Sing a song, please, 'twill enliven us. 
 
 The old man answered. Pretty maid. 
 
 There's nothing of my voice remaining but the husk ; 
 
 If that can please you, it is ready. 
 
 Whereon, after emptying his goblet, 
 
 He began this song : 
 
 Bailly Suffren commanded at sea; 
 
 At Toulon he had hoisted his flag; 
 
 And we sailed in all five hundred brave Provencaux. 
 
 We were longing the English to thrash ! 
 
 To our homes we would never return, 
 
 Till the Englishers utterly routed we'd seen.
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 5* 
 
 II 
 
 But, behold, the first month of our cruize 
 From the shrouds we could nothing perceive 
 But the flying of hundreds and hundreds of gulls. 
 In the second month of our dull cruize 
 Gertes a storm gave us trouble enough, 
 And we had to be baling out hard day and night. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In the third we were driven to madness, 
 
 Our blood boiled at finding no foe 
 
 For our thundering cannon to sweep from the sea. 
 
 Hands aloft ! Suffren suddenly cries : 
 
 The main-top-man, then eagerly bent. 
 
 Spies away to the Arab coast on the lee-bow. 
 
 IV 
 
 When, Iron de bon goi! cries the man. 
 Three big vessels are bearing down on us ! 
 Sharp, lads, run the guns to their ports, blaze away ! 
 The great sailor immediately cried ; 
 Let them first taste our figs of Antibes, 
 Ere we offer them some of a different sort. 
 
 But he hadn't yet said when one flash ! 
 
 And like lightning forty large balls 
 
 Go to riddle the hulls of the Englishers' ships. 
 
 To one nothing was left but her soul ! 
 
 Nought was heard but the roar of the guns. 
 
 And the cracking of wood, and the seas dismal moans.
 
 10 I, THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 VI 
 
 From the foe now but one step divides us. 
 But one step ! what rapture ! what joy ! 
 On the deck Bailly Suli'ren, intrepid and cool. 
 Stands erect, never wincing, and cries, 
 Cease your fire, lads, cease it and come, 
 Now's the time to anoint them well with Aix oil ! 
 
 VII 
 
 But he hadn't yet said when the whole 
 
 Grew to hatchets, to cutlasses, rush. 
 
 And the bold Provencal with his grapnel in hand, 
 
 In one breath calls out. Board 'em, my boys ! 
 
 At one spring to the Englisher's deck 
 
 We all jump, and 'tv^^as then the great slaughter began. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Oh ! what blows ! oh ! what carnage ! what crashes 
 
 The mast falling makes on the deck ! 
 
 And the deck broken in, and the men fighting still ! 
 
 More than one of the Englishers falls 
 
 And expires ! More than one Provencal 
 
 In his arms takes the Englisher, strains him and dies ! 
 
 It seems, eh ? quite incredible ! 
 
 The good old father stopped him to observe. 
 
 It happened notwithstanding just as I havesungit. 
 
 Certes, we have a right to speak, for I 
 
 Was there myself the tiller holding. In my 
 
 Memory moreover, ha, ha! should I live 
 
 A thousand years it would be stored up there.
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. II 
 
 Wliat! you were at that awful slaughter? 
 
 Three to oue they must have flattened you 
 
 As scythes are flat ened 'neath the beating hammer ! 
 
 Who ? the English ? Cried the old tar, 
 
 Starting to his feet. 
 
 But presently the song he had begun 
 
 He, smiling proudly as before, resumed. 
 
 IX 
 
 With our feet in blood dabbling we fought on 
 
 From two postmeridian till night; 
 
 But, alas ! when our eyes of the powder were free, 
 
 From our galley we missed live score men ! 
 
 To the bottom however went three 
 
 Splendid ships of the king, England's king, with all hands. 
 
 X 
 
 Then upon our return to sweet home, 
 
 With a hundred shot-holes in our sides. 
 
 Yards in spliniers, masts shivered, and sails all in rags, 
 
 The good Bailly thus friendly addressed us : 
 
 Go to, comrades, when I get there, 
 
 To the king of Paris I will speak of you all ! 
 
 XI 
 
 our admiral , free is your speech 
 
 We all answered ; the king will hear you ; 
 
 But for OS, obscure mariners, what will he do ? 
 
 All we had we had quitted, our homes 
 
 And our hamlets, to rush to his war 
 
 And defend him ; and yet, you well know,we want bread.
 
 12 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 XII 
 
 But if yonder you do go, remember, 
 
 When all on your passage incline, 
 
 That none will e'er love you so well as your crew. 
 
 For believe us, good Suffren, we would, 
 
 Before seeking our homes, bear you king 
 
 ( )n the tips of our fingers ! had we but your leave. 
 
 XIII 
 
 'Twas a Martigau " made us this song. 
 
 While at vespers he spread out his nets. . 
 
 Bailly Suffren departed for Paris forthwith. 
 
 They say that the great in those parts, 
 
 By his fame were to jealousy moved. 
 
 But his sailors beheld him no more, never more ! 
 
 'Twas not too soon for the old man 
 To end his song. 
 His voice in tears was drowning; 
 But the laborers enchanted w^ere : 
 They sat with heads bent forward. 
 Mute, w4th lips apart, and for a while 
 E'en after it was over listened on. 
 
 And such like, said he, 
 
 Were the songs they sang when Martha span <«. 
 
 youngsters, they were fine ; 
 
 Long-winded rather, and the tunes have got 
 
 A little old ; but what of that ? they sing 
 
 Now newer ones in French, in which the words 
 
 Are finer, but which no one understands.
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 13 
 
 At this remark of the old man 
 
 The laborers from table rose 
 
 And went to lead their six yoke to the stream, 
 
 And while their mules were drinking, they beneath 
 
 The branches pendent from the trellis 
 
 Still kept humming 
 
 The old Valabregan's song. 
 
 Mireio loved a little talking. 
 
 And at table stayed 
 
 With Yincen, son to Master Ambroi. 
 
 Both together chatted, 
 
 And their heads would come together, 
 
 Part, and come together, like two 
 
 Cabridello *^ flowers in a merry wind. 
 
 Well, Vincen, says Mireio, 
 
 When your bundle's on your shoulder, 
 
 And you go across the country mending baskets, 
 
 Don't you in your wanderings see. 
 
 Along with wild spots, haunted castles, 
 
 Lots of gorgeous palaces and brilliant fetes ? 
 
 Whereas we never leave our pigeou-housi.'. 
 
 That's well said, my young lady. 
 
 Currants by their sharpness 
 
 Quench the thirst as well as drinking 
 
 Fi'om a jug; and if to get work 
 
 We must brave the weather. 
 
 Still the journey has its pleasures, 
 
 And the shady roadside compensates the heat. 
 
 3
 
 14 I. THE FALABREtiO-MAS. 
 
 Accordingly as soon as summer comes, 
 
 And all the olive-trees 
 
 Are draped with flowers, 
 
 On the ash-trees in the wliiUniotl orchards. 
 
 Guided by the scent, 
 
 We go and hunt the cantharis 
 
 Green glistening in the, heat of day. 
 
 These the shops buy of us. 
 
 Sometimes upon the garrigo^ 
 
 We pick the red oak-apple : sometimes 
 
 In the ponds we go and fish blood-suckers. 
 
 brave sport ! no need of net or bait ! 
 
 You've only got to beat the water 
 
 And the leech comes sticking to your legs ! 
 
 But thou wast never at Li Santo 2' ? 
 
 Dear soul, that's the place for singing ! 
 
 There it is that from all parts the sick are brought. 
 
 We passed it on the /"t^^e-day. 
 
 Of a truth the church is small. 
 
 Nevertheless, what olTerings and vov^'s ! 
 
 Such cries ! Great Saints ! great Saints ! have pity on us. 
 
 Twas the year of the great miracle. 
 
 Moun Dieul what a sight! 
 
 A sickly child was on the pavement weeping, 
 
 Pretty as S^ John the Baptist! 
 
 Presently he raised a sad and plaintive voice, 
 
 O Saints ! Saints ! restore my sight ! 
 
 I'll bring you my pet lambkin with the budding horns.
 
 I. THE FALABBEGO-MAS. 15 
 
 All round him were in tears. 
 
 The reliquaries meanwhile lighted 
 
 Slowly from above upon the prostrate people; 
 
 And no sooner had the cable -^ 
 
 Slacked a little when the whole chnrcb, 
 
 Like a strong wind in the forest, 
 
 Cried, great Saints, come ! oh ! come and save us ! 
 
 In the arms of his godmother now, 
 
 The child put forth his little slender fingers, 
 
 And the reliquaries clutched. 
 
 Which hold the bones 
 
 Of the three blessed Marys, 
 
 With the desperation of tlie drowning man 
 
 To whom the sea has heaved a plank. 
 
 The child no sooner had 
 
 The Saints' bones seized (1 saw it!) 
 
 Than he cried, with faitli 
 
 Most marvellous, I see 
 
 The wonder-working reliquaries ! and 1 see 
 
 Grandmother all in tears ! Come, let's go quick 
 
 And fetch my lambkin with the budding horns. 
 
 As for thyself, young lady, God preserve thee 
 
 Happy, handsome ! But should ever dog 
 
 Or lizard, wolf or snake, or any otlier 
 
 Prowling, creeping, creature. 
 
 Wound thee with its fang ; 
 
 Should e'er misfortune overtake thee, 
 
 Hie thee to the Saints, tliou'lt surely get relief.
 
 16 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 So sped the evening. 
 
 The unharnessed large-wheeled cart 
 
 No lengthy shadow cast. 
 
 From time to time a hell was heard 
 
 To tinkle in the marshes, 
 
 And the dreamy owl sad lamentations 
 
 Added to the nightingale's sweet song. 
 
 As on the mere and trees to-night 
 
 The moon is shining, 
 
 Vincen pleaded, wilt thou 
 
 Let me tell thee of a race 
 
 In which I thought to win the prize? 
 
 I will, replied the maiden ; and with hated breath 
 
 The simple child approached him more than happy. 
 
 'Twas at Nismes, Mireio, 
 
 On the Esplanade, that these foot-races 
 
 Were in vogue. At Nismes there was a crowd 
 
 Collected thicker than a shock of hair 
 
 To see the sjDort. 
 
 Already many runners were prepared 
 
 To run; all hatless, coatless, shoeless; 
 
 When the king of runners, Lagalanto, 
 
 All at once appears ! 
 
 Who of Provence and eke of Italy 
 
 The swiftest had outstripped. 
 
 The mighty Lagalanto! 
 
 Lagalanto, the renowned Marseilles man ! 
 
 Sure his name's familiar to thine ears.
 
 I. THE FALABREG0-]S1AS. 17 
 
 Equal to the Seneschal John of Cossa's-^ 
 
 He had legs ! yea, he had thighs ! 
 
 And too of pewter-plates he had a dresser full, 
 
 On which his races were engraved; 
 
 Besides, so many splendid scarfs had ho, Mireio, 
 
 That against the wainscot thou hadst sworn 
 
 The rainbow stood expanded ! 
 
 Seemg him, the other runners 
 
 Hurried on their clothes again. 
 
 No one with Lagalanto dared to run. 
 
 Lou Cri, a lad of training. 
 
 And who had not flaccid legs. 
 
 Had come to Nismes that day witli cows. 
 
 Alone he dared to challenge him. 
 
 Name of a rat ! cried I, 
 
 (I, who was only there by chance;) 
 
 But we too are a runner ! 
 
 Oh! what had I said, fool that I was! 
 
 They all surround me ! You must run ! 
 
 Now judge. I'd never run but after partridges : 
 
 Then only with the oaks for witnesses. 
 
 But I was forced to. 
 
 Lagalanto, when he saw me, 
 
 Took me up with. Fasten your shoe-latchets -'% 
 
 My poor boy! The muscles meanwhile 
 
 Of his own stout linbs he was encasing 
 
 In silk-hose, to which were tacked 
 
 Ten little golden bells.
 
 18 I. THE FAr>AnREtlO-MAS, 
 
 Our breath to garner, each 
 
 A bit of willow put into his mouth. 
 
 In haste and friendly we shake hands. 
 
 Then, trem])ling with impatience 
 
 And excitement, each, with one foot 
 
 On the line, awaits the signal. 
 
 It is given ! Like a lightning-llasli we 
 
 Scour the plain ! 
 
 We tear along; it's you! it's I! 
 
 A cloud of dust impedes our springs; 
 
 Our hair smokes ! 
 
 Ah ! what ardor ! what a mad race ! 
 
 Long all thought abreast we'd reach the goal; 
 
 Such was the spirit that impelled us ! 
 
 Finally I take the lead ! 
 
 But this was truly my misfortune : 
 
 For, the instant, like a fool, 
 
 I forward sprang 
 
 And passed them, 
 
 Down I fell, pale and expiring, 
 
 Kolled and bit the dust ! 
 
 The other two continued running. 
 
 Steady, ever steady, 
 
 Like the chivau-frus -^ at Aix. 
 
 The famous Marseillais thought himself 
 
 Sure of winning. It was said he had no spleen 
 
 The Marseillais, young lady, notwithstandmg 
 
 Found his man in Lou Cri of Mouries^';.
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 19 
 
 Now thoy the throng of spectators had passed, 
 
 And had ah-eady nearly reached the goal. 
 
 () beauty mine, hadst thou hut seen him, Lou Cri, spring! 
 
 Neither on moimtains nor in parks was ever 
 
 Stag or hare with so much nerve 
 
 For running seen ! Him after Lagalanto 
 
 Rushes, howling like a wolf! 
 
 Lou Cri with glory's crowned. 
 
 He hugs the winning post for joy ! 
 
 All Nismes comes flocking up 
 
 His birthplace to enquire. 
 
 The plate of pewter ])lazos in the sun ! 
 
 The hautboys flourish and the cymbals clang! 
 
 liOu Cri receives the pewter-plate. 
 
 And Lagalanto? asks Mireio. 
 
 Sitting ou the ground, enveloped 
 
 In the dust the people raised about him, 
 
 (clasping both his knees. 
 
 His soul slung with th'afl'ront that so defiled him. 
 
 He shed bitter tnars that mingled 
 
 With the drops that from his forehead fell. 
 
 Lou Cri approaches and salutes him. 
 Brother, says he, come ! let's to the arbour 
 Of the inn repair, behind the large areno ^" 
 Yonder, and tlie money-over 2« driuk : 
 To-morrow's time enough for wailuig; 
 Pleasuie rules to-day! for thee. 
 As well as me, go to, there's sun enough left still.
 
 20 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 
 
 Then Lagalanto, tearing 
 
 From his trembling limbs 
 
 The hose with golden bells, 
 
 His pallid visage raised and said, 
 
 Since age undoes me, there, they're thine ! 
 
 Thou, Cri, whom youth decks like a swan, 
 
 May'st honorably wear the strong man's gear. 
 
 These were his words. 
 
 And in the dense crowd. 
 
 Mournful as an ash bereft of head, 
 
 The whilom king of runners disappeared. 
 
 Nor on S* John's day, nor S* Peter's, 
 
 Never since has he been seen to run. 
 
 Or jump upon th' inflated hide 29. 
 
 Thus Vincen did expatiate on things 
 He knew, before the Falabrego-Mas ; 
 His cheeks waxed crimson. 
 And his dark eyes flashed ; 
 Whate'er he uttered he gesticulated. 
 And his speech abounded like a sudden 
 Heavy may-shower on a mown-grass field. 
 
 The crickets chirruping among the clods 
 
 Ceased more than once to listen; 
 
 Oft the niglit-bird, oft the nightingale, 
 
 Kept silent ; she too 
 
 Sitting on the leafy branch-heap, 
 
 To the bottom of her soul impressed. 
 
 Till early dawn would not have closed an eye
 
 I. THE FALABREGO-MAS. 21 
 
 'Tis my opinion that he, 
 
 For a basket weaver's son, 
 
 Speaks wonderfully well, she to her mother said. 
 
 mother ! it is sweet to sleep in winter. 
 
 Now the nights are light, too light to sleep : 
 
 Let's listen, listen to him ! I would pass 
 
 My vigils and my life in hearing him !
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE FIRST CANTO 
 
 1. — The word 7nas, meaning a countryhouse, farm or 
 homestead, is especially used in the arrondissemenl of 
 Aries , and in Languedoc. In eastern Provence the 
 word bastido is used in preference, and in the comlat 
 thai of granjo. To every mas a name is attached which 
 distinguishes and characterises it. as the Mas de la Font, 
 the Mas de I'Osle, the Mas Crcma, the Mas di Falabrego, 
 
 The falabrego is the fruit of a sort of lotus, called 
 in French viicocoiitier , and in Provencal falabreguie, 
 the cellis aiislralis of Linnaeus; it is a large tree, com- 
 mon in Provence. The words mas and falabrego are 
 both of Celtic origin. It is even held that Marseilles, Mas- 
 salia, comes from Mas Salyum, habitation of the Salii. 
 
 2. — Provence, formerly one of the provinces of Franco, 
 comprises the departments of the Bouches-du Rhflne, 
 the Var, the Lower-Alps, and portions of Vaucluse and 
 the Dr6me. Previous to the union it had been governed 
 successively by eighteen Counts , of whom Rene, ex- 
 king of Naples, styled k bon Roi Rene, Charles, 3rd
 
 24 NOTES TO THE FIRST CANTO. 
 
 Count of Maine, and Louis XT, king of France, were the 
 last. It was united to the French crown by Charles VIII 
 in 1487. The climate of Provence is beautiful and heallhy 
 Its soil is very fertile in many parts, but perfectly. 
 Sterile in others. Its principal rivers are the Rh6ne,the 
 Durance, the Argens, the Var, the Verdon and the Sor- 
 gues. The language of Provence was one of the flrst 
 cultivated in the middle ages-, it is remarkable for its 
 rhythm and softness. The poets of Provence were the 
 Troubadours, so called from Iroubar to find or invent ; 
 of whom the most celebrated were Pierre Vidal, Arnauld 
 Daniel, Bertrand de Born, Bernard de Venladour, Faydit 
 Raymond Beranger ( Count of Provence ), Richard I, 
 cceur de lion (King of England), and William IX, Count 
 of Poitiers. — Translator. 
 
 3. — La Crau ( from the Greek xpaupo;, arid ) , is a 
 vast arid stony plain, bounded on the North by the 
 Alpines ( Lower Alps ) , on the East by the meres of 
 Martigue, on the West by the Rhone, and on the South 
 by the sea. It is the Arabia Petrea of France, and is, by 
 the canal of Craponne, traversed and interspersed with 
 oases. 
 
 4. — Magdalen-ripe fruit, that which ripens about 
 S' Magdalen's day, the 22d of July. — T. 
 
 5. — Magalouno is situated on the sea-marge of the 
 Herault. Of this city, originally a Greek colony, nothing 
 now remains but a church in ruins. M"' Moquin Tandon, 
 a member of the Instilut and a Languedocian poet, has 
 written a work entilled Carya Magalonensis , in langue 
 romane, containing an interesting chronicle of the prin- 
 cipal events of which this town was the theatre in the 
 beginning of the 14th century.
 
 NOTES TO THE FIRST CANTO. '25 
 
 6. — Ve)it-larg, sea breeze. 
 
 7. — The Rail, westerly wind. 
 
 8. — Caspitello, or cdspi, an interjection corresponding 
 to dame ! ludieu ! 
 
 9. — The Baiissenco girls. Li Baus, in French les Baux 
 is a town in ruins, formerly the capital of the princely 
 house of Baux. « Three leagues from Aries, on the rocky 
 summit of one of the Alpines, are scattered the ruins of 
 a town which , from the grandeur of its site, the anti- 
 quity of its foundation, and the important place it holds 
 in the annals of the country , allures the traveller, 
 kindles the imagination of the artist, offers to the curiosity 
 of the archoeologist abundant matter, and irritates and of- 
 ten confounds his learned sagacity. » ( Jules Canonge's 
 history of the town of Les Baux in Provence. ) 
 
 As the name of this poetical locality ofter occurs in 
 the po'r^m, we think the reader will be pleased with the 
 following description of it by the same author. 
 
 « At length there opened out before me a narrow val- 
 ley. I bowed to the remains of a stone cross that sanc- 
 tify the way, and when I raised my eyes they were 
 riveted with astonishment on a set of towers and walls 
 on the top ol a rock the like of which I had never before 
 seen, save in works in which the genius of painting had 
 been inspired by the most fabulous imaginings of Ariosto. 
 But if my surprise was great at the first aspect, it 
 was doubly so when 1 had reached an eminence whence 
 the whole town was displayed to view. It was a spec- 
 tacle of desolate grandeur, such as a perusal of the 
 Propliels presents to the mind •, it was something I had 
 nevnr suspected the existence of, a town almost monolo- 
 Ihile. Those who first had the idea of inhabiting the
 
 26 NOTES TO THE FIRST CANTO. 
 
 rock, had hewed Ihem a shelter out of its sides. This 
 novel mode of architecture was plainly approved of by 
 their successors, for soon from the vast compact mass a 
 town issued, like a statue from a block touched by the 
 wand of art. An imposing town with its fortifications* 
 chapels and hospitals; a town in which man seemed to 
 have eternalised his habitation. The dominion of the 
 city was extensive, and brilliant feats of arms have 
 secured for it a noble place in history -, but it has proved 
 no more enduring than so many others less solidly cons- 
 tructed. » 
 The action of the poem begins at the foot of these ruins, 
 
 10. — Sheets spread to catch the olives as they are 
 shaken fron the trees. — T. 
 
 11. — floii. The vowels of this exclamation are pro- 
 nounced separately, the o as in English, and the u as in 
 ou or OH in P'rench. — The e in iJieu (a word often 
 recurring in the poem), is sounded as e in French, and 
 the u as in liou ; but in both words the tone is louder 
 on the penultimate vowel. — T. 
 
 12. — If thou remember, father. Vous in Provencal, as 
 in French, is the pronoun of respect, deference, ceremony 
 and reverence, and corresponds to thou, thee. — T. 
 
 13. — Valabrego, a village situate on the left bank of 
 the Rh6ne, between Avignon and Tarascon. 
 
 14. — Font-Vieio, a village in one of the valleys of the 
 Alpines in the neighbourhood of Aries. 
 
 15. — /.' i! i! written Ai ! ai ! ai ! a Provencal inter- 
 jection corresponding to oil! ah! alas! and pronounced 
 precisely as our vowel i is — T.
 
 NOTES TO THE FIRST CANTO. 27 
 
 16. ~- My lyre is broken. 
 
 • The shrill cigala strikes his lyre. » 
 
 BP Heber. — T. 
 The Provencal word mirau means the two membranes 
 shining and sonorous that the cigala has under the abdo- 
 men, and which by concussion produce the sound known 
 in France by chant. It is proverbially said of a person 
 Avhose voice has been impaired by age, a It mirau creba. 
 
 17. — A Mariigau, an inhabitant of Martigue, a curious 
 town of Provence, inhabited almost exclusively by fisher- 
 men, built on some small islands, intersected by the salt 
 lakes and narrow channels of the sea by way of streets, 
 which has occasioned it to be surnamed la Venise pro- 
 renpale. It was the birth place of Gerard Tenque, 
 (Thorn or Tung, — T.) the founder of tlie order of 
 S' John of Jerusalem. 
 
 18. — When Martha span, a proverbial expression 
 signifying, in more happy times, in the good old days, in 
 allusion probably to Martha, Christ's hostess, who, after 
 liaving according to the legend delivered Tarascon of 
 the monster that ravaged its territory, ended her days 
 in those parts. She inhabited a small house on the 
 banks of the Rhone, at the door of which she would sit, 
 surrounded by her neophytes, modestly plying her spin- 
 ning wheel. 
 
 19. — Cabridello, a plant common in the marshes of 
 the South, the aster tripolium, Lin. 
 
 '20. — The garrigo, li garrigo, barren lands when-- 
 nothing but the dwarf-oak, the agarrus, grows. 
 
 21. — Li Sanlo, is the Provencal name of a small town 
 of 54.3 inhabitants, situate in the isle of Camargiio on
 
 28 NOTES TO THE FIRST CANTO. 
 
 the seashore between the mouths of the Rh6ne. In obe- 
 dience to a poetical and venerable tradition, an innume- 
 rable host of pilgrims from every part of Provence and 
 lower Languedoc assemble at this place every 25th of 
 May. The tradition is as follows : 
 
 After the death of Christ, the Jews constrained some of 
 the most fervent disciples to enter a dismantled ship, and 
 consigned them to the mercy of the waves. The scene 
 is thus described in an old French canticle. 
 
 LES JUIFS. 
 
 JKiitrez, Sara, dans la nacelle, 
 Lazare, Marthc et Maximin, 
 Cleoii, Trophirae, Satuniiri, 
 Les trois Maries et Marcellc, 
 Eutrope et Martial, Sidoiiie avec Joseph (d'Arimatliie), 
 Vous- perirez dans cette iief. 
 
 Allez, sans voile et sans cordage. 
 Sans mat, sans ancre, sans Union, 
 Sans aliments, sans aviron, 
 Allez faire un triste naufrage I 
 Retirez-vous d'ici, laisscz-nous en repos, 
 Allez crever parmi les Hots I 
 
 Guided by Providence, the bark gently stranded on the 
 extremity of the isle of Camargue in Provence. The poor 
 exiled believers having miraculously escaped the perils 
 of the sea, dispersed over southern Gaul and became 
 its first apostles. 
 
 Mary Magdalen , one of the three Marys, retired to the 
 desert of La S'e Baume to weep over her sins. The 
 two others, Mary the mother of S' James the less, 
 and Mary of Salome, the mother of the two apostles, 
 S' John the Evangelist and S' James the Great, accom- 
 panied by their maid Sarah, after converting to the new
 
 NOTES TO THE FIRST CANTO. 29 
 
 faith some of the neighbouring people, returned to the 
 place of their landing to die (see xi canto). 
 
 M^ B. Laurens, who has described and sketched in 
 Vniuslratioti (vol. xx, p. 7) the pilgrimage of the S' 
 Marys, adds, « It is reported that a prince, whose name 
 is not mentioned , knowing that the bodies of the S' 
 Marys were interred at this spot , built a church over it 
 in the form of a citadel, so that it might be safe from 
 piratical invasion. He also built houses round the 
 church, and ramparts for the safety of the inhabitants. 
 The buildings that remain bear out the tradition perfectly 
 well. 
 
 » In 1448, after hearing a sermon on the blessing Pro- 
 vence enjoyed in possessing the remains of the S' 
 Marys, king Rene visited the church built in their honor, 
 caused a search to he made for the holy bones, and the 
 success of his undertaking was revealed by the marvel- 
 lous odor that arose as the body of each (saint) was dis- 
 covered. It is needless to tell of all the honor paid to, 
 and all the care taken of, these relics. » 
 
 22. — No sooner had the cable slarkrcl. « The choir 
 of the church presents the peculiarity of being composed 
 of three stories : a crypt , which is pointed out as being 
 the very spot of the ancient oratory of the Saints ; 
 a sanctuary raised higher than usual ; and a chapel 
 above, where the reliquaries are exposed. Innumerable 
 tapers are held lighted by the congregation, and on the 
 capstern being unwound, the chain of which is attached 
 to the reliquary , the latter slowy descends fiom the 
 chapel above into the choir. This is the moment propi" 
 tious to miracles. "When also immense supplication arises 
 on all sides ; S' Marys, heal my cliild ! or such like is 
 the piercing cry raised, drawing tears from the coldest 
 heart. All await, singing canticles .the while, till the
 
 30 NOTES TO THE FIRST CANTO. 
 
 moment comes to get a poor blind or epileptic man to 
 sit upon the reliquary, and when this is achieved all 
 believe themselves heard. » (B. Laurens.) 
 
 23. John of Cossa, a Neapolitan noble who had followed 
 King Ren6 ; he was grand seneschal of Provence and 
 died in 1476. John of (Jossa is very popular atTarascon, 
 where the people ascribe to him the building of S' Mar- 
 tha's steeple. He is interred in the crypt of that church, 
 and his statue in a recumbent attitude surmounts the 
 tomb. 
 
 24. — Fasten your shae-latchets , a proverbial expres- 
 sion signifying, prepare for a sharp run. 
 
 25. — The cMvau-frus ; these are painted cardboard 
 horses, used in Provence at public rejoicings, and parti- 
 cularly at Aix at the Fele-Dieu. The seeming riders attach 
 them to their waists, and prancing parade the streets to 
 the sound of the tambourin. 
 
 26. — Mouries, a village south of the Alpines. 
 
 27. — The large Areno, the Roman amphitheatre at 
 Nismes. — T. 
 
 28. — The moneij over, (lis estreno,) the money collec- 
 ted for the fete remaining over after the expenses have 
 been all paid. — T. 
 
 29. — The inflated hide, usually a sheep or goat skin, 
 on which the performer stands, jumps, or dances. — T.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 THE LEAF-PICKING 
 
 Sing away, sing away, inagnanareUo ' 1 
 
 Leaf-picking disposes to singing ; 
 
 The silkworms are fine and are sleeping Uicir third '; 
 
 The mulberry-trees too are full of young maids, 
 
 Whom the beautiful weather enlivens; 
 
 They look like a swarm of brown bees in a Held, 
 
 From the rosemary filching the honey. 
 
 8ing away, sing away, magnanarello ! 
 
 While stripping your boughs, sing away ! 
 
 Mireio was picking one lovely May morn ; 
 
 For earrings, that very May morning, 
 
 To her ears the coquette 
 
 Had fastened two cherries. 
 
 It happened that Vincen was passing tlial way.
 
 32 n. TOE leaf-pickinct. 
 
 In his bright-scarlet cap, 
 
 As the Latin sea-shore people wear, 
 
 He had jauntily set a cock's feather. 
 
 While footing the paths 
 
 The stray adders he routed, 
 
 And from the stone-heaps 
 
 With his stick he sent ilying the flints. 
 
 Ho ! Vincen ! Mireio called out 
 
 From the midst of the straight verdant walks, 
 
 You are passing full fast, why so ? 
 
 Vincen directly the alley returned to, 
 
 Detected the maid on a mulberry-tree perched 
 
 Like a grey-crested lark=^. 
 
 And delighted Hew to her. 
 
 The leaf, Mireio, comes ofl' briskly ; 
 
 Little by little and all will be picked. 
 
 May I help thee ? You may. While above 
 
 She was laughing for joy, 
 
 Yincen sprang from the clover 
 
 And climbed up the tree like a squirrel. 
 
 Old Master Ramoun hath but thee, Mireio; 
 
 Better do the lower branches, 
 
 I'll the top ones manage. 
 
 With her light hand stripping ofl" the leaves, 
 
 She said. It keeps off melancholy thoughts 
 
 To work in company : alone, 
 
 A sort of dreariness comes over one. 
 
 Ah ! so there does, returned the youth ;
 
 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 33 
 
 For when we're yonder in our hut 
 And only hear the impetuous Rhone 
 Over the shingle rushing, 
 Oh ! how dreary 'tis sometimes ! 
 Not so much so in summer, for 
 Father and I then on our errands go 
 From one mas to the other ; 
 
 Hut no sooner has the holly reddened 
 
 And the winter set in, when the nights are long, 
 
 And round the hearth half out 
 
 There whistles at the latch, or mews. 
 
 Some gohlin ; and with little talking 
 
 And less light I must till bed time come 
 
 Sit up alone with him.... 
 
 Here giddily the maiden interrupted, 
 
 But your mother, where is she ? She's dead. 
 
 The lad was for a moment silent. 
 
 Then pursued : When Yinceneto 
 
 Was along with us and, though quite young, 
 
 Still kept the hut, there was some pleasure. 
 
 But what are you saying, Vincen ? 
 
 You've a sister? And the lass is good 
 And clever too, the ozier-bender added ; 
 For at Font-dou-Rei yonder, in the land 
 Of Beaucaire, whither she had gone, the reapers 
 Following, her grace and skill attracted notice 
 So much that as servant she was taken 
 And has heen there ever since.
 
 34 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 
 
 Are you considered like your little sister? 
 
 Who, 1? not a l)it ! she's fair 
 
 And I am brown, thou seest, as a berry. 
 
 Knowest thou of whom she does remind me? 
 
 Yea, of thee ! your two bright heads, 
 
 With hair abounding like tlio myrtle's foliage, 
 
 Might for twins be taken. 
 
 But the knack of tightening 
 
 The light muslin of thy cap \ Mireio, 
 
 Better far than she thou hast. 
 
 My sister's neither plain nor dull. 
 
 But how much handsomer art thou ! 
 
 Mireio here let slip her half culled branch 
 
 And cried, Oh ! what a Vincen ! 
 
 Sing away, sing away, mognanarello ! 
 
 For fine are the leaves of the mulberry-trees ; 
 
 The silkw^orms are fine and are sleeping their third ; 
 
 The mulberry-trees too are full of young maids 
 
 Whom the beautiful w^eather enlivens; 
 
 They look like a swarm of brown bees in a field 
 
 From the rosemary filching the honey. 
 
 Then you find me pretty ? 
 
 More so than your sister? 
 
 Much more ! answered he 
 
 And what more have I, pray ? 
 
 Mother divine ! What has the goldfinch 
 
 More than the frail wren? an't be not 
 
 Beauty melody and grace !
 
 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 35 
 
 What more ! my poor sister, 
 
 You'll not get the white out of the leek! 
 
 Why, Vinceneto's eyes are like sea-water, 
 
 Blue and limpid; thine are black as jet; 
 
 And when on me they shine, 
 
 Melhinks I'm draining oil" 
 
 A bumper of cooked wine''. 
 
 When she would sing the Peirounello, 
 
 In her silvery clear voice, 
 
 I loved to listen to my sister's melody. 
 
 But, young lady, every little word 
 
 Thou sayest to me far more charms 
 
 My ear, disturbs my heart, 
 
 Than could a thousand melodies. 
 
 With running in the pastures 
 
 In the sun, my sister's face and neck 
 
 All browne I are like a bunch of dates ; 
 
 Whereas thou, beauty, I believe art fashioned 
 
 Like tiie flowers of tlie asphodel. 
 
 And that thy fair brow with his tawny hand 
 
 Summer dares not caress. 
 
 My sister's slender as the dragonfly 
 
 That skims the rivulet : 
 
 Poor little one ! she grew up in one year. 
 
 But from the shoulder to the hip. 
 
 In thee, Mireio, notliing is amiss ! 
 
 Again she, letting slip her brancli and blushing 
 
 Crimson, cries. Oh ! what a Viiicen !
 
 \ 
 
 36 ir. THE LEAF-PICKING. 
 
 Sing away, sing ;nvay, mafpmnarello ! 
 
 While stripping your houghs. 
 
 The two well-favored children, 
 
 Hidden by the leafy branches, 
 
 In the inuocency of their age 
 
 Were learning to make love. 
 
 Meanwhile the clouds were clearing off the hills,. 
 
 And there were seen 
 
 Over the large ruined towers, whither 
 
 Nightly the old Lords of Baux return, 
 
 And high above the bare rocks. 
 
 Vultures *^ with their large white wings refulgent 
 
 Soaring to the sun 
 
 Already warm. 
 
 Oh, we've done nothing ! what a shame ! 
 
 Cried she as if vexed. 
 
 See now, some one said he'd come to help me 
 
 Then this some one nothing does but talk 
 
 And make liie laugh. Redeem your promise; otherwise 
 
 She'll say, my mother, truly I'm unfit, 
 
 Yea, far too awkward, to be married yet. 
 
 Alas ! my boasting friend, 
 
 I think if you for wages were engaged 
 
 To pick leaves by the quintal. 
 
 And the sprigs were handed to you, 
 
 You'd e'en then eat regardello ' ! 
 
 Thou then for a gawky takest me ! 
 
 The lad not slightly crest-fallen cries.
 
 JI. THE LEAF-PICKING. 37 
 
 We'll see, young lady, 
 
 Who'll the better picker prove ! 
 
 And bravely with both hands they set to work 
 
 To bend and strip the branches. 
 
 No more resting, no more idle talking : 
 
 ( Sheep that baas her mouthful loses : ) 
 
 Presently the mulberry-tree is stripped. 
 
 The leaves must now 
 
 Be put into a sack. 
 
 Oh ! what a fine thing youth is ! 
 
 Once the pretty taper fingers 
 
 Of the damsel in the arescle ** 
 
 Entangled got with the brown buwiing fingers 
 
 Of that Vincen. 
 
 She and he both started ! Hushed with love. 
 
 Both felt the llame as of some fire unknown. 
 
 Then as she with atlright 
 
 Her hands was taking from the leaves, 
 
 The lad still quivering with emotion said. 
 
 What is the matter with thee ? 
 
 lias a hidden hornet 
 
 Peradventure stung thee ? 
 
 In an undertone with lowered head, 
 
 I don't know, she replied. 
 
 Again they both began without more speech 
 
 To pick a few sprigs; but with roguish 
 
 Downcast eyes they one another watched 
 
 To see who'd laugh th(3 first.
 
 38 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 
 
 Tlieir hearts boat, fast. 
 
 Once more the leaves were showered down ; 
 
 And when the time for sacking came again, 
 
 The white hand and the brown hand, 
 
 Whether purposely or haply, 
 
 Always met ! The work went on 
 
 And was enjoyed all the same. 
 
 Sing away, sing away, magnanarello ! 
 
 While stripping your branches. 
 
 See ! see ! all at once Mireio cries ; 
 
 See ! what's that ? While she briskly, as a lark 
 
 Upon a vine, put one forefinger to her lips 
 
 And with the other pointed to a bird's nest 
 
 Opposite the branch herself was perched on. 
 
 Wait a bit ! With bated breath 
 
 And like a sparrow 
 
 Vincen hops from branch to branch 
 
 Towards the bird's nest. 
 
 At the bottom of a hole that had been 
 
 Naturally formed within the bark 
 
 The little ones were visible, all fledged and lively. 
 
 Vincen who had straddled 
 
 With his vigorous legs the crooked bough, 
 
 By one hand holding on feels with the other 
 
 In the hollow trunk. A little higher up 
 
 Mireio sat with glowing cheeks. 
 
 What sort? She softly asks. 
 
 Hare beauties! What of? Blue tomtits!
 
 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 39 
 
 Mireio biirsl out lauging. 
 Listen, said she; did you never hear- 
 That when two find a nest 
 Upon a mulberry-tree or any other, 
 Holy church will join you 
 Ere twelve mouths pass ? 
 And proverbs, father says, are always trusty. 
 
 Yes, returned he, but remember 
 
 That this hope may vanish 
 
 If the little ones escape before they're caged. 
 
 leuse, moun Dim ! cries the maiden, 
 
 Put them safely by at once, 
 
 For it concerns us ! 
 
 Faith, the safest place to put them l)y iu. 
 
 Answered the young man, 
 Methinks would be thy bodice. 
 Ah ! of conrse. Whereon the lad 
 Dips one hand down into the hollow, 
 And his hand returning full 
 Exhibits four tomtits. Bondieu ! 
 Shouts Mireio, both hands raising. 
 
 Oh ! how many ! what a jin^tty brood ! 
 
 There, there, poor little ones, one kiss ! 
 
 And wild with pleasure with a thousand kisses 
 
 She devours and coaxes them ; 
 
 Then lovingly and softly 
 
 Puts them by witliiu her bodice. 
 
 There, hold out thy baud again ! cries Vinceu.
 
 40 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 
 
 Oh! the Ijeaulies, she continues; 
 
 In their bkie heads they have Uttle eyes 
 
 As sharp as needles. Then within the smooth 
 
 White prison she bestows three more ; 
 
 And into the warm bosom of the maiden 
 
 NestUng down, the wee brood fancies itself 
 
 To the bottom of its nest restored. 
 
 But Vincen, seriously, are there any more ? 
 
 Yes. Holy Virgin ! then I do declare 
 
 A charmed hand you must have. 
 
 Eh! simple maiden, tomtits will about 8' George's 
 
 Lay you ten twelve eggs, and e'en fourteen, 
 
 Many a time. But here, take these, 
 
 The last hatched. And now good by, pretty hollow •' 
 
 Hardly had the youth said, 
 
 Scarce had she arranged the brood 
 
 And in her flowered neckerchief 
 
 Enveloped it. 
 
 When, /.' i! i! the poor girl cries, 
 
 And modestly upon her bosom 
 
 Pressing both hands, // i! i! I'm dying! 
 
 Houi! haul ! weeping now, they're scratching me, 
 
 They scratch I I ! i ! and sting ! O Vincen run up (juick, 
 
 The fact is that just then. 
 
 What shall I say? a great commotion reigned 
 
 And lively in the hiding place 
 
 Among the fledglings ; those last hatched 
 
 Had brought confusion with them ;
 
 ir. THE LEAF-PICKING. 41 
 
 And within the narrow vale 
 
 The sportive hrood 
 
 To settle freely down unable, 
 
 Scram])led up and down with claw and wing, 
 
 And o'er the undulating hills and down 
 
 The sloping mounds a thousand somersets 
 
 And pretty rolls performed. 
 
 I ! i! come take them quickly, 
 
 Murmurs she : and like a vine-branch 
 
 Trembling in the wind, or like a heifer 
 
 Stung with cattle-flies ; 
 
 So moans, writhes, bends, 
 
 The maiden of the Falabrego-Mas. 
 
 He climbs to reach the branch she's on. 
 
 Sing away, sing away, magnanareilo ! 
 
 While stripping your boughs : 
 
 To the branch sheis weeping on now he has got. 
 
 The tickling thoii dislikest 
 
 Greatly then ? he kindly asked. 
 
 Ah ! if like me through nettles barefoot 
 
 Thou hadst oft to go. 
 
 What wouldst Itiou do? I wonder ! 
 Then he oilers cheerily his sea-cap 
 To transfer the birdies to. 
 Mireio quickly slips her hand 
 Beneath the neckerchief. 
 And one by one the cap receives 
 The little beauties of tomtits.
 
 42 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 
 
 But now her eyes are lowered 
 
 And her face averted is a httle, 
 
 Poor dear ! Soon however smiles 
 
 Return and stay her tears ; e'en like 
 
 The dew that in the early morning, 
 
 Wets the llowers and grass, 
 
 Then rolls up into little pearls and passes oil". 
 
 Now suddenly the branch 
 
 They both were on 
 
 Snaps and assunder breaks! 
 
 She shrieking, to the ozier-bender's neck springs 
 
 And around it throws her arms : 
 
 Then from the large tree with a rapid twirl 
 
 Both fall, together folded, on the supple rye-grass ! 
 
 ye zephyrs, Larg and Gregoli <f*, 
 
 The wood's green canopy cease shaking ! 
 
 O'er the young pair hush your merry whispers ! 
 
 Silence for one moment. 
 
 Foolish breezes, softly breathe ! 
 
 Give them a little time to dream ! 
 
 The time at least to dream of happiness ! 
 
 Thou that art prattling in thy bed, 
 
 Hush ! gently, little stream ! 
 
 Over thy sounding pebbles make less noise ! 
 
 Not so much noise ! 
 
 For their two souls have to the same 
 
 Bright region sped. Leave them to wander 
 
 In their starrv sky !
 
 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 43 
 
 A moment after, from the close embrace 
 She disengaged herself. 
 The blossoms of the quince-tree 
 Never were so pale ! Then on the bank 
 They sit ; awhile on one-another gaze ; 
 And this is how in dudgeon spoke 
 The lad of oziers. 
 
 Shame, oh ! shame of trees ! 
 
 The devil's tree ! a Friday planted tree ! 
 
 Let the blight seize thee ! 
 
 And the woodlouse eat thee ! May thy master 
 
 Ever more in horror hold thee ! 
 
 Say, art thou not hurt, Mireio ? 
 
 Trembling with emotion she replied. 
 
 No, I'm not hurt, oh ! no. 
 
 But like a swaddled child, oft crying 
 
 Without knowing why, I have here something 
 
 That disturbs me ; it prevents my hearing. 
 
 Blinds me, makes my heart boil, and my brain 
 
 Is ever full of it ; my blood 
 
 My body courses through and won't keep quiet. 
 
 May be 'tis, the basket-weaver said. 
 
 The fear thy mother will for having been 
 
 Too long about the picking scold thee ? 
 
 Like me when I came in out of hours 
 
 From a blackberry-e.xcursion. 
 
 Tattered, blackened like a Moor. 
 
 Oh ! no, Mireio said, another sort of pain
 
 44 II. THE LEAF- PICKING. 
 
 It is. Or possibly a sun-stroke 
 
 May have dazed thee, Vincen urged ; 
 
 I know upon the Baux hills an old woman, 
 
 One named Tavon, who a glass of water 
 
 Sets upon your forehead, when the charmed rays 
 
 Swiftly from the dazed brain 
 
 Pass into the crystal. 
 
 No, oh ! no, replied the Gran maid ; 
 
 Floods of May sun never yet were known 
 
 To fright Crau maidens. 
 
 But why keep you longer in suspense ? 
 
 My bosom cannot hold it ! Will you know it, 
 
 Vincen ? Yincen, you I love ! 
 
 The hoary close-prunetl willows. 
 
 River's banks, the green grass 
 
 And the ambient air, 
 
 "Were fairly wrapped in glee ! 
 
 Alas ! princess, that thou so fair. 
 
 Replied the basket-weaver's son, 
 
 Shouldst have a tongne so wicked! 
 
 'Tis enough to stupify and dumbfound ! 
 
 What now ! thou in love with me ? 
 Mireio, don't of my poor life 
 Still happy go and make a jest; 
 Don't try and make me credit things 
 Which here once stored might afterwards 
 My death occasion. No, Mireio, 
 Never more in this sort langh at me.
 
 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 45 
 
 May God me ne'er imparadise 
 
 If in my words a lie there be ! 
 
 Go to, believe I love you; that won't kill you, Vinceii! 
 
 But if out of cruelty 
 
 You will not have me for your lover, 
 
 'Twill be me then, sick with sorrow, 
 
 'Twill be me you'll see consuming at your feet. 
 
 Oh ! say no more such things. 
 
 'Tween thee and me there is a labyrinth, 
 
 Said desp'rately the son of Master Ambroi. 
 
 Of the Falabrego-Mas thou art 
 
 The Queen, to whom all bow, Mireio ; 
 
 Whilst I'm but a vagrant 
 
 Valabregau Ijasket-weaver. 
 
 Eh I and what care I, returned she, 
 
 Sharp and fiery as a ligarello ^', 
 
 An my lover be a Baron 
 
 Or a basket-maker, so he please me ? 
 
 But and if you care not to have languor 
 
 Drink my ]jlood, why even in your tatters, 
 
 Vincen, do you look so handsome ? 
 
 Facing the enchanting virgin, 
 
 Dizzy as a slowly-falling 
 
 P'ascinated bird '^ he felt. 
 
 Thou must be then a witch, pursued he, 
 
 For the sight of thee to daunt me thus, 
 
 Thy voice to mount into my head and make mo 
 
 Foolish as a man o'ercome with drink !
 
 46 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 
 
 Seest thou not thy embrace 
 
 Has set my brain on lire ? 
 
 For lo, if thou must know it, even 
 
 At the risk that thou of me a poor 
 
 Pack-bearer wilt but make thy laughingstock, 
 
 I'll tell thee that I love thee too, Mireio ; 
 
 Love thee e'en with so much love I could devour thee ! 
 
 Love thee so, that if thy lips should say 
 
 I want the golden goat ^^, the goat no mortal 
 
 Tends nor milks, which 'neath 
 
 Baus-maniero ^ '' rock licks off the moss ; 
 
 I should or perish in the quarries. 
 
 Or produce the goat with golden ^^ hair, 
 
 As thou shouldst see ! 
 
 I love thee, enchanting maid, so much, 
 That shouldst thou say I want a star ! 
 There is no sea to cross nor torrent wild, 
 There is no headsman fire nor steel, 
 That should arrest me : to the peak's top 
 Even to the sky I'd go and take the star, 
 And Sunday thou shouldst have it to thy neck. 
 
 O passing beautiful ! the more I gaze on thee 
 
 The more I'm dazzled. 
 
 In my path I saw a fig-tree ^'^ once 
 
 Out of the bare rock growing, 
 
 Near the grotto of Vaucluse; 
 
 So spare, alas ! that to the lizards grey 
 
 A sprig of jasmine had more shade afforded :
 
 II. THE LEAF-PICKING. 47 
 
 Round about its roots, once every year, 
 
 The neighbouring stream comes gushing, 
 
 And the arid shrub of the abundant water 
 
 Rising to refresh it drinks its fill; 
 
 And this one drink the whole year round suflires it. 
 
 E'en as the stone is cut to fit the ring, 
 
 To us this parable applifjs. 
 
 For I, Mireio, am the fig-tree; 
 
 Thou the fountain and its freshness art. 
 
 It would for me suffice if once a year 
 
 I might on bended knees as now 
 
 Myself sun in the beams of thy sweet countenance, 
 
 Above all if I might but touch 
 
 With trembling lips thy lingers ! 
 
 Palpitating with young love, Mireio 
 
 Listened. Then he takes her. 
 
 He bewildered folds her in his arms ! 
 
 He hn- bewildered presses ; when, Mireio ! 
 
 In the avenue resounds 
 
 The voice of an old woman; and the silkworms ! 
 
 What are they to have to eat at noon? 
 
 A night of sparrows 
 
 Lighting in high spirits on a pine-tree 
 
 Will with cheery chirping 
 
 Fill the evening air ; 
 
 But if the gleaner watching them 
 
 A stone flings suddenly, on all sides 
 
 They allrighted fly oil' to the wood.
 
 48 H. THE I.EAF-PICKING. 
 
 Thus ill a tremor of emotion 
 
 Fled across the fields 
 
 Th' enamoured pair. She to the mas 
 
 Without a word proceeds, her leaves upon her head. 
 
 He stopping soon, stands, as if spell-hound, 
 
 Gazing at her running 
 
 O'er the fallow until lost to sight.
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE SECOND CANTO 
 
 1. — MagnanareUo are Avomen silkworm— rearers. 
 Magnan are silkworms. 
 
 2. — Sleeping their third. Silkworms live in the larva- 
 state thirty-four days about, and inlhis interval moult, 
 or shed their skin, four times. At the approach of each 
 of these periods they become as .it ' were paralysed and 
 cease eating, dorinon. They say in Provengal, doiirmi 
 de la proumiero, di dos, di Ires, di quatre, which means 
 literally, sleeping the Grst, second, third, fourth (moult). 
 
 3. — A grey-crested lark, the alauda cristata, Lin. 
 
 4. — The light muslin of thy cap. The Crau women 
 wear their hair tightly enveloped in a kerchief of fine 
 transparent linen or muslin, around which is passed a 
 band of velvet, usually of a blue black, at a distance of 
 about one-third from the top of the muslin, leaving there- 
 fore so much of it visible ; another turn is then passed 
 immediately below the first, and then another, until tlio
 
 50 NOTES TO THE SECOND CANTO. 
 
 two-thirds of the muslin are concealed. The black band 
 is finally faslenod at the back of the liead with a large 
 ^'old pin, while the end, to the length of about a foot, is 
 left pendent. On either side of the forehead the hair is 
 suffered to fall as low as the cheek-bone, where it is 
 gracefully curved back and gathered under the muslin. 
 - T. 
 
 5. - Cooked wine. The grape-juice on being removed 
 from the press is boiled in a cauldron, and after one year's 
 bottle has the color and flavor of the best Spanish wines. 
 The Provencaux drink it at feasts, galas, and always at 
 (Ihristmas. • 
 
 G. — VuUures, i\\Q vultur percnoptus, Gm. 
 
 7. — RegardeUo are imaginary dishes. Monja dc regar- 
 dello means eating with the eyes, or mucker a vide, as 
 Rabelais expresses it. 
 
 8\"— Arescle is a hoop adapted to the mouth of a sack 
 to ke^p it open. The name of arescle is generally given 
 to the wood used in making drums, strainers, sieves, 
 bushels, etc. 
 
 9. — Margai is the lolium perenne of Linncpus, or the 
 ray or rye-grass of the English. 
 
 10. — Gregali, gregau , or gre , are words used to 
 signify the Greek, or N. E. wind. 
 
 11. — Ligarello, a female sheaf-binder. 
 
 12. — A fascinated bird ( auceu pivela). The verb 
 pivela or jnpa indicates the action, real or imaginary, by
 
 NOTES TO THE SECOND CANTO. 51 
 
 which a reptile attracts to itself a bird, and even a per- 
 son. The people ascribe this attraction to some irresisti- 
 ble inspiration, which nevertheless may be intercepted 
 J)y the sudden passage of any foreign body. 
 
 13. — The golden goal {la cobra d'or), is a phrase 
 used to signify some treasure or talisman that the people 
 imagine has been buried by the Saracens under one or 
 other of the antique monuments of Provence. Some allege 
 that it lies under the mausoleum of S' Remy, others 
 under the Baux rocks. 
 
 « This tradition » says George Sand ( in Les visions de 
 la nuil dans les campagnes,)- is universal; there are few 
 ruins, castles or monasteries, few Celtic monuments, that 
 have not their own treasure hidden away some where, 
 all guarded by some diabolic animal. M' Jules Ganonge, 
 in a charming collection of southern tales, has rendered 
 graceful and beneficent the poetical apparition of the 
 golden goal, the guardian of the riches hidden in the 
 bosom of the earth. » 
 
 The tradition of a treasure that assumes innumerable 
 forms, but all having their raison d'Cire, and guarded 
 by some strange animal, is universal. It has been disco, 
 vered to exist in every nation and to be associated with 
 their most ancient reminiscences, without ever having 
 ceased to be believed in. This tradition will be found 
 clearly traced to its origin, throughout its various rami- 
 fications, in the 4th. and 5th. volumes of the Monde 
 paie7i which M"' d'Anselme is now publishing. We are 
 happy to mention in this place the wonderful labor of 
 mythological exegesis of our learned fellow-countryman. 
 
 14. — Haxis-maniero is a rocky peak to the north of 
 the town of Baux. This locality derives its name from 
 the cliffs that surround it; for, in Provencal the word
 
 V 
 
 52 NOTES TO THE SECOND CANTO. 
 
 bans means a cliff or precipice , and Baus-maniero, 
 Baus-besso , Baus-mirano , Baus-covstemple , are names 
 still used to designate certain quarters of Baux territory. 
 
 15. — The goat with the golden hair. The French ad- 
 jective roux, corresponding to the Provencal rous , indi- 
 cates a reddish yellow, the color of French gold. Accor- 
 dingly the phrases, de couleur d'or et de coideur rousse, 
 convey precisely the same meaning. This is instanced 
 by the author's describing the animal in the 2d. lino 
 of this stanza as la cabro d'or, and in the 7th. line as 
 la cabro dou reu rous. In the 1st. stanza of the next 
 canto, the phrase, I'oli rous, occurs, which cannot be 
 rendered otherw ise than the golden oil. — T. 
 
 16. — / 5a?/) a fig-tree once. The same may still be 
 seen vegetating over the fountain of Vaucluse. — T.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO III 
 
 THE GOCOONING ' 
 
 When crops are fair, and when the olive-yards 
 
 Their barrelsful of golden oil pour 
 
 Into the earthen jars; 
 
 When the unwieldy waggon, 
 
 Towering with sheaves, pursues 
 
 Its jolting gioaning way along 
 
 The lanes and through the fields; 
 
 When naked stalwart as a wrestler, 
 Bacchus comes, the farandoulo ^ leading 
 For tlie treaders at the vintages of Crau ; 
 And when the blessed beverage 
 From the brimful press, 
 Between the juice-stained ankles. 
 Flows into the foaming vat;
 
 54 III. THE COGOONING. 
 
 And when transpareni 
 
 On the Spanish ])rooni 
 
 The thoroughly artistic silkworms climb, 
 
 liejoicing their golden cells to weave; 
 
 So delicate they seem as with a sunbeam spmi; 
 
 And when therein by myriads 
 
 They rapidly ensconce themselves; 
 
 'Tis then that in the land of Provence 
 
 More than ordinary jubilation reigns : 
 
 The Ferigoulet ^ and the good Muscat of Baume j. 
 
 Are then with pleasure quatfed ; 
 
 "Tis then they sing and treat each-other; 
 
 Then that lads and lasses 
 
 Foot it niml)!;- to the tambourin. 
 
 I clearly am by fortune favored : 
 
 In my trellised arbour 
 
 Finer bunches of cocoons, a silkier liower, 
 
 Or a richer harvest. 
 
 Neighbours, at the farm Td never seen 
 
 Since I was little, since the year of God 
 
 That we were married in. 
 
 Thus while cocoons were being picked, 
 
 And while her female neighbours 
 
 (iossiping and gathering 
 
 Were round her in the silkworm room, 
 
 Jano Mario spoke. 
 
 The honored spouse of Master Ramoun 
 
 And the fond ])roud mother of Mireio.
 
 III. THE COGOONING. 55 
 
 They were cocooning. To the women 
 Ever and anon Mireio tendered 
 Sprigs of oak and sprays of rosemary, 
 Within which, by the mountain odor led, 
 So many noble worms had nestled 
 With their skeins, that sprigs and sprays 
 Resembled golden palms. 
 
 On Bono Maire's altar ••, 
 
 Jano Mario again said, 
 
 Yesterday, my women, I deposited 
 
 The finest of my sprays by way of tithe. 
 
 I annually do so ; for you know 
 
 'Tis she who bountifully orders 
 
 When she lists the silkworms to climl) up. 
 
 For my part, Zeu, of the Mas de I'Ostc said; 
 
 I have great fears. 
 
 The day the east-wind blew so hard, 
 
 (You'll mind the ugly day !) I'd left 
 
 My chamber- window open carelessly; 
 
 And lo, just now I counted twenty 
 
 Wliitening " on the floor ! 
 
 'O 
 
 Taven too to help 
 
 Had come from Baux. 
 
 To Zeu Taven said : Aye better 
 
 Than tht; old young people think they know 
 
 But age must torture us. 
 
 And we must groan and weep ; 
 
 Then only, but too late, we sec and know.
 
 r)G III. THE COCOONING. 
 
 Ye giddy women, 
 
 Should the hatching promise line, 
 
 Quick, quick, about tlie streets you chattering run. 
 
 My silkworms ! 'tis incredible 
 
 How fine they are ! Come see them ! 
 
 Envy does not lag behind, 
 
 But follows grumbling to your room. 
 
 They do one's heart good, neighbour, says she ; 
 
 Clear it is you've still your caul on ^ ! 
 
 But no sooner have you turned your head round 
 
 Than the envious she upon them casts 
 
 A look of venom that straight burns 
 
 And knots them up. You'll say then 
 
 'Twas the wind that plastered them ! 
 
 I don't say that has nought to do with it, 
 
 Zeu replied ; at all events T might as well 
 
 That day have closed my window. 
 
 Do you doubt still, went on Taven, 
 
 Of the evil that the eye projects 
 
 When in the head it glistens? 
 
 And she looks suspicious cast at Zeu. 
 
 Fools, that with a scalpel 
 
 Scraping on the dead, the virtue 
 
 Of the bee, the honey-making secret, 
 
 Think to find ! You know not 
 
 But a glaring look 
 
 May twist the unborn babe, 
 
 Or dry the milch-cow's udder up.
 
 Ill, THE COCOONINfl. 57 
 
 Young birds are fascinated 
 
 By the staring of an owl ; 
 
 A serpent's gaze will geese bring down from any height ; 
 
 And under the fixed staring of the human eye 
 
 You'll have a worm not sleep ! 
 
 Moreover from the eye of youlh, 
 
 When by the tender passion fired, 
 
 Where's the virgin wise enough 
 
 To screen herself? 
 
 Here four their cocoons dropped! 
 
 In June as in October 
 
 Ever must your tongue be stinging, 
 
 Aged viper ! Eh ! the lads ? 
 
 But bid them come, we'll see ! 
 
 No ! the others of the merry set exclaimed ; 
 
 We want them not; do we, Mireio? 
 
 No : cocooning isn't every day, she said ; 
 
 I'll go and fetch a bottle from the cellar. 
 
 You'll delicious find it. 
 
 Saying which slie hurriedly retired 
 
 To the house to hide her blushes. 
 
 Now, good friends, began the haughty Lauro; 
 
 I am very poor, and yet 
 
 My mind's made up to smile on no-one. 
 
 Should a king, Pamparigouslo's^ even, 
 
 Otter me his hand, my pleasure 
 
 And delight would be to sec him 
 
 Sighing at my footstool seven years.
 
 58 
 
 111. THE COCOONINfi. 
 
 Not I ! Glemenco said ; 
 
 For if a monarch 
 
 Fell ill love with mo, 
 
 It might be that without too much ado, 
 
 Especially if he were young and Lrilliant 
 
 And the handsomest in all his realm, 
 
 I'd let him lead me to his palace-home. 
 
 But once I were enthoned 
 
 As sovereign and empress, in a splendid 
 
 Gold-brocaded cloak arrayed, 
 
 And he'd my burning head encircled 
 
 With a dazzling crown of pearls 
 
 And emeralds, I would to Baux return. 
 
 My own poor country, T the Queen ! 
 
 Of Baux I'd make my capital. 
 
 Upon the rock on wnich it now reclines. 
 
 Our ancient castle I would re-erect, 
 
 And build a tower on it 
 
 Whose white top should reach the stars. 
 
 And then when I 
 
 A little solace needed, 
 
 To my tower's turret with my prince 
 
 I'd love to mount, 
 
 Relieved of crown and mantle, 
 
 And with him alone 
 
 Delightful it would be 
 
 To peer into the distance, 
 
 Leaning side by side upon the parapet.
 
 in. THE COCOONING. .)'.» 
 
 And lak(3 a full view 
 
 Of my merry kingdom of Provence 
 
 Before me opening like an orange-grove, 
 
 And scan its blue sea stretching languidly 
 
 Beyond its hills and plains, 
 
 And watch its noble ships tricked out with flags 
 
 In full sail shaving Chateau dll'. 
 
 Ventour** we'd turn to, lightning-scathed Ventoui- : 
 
 That venerably lifts 
 
 Above the mountains cowering nnder him 
 
 His white head to the heavens ; 
 
 Like a tall old shepherd-chief 
 
 Among the beeches and wild pines 
 
 His Hock o'erlooking, leaning on his stafl*. 
 
 The Rhone we'd turn to next, 
 
 Along whose banks come laughing, singing, 
 
 Cities in a file, to dip their lips and drink. 
 
 The Rhone, so stitf and haughty in his passage ! 
 
 Even he will condescend to bend, 
 
 As soon as Aviguon appears, 
 
 Respectfully to Notre-Dame-des-Doms '». 
 
 Then we'd the Durance contemplate : 
 
 The Durance wlio, now fierce and ravenous as a goat. 
 
 Devours bauks and bridges in her course; 
 
 And now mock-modest as a maid 
 
 With pitcher coming from the well, 
 
 Her scanty water spills while dallyiug 
 
 "With the lads she encounters on hei- way.
 
 00 III. THE COGOONING. 
 
 (jlemenco ceased to speak, 
 
 The pretty Provence Queen, 
 
 And from her chair arose with apron full 
 
 And went and emptied it. 
 
 Nioulano, and Azalais *' the dark maid, 
 
 Her twin sister, ( their old parents 
 
 Kept the castle of Estonblon, ) 
 
 Often to the Falaljrego came. 
 
 The little imp ycleped Love, 
 
 Who is only happy when with tender 
 
 Generous hearts he's playing tricks. 
 
 Had both enamoured of the same young man. 
 
 Azalais the dark maid raised her head. 
 
 And spoke as follows. 
 
 Lasses, for the nonce suppose me Queen ! 
 
 Marseilles and all her ships, 
 
 Beaucaire, her meadows. 
 
 La Ciotat that smiles with her. 
 
 And Salon with her almonds, all were mine ! 
 
 I'd say, Gome damsels, country-maids. 
 
 From Aries, from Baux, from Barbentano, 
 
 To my palace fly like birds ! 
 
 And then the seven fairest I would choose, 
 
 To weigh in scales 
 
 The love deceptive and the love that's true. 
 
 Gome, I would to the seven say, 
 
 And merry counsel hold. 
 
 Is't not proA'oking.
 
 61 
 
 III. THE COCOONING. 
 
 When a couple's, well assorted 
 
 Half the lime they can't be marriecl? 
 
 But once I, Azalais am Queen, 
 
 I do affirm that in my realm, 
 
 If ever loving pair contraried be 
 
 By any unjust odious cause, 
 
 At this tribunal of the seven maidens, 
 
 They shall find a law of clemency. 
 
 Whoever shall make traffic, or for gold 
 
 Or jewel, of her robe of honor; 
 
 Whoso shall betray insult, his lover; 
 
 At this same tribunal 
 
 Of the seven fair shall find 
 
 A law of terror for offended love. 
 
 And when two lovers 
 
 To one maid aspire, 
 
 Or when two maids are smitten by the same youth, 
 
 I will have the council to determine, '\ 
 
 Which loves better, which the better sues, 
 
 And which more worthy is of being lofed. 
 
 To keep the damsels company. 
 
 Seven poets I will have. 
 
 And they shall write the laws of love 
 
 In rhyme on bits of bark, 
 
 Or else on wild vine-leaves; 
 
 Then sing them in the noble choir. 
 
 And just as from the honey-comb the sweetest 
 
 Honey tlows, so will their couplets How.
 
 62 III. THE COCOONING. 
 
 Ill such sort, under cover 
 
 Of the pmes, of old 
 
 Faneto de Ganteume ^^ must have spoken, 
 
 "When her starry brow illumed the hill-crests 
 
 Of the Alpines and the Roumanin. 
 
 In such sort must have spoken too the Countess 
 
 Die ^^ when she held her courts of love. 
 
 Mireio now had to the room returned, 
 
 And with a flagon in her hand, 
 
 And beautiful as Easter-day, 
 
 She said, We'll now, good women, take a drop 
 
 To cheer us up a bit ; 
 
 We'll work the better for it. 
 
 Hold your goblets out. 
 
 And from the wicker- covered flask 
 
 In turn the generous liquor flowed 
 
 Into the goblets like a string of gold. 
 
 I this elixir made myself, 
 
 Mireio said, and to be mellowed 
 
 By the sun it must be left 
 
 To stand upon the window forty days. 
 
 Three mountain-herbs are in it, 
 
 And the liquor they are steeped in 
 
 Keeps the odor of them perfectly. 
 
 You'll find it to the stomach quite a balm. 
 
 But here she's interrupted with, Mireio, 
 
 Listen : several have told us what they'd do, 
 
 Should royalty or fortune favor them.
 
 III. THE COCOONING. 63 
 
 In such a case, do tell us 
 
 "What, Mireio, you would do ? 
 
 What I would do ? What would you have me tell you ? 
 
 Happy with my parents, well contented 
 
 In our Grau mas, nothing else can tempt me. 
 
 Ah ! indeed, another said ; 
 
 What pleases you is neither gold nor silver. 
 
 On a certain forenoon, I remember though, 
 
 (Forgive my telling it, Mireio,) 
 
 'Twas a Tuesday, I'd been gathering sticks 
 
 And nearly had to La-Crous-Blanco got 
 
 With faggots on my hip. 
 
 When I perceived yon in the branches 
 
 Talking pretty fast with some one nimJjlo. 
 
 Who was he ? tliev cried, whence was he ? 
 Through the trees of the plantation 
 'Twas not easy to discern him, Noro said ; 
 But if th'appearance did not cheat me 
 I am sure I recognised 
 Avery clever basket-weaver, 
 Vinccn, him of Fala])rego. 
 
 Oh ! the cheat, the cheat ! 
 
 Exclaimed the lasses laughingly ; 
 
 No doubt she had a longing for a pretty basket, 
 
 And she made the ozier-lad believe 
 
 She wanted him to be her lover ! 
 
 Oh! the fairest in the land has chosen 
 
 Vincen, the bare-footed, for her lover !
 
 04 III. THE COCOONING. 
 
 This was how they joked her. 
 
 Then in turn o'er every face 
 
 A look oblique was cast. 
 
 A thousand maledictions on yon, jades ! 
 
 Cried Taven ; la Roumeco ^ '• seize you all ! 
 
 Were lou ban Dim himself to pass 
 
 On his elysian way, the simpletons 
 
 Would laugh at him ! Is it not brave 
 
 At Vincen giddily to laugh ? And know you 
 
 What is in him ? poor as he may be ! 
 
 Now listen to the oracle : Before 
 
 His tabernacle God performed 
 
 A miracle ; I can avouch it, 
 
 For it happened in my day ; 
 
 There was a shepherd once, 
 
 He in the wilderness his life had passed 
 
 His flock while tending on the Luberon '^ 
 
 At length his iron-frame 
 
 Inclining to the grave, 
 
 He to the hermit of S' Ouqueri 
 
 Determined to confess, as was his duty. 
 
 All alone and lost in the Vaumasco ^S 
 
 He his foot had never set 
 
 In church or chapel since his first communion ; 
 
 E'en his prayers 
 
 Had from his memory slipped. 
 
 .But now his hut he quitted for the hermitage, 
 
 And to the ground before the hermit bowed.
 
 III. THE COCOONING. 65 
 
 Of what sin, the confessor asked, 
 
 Dost thou accuse thyself, my brother? 
 
 I accuse myself alas ! replied 
 
 The aged man, of having one day murdered 
 
 With a stone a bird that had been flying 
 
 Round about my flock, 
 
 And is the shepherd's friend, a wagtail. 
 
 If he have no ill design 
 
 The man must be an idiot ! 
 
 Thought the hermit, studying his features ; 
 
 So to cut the matter short and solve the problem, 
 
 Go, said he, and hang thy cloak 
 
 Upon yon beam ; then come, 
 
 I'll give thee absolution. 
 
 Glancing through the chapel was a sunbeam ; 
 
 This it was the priest had pointed to 
 
 To test him ! Of his cloak the good old shepherd 
 
 boon divests himself and credulously 
 
 Throws it up into the air. 
 
 When lo, suspended to the sunbeam 
 
 Hangs the cloak ! 
 
 man of God ! exclaimed the hermit, 
 
 Casting himself down 
 
 Before the shepherd weeping. 
 
 Is it possible for me to thee absolve? 
 
 Ah ! let the rain now falling from my eyes 
 
 Fall on thy hand, and let that hand officiate ; 
 
 For thou a great Saint art, and I'm a sinner.
 
 ()0 III. THE GOCOONING. 
 
 Taveii ended her discourse. 
 
 She'd stopped the laughter of the maids. 
 
 Laureto said by way of comment, 
 
 All this shows we musn't laugh at cloaks, 
 
 And that a good beast may be hidden 
 
 Under any hide. 
 
 But, lasses, to return. As soon as 
 
 The sweet name of Yincen 
 
 Was pronounced, I noticed our young mistress 
 
 Turned as crimson as a grape. 
 
 Some mystery there must be. Tell us, 
 
 Pretty one, how long the picking lasted ? 
 
 In the company of two the hour is soon forgot, 
 
 And there is always leisure with a lover. 
 
 Haven't you had jokes enough already? 
 
 Work away! Mireio cried, 
 
 Attend to your cocooning! 
 
 You would make the Saints swear. 
 
 There now, to confound you all, I tell you, 
 
 In the flower of my age I'll go 
 
 Into a convent rather than be married ! 
 
 7«n-deran-lan ! to??-deran-leron ! 
 
 Struck up all the girls together. 
 
 Gome, she's the charming Magali all over; 
 
 Magali who held love-rhapsodies 
 
 In horror such that to escape them 
 
 Went and buried herself in 
 
 S' Blasi's convent there at Aries.
 
 III. THE COCOONING. 67 
 
 Now, Noi'O, you who sing so well 
 
 And charm the ear at pleasure, 
 
 Sing her Magali, please, Magali who love 
 
 Evaded by a thousand artifices, 
 
 Magali who to a vine-branch changed, 
 
 A flying-bird, a sunbeam ; 
 
 Who liowever fell in love herself at last. 
 
 Magali, ma tant amado '", 
 
 Noro now began, and the whole room 
 
 Betook itself to work with twofold cheerfulness ; 
 
 And as when one cigala shrills his summer song, 
 
 In chorus all the others join. 
 
 So now the maids in concert 
 
 All together took the chorus up. 
 
 Magali, ma tant amado, 
 Gome to the window, show yourself, 
 And list awhile to this aubado ^^ 
 Of violin and tambourin. 
 
 The sky above is full of stars. 
 Softly blows the wind ; 
 But e'en the stars will all grow pale 
 When you they see. 
 
 No more than for the leaves their murmur 
 
 Do I for your aubado care, 
 
 For I am to the blue sea going 
 
 To change into a silvery eel.
 
 68 HI. THE COGOONING. 
 
 Magali, a silvery eel 
 Should you e'er become, 
 A patient fisherman I'll be 
 And you I'll fish. 
 
 Know then if you become a fisher, 
 Sooner than you could throw your net, 
 I will a flying-bird change into 
 And fly across the wilderness. 
 
 Magali, a flying-bird 
 Should you e'er become, 
 
 A cunning birdcatcher I'll prove 
 And you I'll catch. 
 
 For partridges, hedgesparrows either. 
 If springes you should mind to set, 
 
 1 will a flowery herb change into 
 And in the prairie hide away. 
 
 Magali, a daisy-plant 
 Should you e'er become, 
 I'll change into the limpid stream 
 And water you. 
 
 Should you change into limpid water 
 I'll change into a passing cloud, 
 And thus I rapidly shall wander 
 Away to far America.
 
 III. THE COCOOXING. 69 
 
 Magali, if lo remote 
 India you should go, 
 
 1 will Jjecome the sea-hreeze that 
 Shall ^^•aft \-ou o'er. 
 
 Though you the sea-Lreeze should cliaugc into, 
 
 I will escape another way ; 
 
 I will become the scorching sunbeam 
 
 That melts the ice and burns the grass. 
 
 Magali, a sunbeam bright 
 Should you e'er become. 
 Into a lizard green I'll change 
 And drink you up. 
 
 Should you a salamander change to, 
 And in a thicket hide yourself, 
 
 1 will Ijccome the moon that lighten? 
 The witch and sorcerer by night. 
 
 Magali, the moon serene 
 Should you e'er become, 
 Then to a halo changing I'll 
 Envelop you. 
 
 E'en though you should become a halo. 
 Envelop mo you never shall ; 
 For I a virgin-rose shall change to, 
 And Ijloom dehant 'mid the thorns.
 
 70 III. THE COCOONING. 
 
 Magali, a hlooming rose 
 Should you e'er become, 
 Into a butterfly I'll change 
 And you I'll kiss. 
 
 Go on for ever, running running, 
 Never, oh ! never me you'll catch ; 
 For I will in the forest clothe me 
 With the old oak-tree's gnarled bark. 
 
 Magali, a forest-tree 
 Should you e'er become. 
 The clinging ivy I will ])e 
 And you embrace. 
 
 Though you should in your arms enfold me, 
 An old oak only you will clasp. 
 For I'll become a white-veiled sister 
 In great S' Blasi's monast'ry. 
 
 Magali, a white veiled nun 
 Should you e'er become, 
 At the confessional as Priest 
 I'll you confess. 
 
 Here all the women started ! 
 
 From their hands the cocoons fell. 
 
 Noro, they cried, oh ! tell us, tell us, i^lease. 
 
 What further Magali, a nun now, answered ? 
 
 Magali who had, jDOor dear,
 
 III. THE GOCOONING. 71 
 
 Already been an oak, a flower, 
 
 The moon, the snn,a cloud, a bird, a fish! 
 
 The rest I'll sing you, Noro said : 
 
 We were, I think, where she 
 
 Was entering the nunnery, 
 
 And where the eager birdcatcher replies. 
 
 He'll as confessor introduce himself 
 
 And shrive her. Now, once more 
 
 The obstacle that she opposes mark. 
 
 The sanctuary should you enter. 
 There in a circle 5H)u will find, 
 In tears, the nunnery assembled 
 Around me in my windingsheet. 
 
 Magali, a lifeless corpse 
 Should you be at last, 
 Into the yawning grave I'll change 
 And hold you fast ! 
 
 Now I indeed begin to fancy 
 It is not lightly that you speak. 
 See, here's my annulet in crystal, 
 Wear it for me, my handsome lad. 
 
 Magali, you've done me good. 
 But behold the stars ! 
 Magali, since they saw you 
 How they have paled !
 
 72 HI. THE COCOONING.. 
 
 Noro is silent, not a word is said. 
 She sang so well that sympathetically 
 All joined in, their heads bent low; 
 E'en as the drooping withies. 
 Flexible and docile. 
 By the flowing eddies of a stream 
 Are turned and swayed. 
 
 Her song concluded, Noro said, 
 
 How fme the weather is ! 
 
 The mowers at the vivary are washing otr 
 
 The grime upon their scythes. 
 
 Mireio, pick us, please, a few §' John's-day apples. 
 
 And we'll go with some fresh cheese and lunch 
 
 Under the falabrego-irees.
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE THIRD CANTO 
 
 1. — The cocooning, or gathering of the cocoons, 
 described in the seventh stanza of this canto. — T. 
 
 2. — The farandoulo, a Provencal dance. — T. 
 
 3. — The Ferigoulel, an excellent wine, grown on one 
 of the hill-sides of Graveson (B' du Rhone). Ferigoulo 
 means thyme, and the wine agreeably recalls the perfume 
 of that plant. 
 
 k. — Tlie good Muscat of Baumc. Baume is a village 
 in the department of Vaucluse. The environs produce 
 a Muscat that is much esteemed. 
 
 5. — Bono Maire's altar, that of (he good mother, or 
 the holy Virgin's. 
 
 6. — Whitening, canela; this word is used to describe 
 the silkworms suffering from the terrible disease called 
 the muscardim, due to the development of a sort of 
 mouldiness, and which gives them a plastery appearance.
 
 74 NOTES TO THE THIRD CANTO. 
 
 7. — You've still your caul on (as la crespino). Crespino 
 a cap, or the membrane some children have on their 
 heads at their birth, and Avhich is in the popular mind a 
 certain sign of good luck. 
 
 8. — Pamparigousto, an imaginary country, such as 
 Cocagne. 
 
 9. — Ventour, a high mountain forty eight kilometres 
 to the N. E. of Avignon, abruptly rising,, 1,911 metres 
 above the level of the sea, isolated, sleep, visible forty 
 leagues off, and for six months of the year capped with 
 snow. 
 
 Geographers are wrong in writing it Ventoux instead 
 of Venlour. All the surrounding populations pronounce 
 it Ventour. The name of one of its appendages is 
 Ventouret, and a certain north-wind is called la Ventou- 
 reso because it blows from that quarter. 
 
 10. — N.-B.-des-Boms, the cathedral church at Avignon 
 in which the popes formerly officiated. — T. 
 
 11. — Azalats, the Provencal form of the name Adelaide. 
 
 12. — Faneto cle Ganteume. Janette, abridged from 
 Estefanette, of the noble family of Gantelme, presided 
 about the year 1340 over the Court of love of Eomanin. 
 Courts of love are known to have been poetical assizes 
 at which the noblest, most beautiful, and most learned 
 ladies in Gay-saber, decided on questions of gallantry and 
 love, and awarded prizes for Provencal poetry. The 
 celebrated and lovely Laura was niece to Fanette de 
 Gantelme and a member of her graceful areopagus. 
 
 The ruins of the castle of Bomanin may still be seen 
 not far from S' Remy, at the foot of the northern slope 
 of the Lower Alps.
 
 NOTES TO THE THIRD CANTO. 75 
 
 13. — The Countess Die, a celebrated poetess of the 
 middle of the twelfth century. Such of her poems as have 
 come down to us contain some strains more impassioned 
 and occasionally more voluptuous than those of Sappho. 
 
 14. — The Roumeco, a sort of vampire of the Soutli, 
 The Marquis Lafare Alais has given the following des- 
 cription of it in his Gaslagnados -. 
 
 Sus vint aipo d'aragno 
 S'escasso souu r.ors bruii ; 
 Soun ventre, que regagno, 
 Di I'c'bre e de magagno 
 Suso Torre frescun. 
 
 (That is : — On twenty spider-legs its brown body, as 
 on stilts, is mounted ; its belly swelled with fever and 
 rottenness, the horrid odor thereof exudes. — T.) 
 
 15. — T/(e Z.H&ero/J, a mountain-chain in the department 
 of Vaucluse. 
 
 16. — The Vaumasco (from Van masco, valley of sor- 
 cerers , a valley of the Luberon, formerly inhabited by 
 the Vaudois. 
 
 17. — Ma tant amado , my so much loved. For this 
 jihrase it is hard to And a proper equivalent, and, owing 
 to the incomparable energy of the monosyllabic tant, 
 quite impossible to render it literally. — T. 
 
 18. — An aubado (from I'aiiho the dawn), is music 
 performed in the morning early, under a window, just as 
 a serenade is in the evening. — T.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO IV 
 
 THE SUITORS 
 
 111 the cool meadows, 
 
 When the violets in bunches blow, 
 
 There are not lacking couples 
 
 In the shade 
 
 To go and cull them. 
 
 When the sea calms down her angry bosom, 
 
 And her billows gently heave, 
 
 There are not lacking boats and smacks 
 
 That from Martegue ^ go in fleets, 
 
 Go on their wings of oars 
 
 Over the tranquil sea and there disperse, 
 
 And with their nets inclose the fish. 
 
 And when among the women comes the swarm 
 
 Of maidens in their bloom, 
 
 6
 
 78 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 When country-lasses and countesses win renown 
 
 P'or beauty, in the cottages of Crau 
 
 And in the farmsteads suitors are not lacking; 
 
 To the Falabrego-Mas alone 
 
 There came a trio ; one kept horses, 
 
 One a herdsman was, and one a shepherd. 
 
 All three fine lads. 
 
 Atari the shepherd was the first to come. 
 They say he had a thousand sheep that grazed 
 The rich salt-pastures all the winter through 
 On lake Entresseifs banks '-. They say that at 
 Wheat-boiling, when the warmth of May is felt, 
 To the cool regions of the Upper Alps 
 Himself was wont to lead them. 
 
 They moreover say, and I believe it, 
 
 That about S' Mark's day nine sheep-shearers, 
 
 Famous all, sheared for him; 
 
 Not to mention him engaged to bear away 
 
 The heavy fleeces, or the sheep-boy who 
 
 Unceasingly the quickly emptied can 
 
 Replenished for the shearers. 
 
 When the heat began to moderate, 
 
 And snow was falling thick 
 
 Upon the mountain-tops in Gavot land, 
 
 You should have seen descend, 
 
 From the upper valleys of Dauphiny 
 
 To the irtimense Crauenco plain. 
 
 This splendid flock to graze the winter-grass.
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 79 
 
 You should have seeu this multitude 
 
 Defilo into the stony road; 
 
 The early lambkins heading the whole band 
 
 Came cajiering on in merry groups, 
 
 The lambherd guiding them. Then came 
 
 The bell-decked asses, he and she, their foals beside 
 
 Or in disorder trotting after them. 
 
 A drover has the charge of these : 
 
 Astride upon his mule, 
 
 Tis he who in the wattled panniers 
 
 Keeps the clothing, 
 
 Drink and eatables. 
 
 The hides still bleeding of the slaughtered cattle, 
 
 And the weary lamb. 
 
 As captains of the host, 
 
 With horns curved backward, 
 
 Jingling their bells, come on abreast 
 
 Five lordly bucks with threatening heads 
 
 And looks aslvaut ; 
 
 Behind them come the mothers 
 
 With their little madcap kids. 
 
 This greedy vagabond troop 
 
 The goatherd tends. 
 
 Then on the road appear 
 
 The large ram-chiefs. 
 
 With muzzles lifted up ; 
 
 They are distinguished by their haxxy horns 
 
 Thrice curled about their ears.
 
 80 iV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 They have their ribs and backs 
 
 Moreover decked with tufts of wool, 
 
 In honorable token that they are 
 
 The flock's sires. The chief shepherd 
 
 At his troop's head marches 
 
 With his cloak wrapped round his shoulders, 
 
 While the main corps of the army follows 
 
 In a cloud of dust. 
 
 And hastily preceding come the ewe-dams, 
 
 Answering by long bleatings 
 
 To the bleatings of their lambs, 
 
 The little horned ones prinked 
 
 With small red tufts about their necks. 
 
 Then come the woolly slowly-pacing sheep. 
 
 From time to time the shepherd-boys are heard 
 The dogs commanding. Then the countless flock 
 With pitch-marked sides are seen, the yearling-ewes 
 Biennial breeders and the two-year olders, 
 Those whose lambs have from them weaned been, 
 And the twin-breeders that reluctantly 
 And wearily their heavy burdens bear along. 
 
 And lastly comes 
 
 A ragamufTin squadron ; 
 
 'Tis of barren and past-breeding ewes 
 
 Composed, the toathless and the lame ; 
 
 The sad remains of superannuated 
 
 Worn out rams, that horns and honor 
 
 Have together lost.
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 81 
 
 And all these asses sheep and goats, 
 
 As many as the way contains ; 
 
 All, young old good bad and indilFerent ; 
 
 Are Aiari's : 
 
 And when before him they descend. 
 
 Defiling off by hundreds, his eyes glisten ! 
 
 For a sceptre he a maple-cudgel bears; 
 
 And when to pasture going. 
 
 Followed by his large sheep-dogs. 
 
 And in his leather-gaiters battoned to the knees, 
 
 You'd take him, with his air serene and forehead sage, 
 
 For Royal David's self. 
 
 As in his youth he went his Hocks to water 
 
 At his father's wells. 
 
 "Why ! that must be Mireio 
 
 Standing at the Falabrego-door ! 
 
 Exclaimed the shepherd-chief. Good heavens ! 
 
 They have not deceived me : nowhere whether 
 
 In the uplands or the lowlands, or in pictures 
 
 Or reality, none have I ever seen 
 
 That to her waist comes up for manners grace or beauty ! 
 
 Only to behold her 
 
 Alari had left his Hocks and herds. 
 
 And when he was before her. 
 
 Could you, in a trembling voice, he said. 
 
 Point out to me a way to cross the hills ? 
 
 If not, fair maid, I fear 
 
 I'll not be able to proceed.
 
 82 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 Tliou'st only, see, to take tlie straight road, 
 
 Answered the mas maiden ; 
 
 Then thou'lt enter Peiromalo desert ; 
 
 Then thou'lt take the winding path, 
 
 Till to a portico ■' thou come ; 
 
 A tomb is near it on which stand . 
 
 The lofty statues of two generals ■^; 
 
 We call them the antiquities. 
 
 Oh ! many thanks, returned the youth. 
 
 A thousand of the woolly tribe. 
 
 And with my mark upon them. 
 
 From La Crau tomorrow will ascend the hill. 
 
 I lead the band and settle, as we go, 
 
 Ixie feeding grounds, the sleeping spots, and eke the road. 
 
 They're of a fine breed all the beasts. 
 
 My shepherdess, moreover, when I marry 
 
 Will the nightingale hear singing day and night. 
 
 And had I any hope, adorable Mireio, 
 
 You'd my offering accept, I'd offer you 
 
 Not jewels, but a box-wood goblet 
 
 I have carved for you and spickspan new. 
 
 Then as he ceased to speak. 
 
 Enveloped like a relic, from his coat 
 
 He drew a goblet carved 
 
 Out of green box-wood. In his leisure hoi "s 
 
 His pleasure was to sit upon a stone 
 
 And with such things amuse himself. 
 
 And too, with nothing but a knife, he wrought divinely.
 
 IV. THE suiTo;\s. 83 
 
 With fantastic liaiul he carved him 
 
 Castanets, by means of which at night 
 
 Across the fields he led his flock ; 
 
 And on the ringing collars, and the hones 
 
 That served for bell-tongues, 
 
 He would faces cut and figures. 
 
 Flowers and birds, and all he minded. 
 
 But the goblet now produced 
 
 You would deny, I'm sure, 
 
 A shepherd's knife had fashioned it. 
 
 A poppy in full ])lossom 
 
 Bloomed around it. 
 
 And between its languid flowers 
 
 Two chamois grazed, the handles forming. 
 
 Just a little lower down 
 
 Were seen three maidens, " 
 
 That were certainly three marvels. 
 
 Near, beneath a tree, a shepherd-lad was sleeping; 
 
 And the merry maidens were advancing 
 
 Softly on tiptoe, and laying on his mouth 
 
 A bunch of grapes, of which they had a basket full. 
 
 All smiles the youth awakes : 
 
 One of the maidens seems confused. 
 
 The goblet smelt quite new. 
 
 He hadn't yet drunk out of it, 
 
 But for the color of the wood 
 
 You'd have declared 
 
 The figures in the work weri; living.
 
 84 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 01" a truth, Mireio s.iicl inspecting it, 
 Shepherd, thine offering is tempting. 
 But, she suddenly exclaimed, my heart's lord 
 Hath a finer one ! it is his love, 
 
 shepherd ! and when his impassioned eyes 
 Are on me, mine must close ; the bliss 
 
 1 feel steal over me o'erpowers me. 
 
 Then like a sprite the maiden vanished. 
 
 Alari the shepherd folded up 
 
 His goblet carefully again 
 
 And slowly in the twilight 
 
 Left the house, disturbed to think 
 
 A maid so fair, so much in love should be 
 
 With any one but him. 
 
 To the Falabrego-Mas there came besides 
 A keeper of wild horses, Veran called. 
 This Veran came from Sambu '•. Round 
 About Sambu, and in the large prairies 
 Where blooms the Cabridello ^, he a hundred 
 Steeds possessed, all white, that nipped the heads off' 
 Of the lofty reeds. 
 
 A hundred steeds, 
 
 With manes like billows of the sea, 
 
 Long wavy thick and innocent of shears. 
 
 And when they start impetuous 
 
 On their headlong courses 
 
 Their dishevelled manes fly up 
 
 And like the scarfs of white-robed fairies wave.
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 85 
 
 Oh ! shame upon the human race ! 
 
 Gamargan" steeds have never 
 
 To the cruel spur, 
 
 No more than to the hand that flatters them, 
 
 Been known to be submissive. 
 
 Hahered treacherously, some I've known 
 
 To have been from their salt-plains torn ; 
 
 But one day with a vicious sudden start. 
 
 Their riders thowing off. 
 
 They've at a heat scoured twenty leagues of country, 
 
 Snuffmg-up the wind. 
 
 And to their native Vacares'^ returned 
 
 To breathe their salt-sea-air again, and roam 
 
 In freedom after ten years' slavery ! 
 
 For these white horses' element's the sea ! 
 
 Foam-colored they are still ! 
 
 They doubtless from the car 
 
 Of Neptune broke away ! 
 
 For when the sea is heard to moan and seen to scowl, 
 
 When ships their cables part, 
 
 The stallions of Camargue rejoicing neigh 
 
 And smack like whipcord 
 
 Their long-hanging tails. 
 
 Or paw the ground 
 
 As though they felt 
 
 The pricking trident of the angry god, 
 
 Who stirs the tempest into deluge 
 
 And the sea's depths to their very bottom.
 
 86 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 These same Veraii pastured. 
 
 To La Crau one day his business taking him, 
 
 'Tis said towards Mireio's mas 
 
 He bent his steps. For in Camargue 
 
 And even at the wide mouths yonder 
 
 Where the Rhone debouches 
 
 'Twas reported she was fair, and long it will ])e. 
 
 Proudly he advanced, 
 
 With paletot after the Artesian fashion 
 
 Long and light, thrown over both his shoulders 
 
 Like a cloak ; a girdle round his loins 
 
 Checkered like ;i lizard's back, 
 
 And on his head an oil-skin hat 
 
 Oir which the sunbeams glanced. 
 
 And when in presence of the Master, 
 
 He, Good morrow to thee, said, and eke prosperity ! 
 
 Upon the banks of the Camargan Rhone 
 
 I dwell. I'm Keeper Peire's grandson. 
 
 Nay, but thou must know it, seeing that 
 
 For twenty years at least my grandsire 
 
 Keeper Peire's horses trod thy treading-floor. 
 
 Thoa must remember too 
 My venerable grandsire owned three dozen **. 
 But, Master Ramoun ! if thou couldst but see 
 Th' astounding increase of this little leaven ! 
 Now the sickles may be harder plied than ever, 
 For we've seven dozen and as many couple". 
 Long, the old man answered, Long, my son,
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 87 
 
 May you l)oth lead them out to pasture 
 
 And behold them multiply ! 
 
 Your grandsire well I knew, and certes 
 
 Our friendship is of ancient standing. 
 
 But the frost of age has come, 
 
 And by the light of our own lamp '" we needs 
 
 Must quietly remain and friendly visits cease. 
 
 But that's not all, pursued the youth. 
 
 And what I want of thee thou know'st not yet. 
 
 At Sambu, when the Crau folks come 
 
 In quest of waggon-loads of litter, 
 
 And, while we are helping them 
 
 To cord them down, it happens 
 
 They will sometimes of the Crau maids talk. 
 
 And thy Mireio they've depicted 
 
 So much to my taste, that if to thine too 
 
 Vcranet^' thou hnd, thy son-in-law he'll be. 
 
 ilow, Veranet ! may I but see it! 
 
 Ramoun cried ; for of your grandsire. 
 
 Keeper Peire, of my friend. 
 
 The blooming scion can but do me honor. 
 
 Then, up to the heavens like a saint 
 
 Returning thanks, he raised his hands and said, 
 
 I'rovided you be to the child agreeable, 
 
 I*'or as she is the only one she is the darling, 
 
 INleanwhile, and as earnest of her dower, 
 
 ]\Iay the blessing of the saints 
 
 And their eternitv be vours !
 
 88 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 His daughter straightway then he called 
 
 And soon had told her. 
 
 Pale at once, afraid and trembling with emotion, 
 
 Thus she spoke, "Why, father mine. 
 
 Thy saintly understanding what's it thinking of. 
 
 That young, so young as I am, 
 
 Thou shouldst wish me married ? 
 
 It is slow work, hast thou often told me, 
 Taking to each-other. One must know 
 One's folk, one must he known ; and when 
 One knows and is known, is that all? 
 The dark cloud here upon her face was suddenly 
 Illumined as by some bright thought. 
 E'en as the drowning flowers 
 
 After morning-rain may through the water 
 That encumbers them be seen to smile. 
 Mireio's mother countenanced her daughter. 
 Then the keeper blandly. 
 Master Ramoun, said he, I withdraw : 
 For I can tell thee, a Camargan keeper 
 Knows the sting of a mosquito well ! 
 
 There came besides to sue the maiden. 
 
 In the course of the same summer, 
 
 From the Souvage '^ pastures, Ourrias ^^ 
 
 The cattle-breaker and their brander. 
 
 Black and wicked are the cattle 
 
 Of the Souvage. To the broiling sun 
 
 The cold fogs and the pouring rain exposed.
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 89 
 
 The whole year round 
 
 Alone he, Ourrias, had charge of them. 
 
 Among tlie cattle Ijorn and bred, 
 
 He had their huild and cruel heart, 
 
 The same wild eye, dark color, dogged look. 
 
 Cudgel in hand, 
 
 His coat upon the ground, 
 
 How often, savage weaner that he w^a?, 
 
 Had he not from the udders 
 
 Wrenched the calves. 
 
 And on the angry mother 
 
 Broken cudgel after cudgel. 
 
 Until she, to llee the storm of blows, 
 
 Ran lowing to the pine-copse, gazing hack. 
 
 How many oxen two-year old and heifers three, 
 In the ferrado*'' at Camarguc had he not, 
 Seizing by the horns, laid low ! 
 Moreover he'd Ijetween his eyes a scar, 
 Jagged like the forky ray of lightning on a cloud 
 And once the verdant plain was crimsoned 
 With his blood ! 
 
 It happened on a grand ferrado day. 
 
 To help in mustering the herd, 
 
 Li Santo, Aigui-Morto, Faraman, 
 
 And Aubaroun '^, had sent into the wild 
 
 A hundred of their ablest horsemen. 
 
 Roused in their salt- wilderness, 
 
 Pursued and harassed by the trident
 
 90 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 Of the impetuous brander 
 
 At full gallop, bulls and lieifers 
 
 Like a gust of wind came headlong 
 
 Rushing, crashing salicorne and centaury '**, 
 
 And mustered at the branding-booth, 
 
 "Where crowds had met, 
 
 Three hundred strong. 
 
 They stand a moment scared, 
 
 Bewildered motionless, 
 
 And then are goaded in their sides; 
 
 They start afresh and thrice are forced to make 
 
 The circuit of the amphitheatre ; 
 
 Like marterns hunted by a dog, like sparrow-hawks 
 
 Chased by the eagle of the Luberoun ^''. 
 
 Credit it who will? but Ourrias, 
 
 To usage counter, from his horse alights. 
 
 The cattle at the crowded circus-doors 
 
 Start suddenly, and five young bulls 
 
 "With flaming eyes, and with their proud horns 
 
 Striving as it were' to pierce the sky, 
 
 Rush into the arena. 
 
 Ourrias pursues them 
 
 Like the wind the clouds. 
 
 He goads them running. 
 
 Running he outstrips them. 
 
 Now he thumps them with his goad. 
 
 Before them dances now. 
 
 Now with his ponderous fist belabors them.
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 91 
 
 /.' all tlie people clap their hands. 
 
 White with Oiimpic dust, while running, 
 
 Ourrias by the horns seized one at last; 
 
 And now it's head to muzzle, strength 'gainst strength. 
 
 The monster's object is to free his cumbered horns. 
 
 In trying to do which he sprains his back, 
 
 And then with fury bellowing spluttersbloodand smoke. 
 
 Vain fury ! useless pains ! 
 
 The neatherd, after subtly doubling. 
 
 With his shoulder forces round 
 
 The beast's huge head. 
 
 Then roughly shoving it the other way 
 
 Both beast and Christian roll upon the ground 
 
 And of a heap lay like a barricade. 
 
 The tamarisks ^^ are shaken 
 
 By the deafening shouts of 
 
 Brave man, Ourrias, brave man ! 
 
 And five broad-shouldered youths hold down the bull. 
 
 Then to enregister his triumph, 
 
 Ourrias himself the branding-iron seized. 
 
 And with the metal red-hot brands him on the hip. 
 
 A mounted troop of Arlaise maidens now, 
 
 With agitated iDOsom, flushed too 
 
 With the gallop of their snow-white poneys, 
 
 Offer him an ornamented drinking horn, 
 
 Brimful of wine ; then nimbly to the plain 
 
 Again repair and disappear, escorted 
 
 By a train of ardent cavaliers.
 
 92 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 But Ourrias has seen but cattle to be branded. 
 
 Four remained. 
 
 And as the mower mowing down the hay, 
 
 The harder mows the more lie sees before him, 
 
 So the more the battle raged 
 
 The more he, Ourrias, made head against it, 
 
 And the haunches branded of the ^our remaining. 
 
 Spotted white, with horns superb. 
 
 The last was browsing on the green. 
 
 Hold, Ourrias ! enough, enough ! 
 
 The neatherds cried. Dissuasion useless ! 
 
 "With his trident couched on hip, 
 
 "With perspiration streaming, bosom bare. 
 
 The bull white-spotted he proceeds to charge. 
 
 Zan! as he hits him in full face 
 
 The trident shivers to bits ! The wounil 
 
 Atrocious makes a demon of the bull; 
 
 The brander seized him by the horns. 
 
 They start together, and together 
 
 They the flowers of the plain lay waste. 
 
 The mounted Aries and Aigues-Mortes herdsmen, 
 
 Leaning on their goads' long handles, 
 
 Watch the mortal fray. 
 
 For victory both furious and savage are, 
 
 The man the bellowing beast essaying to subdue. 
 
 The beast his master carrying olF and licking 
 
 With his heavy frothy tongue the blood-drops 
 
 From his muzzle as he flies.
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 93 
 
 Misericonli! but the bull prevails ! 
 
 The man like a vile rakeful, from the violence 
 
 Of the motion, falls before the brute. 
 
 Sham dead ! Sham dead ! Vain counsel ! 
 
 From the ground the bull uplifts him 
 
 On his pointed horns, and liurls him through the air 
 
 With his ferocious head full forty-six feet back '^ ' 
 
 II 
 
 The tamarisks are shaken 
 
 By another deafening shout, 
 
 And on his face falls Ourrias, 
 
 Who ever since has borne 
 
 The scar that so disfigures him. 
 
 Now mounted on his mare. 
 
 With goad erect, he to Mireio comes. 
 
 The little maid was at the fountain 
 
 All alone that morning. 
 
 She'd her sleeves and petticoats tucked up, 
 
 And was her cheese-forms cleaning 
 
 With some shave-grass. 
 
 Female saints ! how beautiful she was ! 
 
 Her little feet in the clear water dabbling. 
 
 Ourrias began. Good morrow, damsel fair. 
 
 So thou art thy cheese-vessels -'^ polishing : 
 
 If thou have no objection, at this limpid stream 
 
 I will my mare reh'esh. 
 
 Oh ! we've no lack of water here she answered, 
 
 She may at the dam-head drink 
 
 As much as pleases thee.
 
 94 IV. THE SUITORS. 
 
 Fair maid, continued the wild youth, 
 If ever thou as bride or pilgrim shouldst 
 To Sylvareal 21 venture, where the sea is heard, 
 Thou wilt not have such trouble as thou hast 
 Down here ; for there the cow of the black breed 
 Is fierce and freely roams, is never milked, 
 And women have an easy life. 
 
 Young man, in cattle-land, they say, 
 
 Maids die of languor. Maiden fair. 
 
 Where two are languor cannot be. 
 
 Young man, they say that those w±o wander thither 
 
 Bitter water drink, and that the sun 
 
 Their faces blisters. In the pine-trees' shade. 
 
 Fair lady, thou may'st ever keep. 
 
 Young man, they say the pines infested are 
 With coils of virid serpents. Maiden fair. 
 We've herons, and besides flamingoes 
 AVho their rosy mantles spread 
 And all along the Rhone pursue them. 
 Listen, young man, let me tell thee, 
 From my falabrego-irees thy pines 
 
 Are too remote. Pretty lady, priests 
 And maidens, so the proverb says, ne'er know 
 The land to which they may be called to go 
 And eat their bread in some day. Mine but let me eat 
 With him I love, young man, and nothing 
 More there'll need to wean me from my nest. 
 Fair maid, an it be so, give me thy love !
 
 IV. THE SUITORS. 95 
 
 Young man, it shall be thine ! 
 
 Mireio said. But first these plants 
 
 Of nenuphar — -will bear colombin -^ grapes, 
 
 Thy goad will flower. 
 
 These hills will melt like wax, 
 
 And all the world will go by water 
 
 To the town of Baux !
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE FOURTH CANTO 
 
 1. — Martegue (Martigue). See note 17 to l^' Canto. 
 (Pronounce Martegue as if it were an Italian word, 
 
 with the tonic accent on the penultimate. — 1.) 
 
 2. — Lake Entressen (clar d'Entressen) in La Crau. 
 
 3. — yl portico, etc. "Within half an hour's walk of 
 S' Remy, at the foot of the Alpines, arise side by side 
 two fine Roman monuments. One is a triumphal arch, 
 the other a magnificent mausoleum of three stories, adorn- 
 ed with rich bass-reliefs and surmounted by a graceful 
 cupola, supported by ten Corinthian pillars through which 
 are discerned two statues in a standing attitude. They 
 are the last vestiges of Glanum, a Marseilles colony, 
 destroyed by the Barbarians. 
 
 4. — Sambu, a hamlet in the territory of Aries, in the 
 isle of Camargue. 
 
 5. — Cabriclello, see note 19 to 1" Canto.
 
 NOTES TO THE FOURTH CANTO. 07 
 
 6. — Camargue is a vast delta formed by the bifurca- 
 tion of the Rhone. The island extends from Aries to the 
 sea, and comprises 74,727 hectares. The immensity of its 
 horizon, the awful silence of its level plain, its strange 
 vegetation, meres, swarms of mosquitoes, large herds of 
 oxen and wild horses, amaze the traveller and remind 
 him of the pampas of South America. (See Canto X.) 
 
 7. — Vacares, a large assemblage of salt-ponds, lagunes 
 and moors, in the isle of Camargue. Vacares is formed 
 of the w^ord vaco and of the Provencal desinence ares or 
 eir^s, indicating union, generality. It means a place 
 where cows abound. It is thus that from vigno a vine, 
 from barco a bark, from ribo a bank, the words vignares 
 a vineyard, barcares a fleet, ribeires a shore, have 
 been formed. 
 
 8. — Dozen (rodo). The wild horses of Camargue are 
 used to tread out the corn. They are counted by rodo, 
 a wheel or circle. The rodo is composed of six liame, 
 and each liame (lien) holds a couple ; the rodo therefore 
 is equal to a dozen. 
 
 9. — Couple (liame). See preceding note. 
 
 10. — Lamp (moco). The moco is a bit of reed attached 
 to the wainscot in the dining rooms of homesteads, 
 serving to hold a Roman lamp called a calcu. 
 
 11. — Veranet, tbe diminutive of "Veran. — T. 
 
 12. — Souvage is a vast desert, also called Petite-Ca 
 margue, bounded on the E. by the Petit-Rhone, which 
 separates it from the Grande-C amargue ; on the S. by 
 the Mediterranean, and on the W. and N. by the Rhone-
 
 98 NOTES TO THE FOURTH CANTO. 
 
 Mort, and the Aigues-Mortes canal. It is the principal 
 resort of tlie wild black oxen. — (Pronounce Souvage as 
 if it were an Italian word, with the tonic accents on the 
 first and the penultimate. — T.) 
 
 13. — Ourrias is the Provengal form of the proper 
 name Elzear. 
 
 14. — Ferrado, a pastoral operation celebrated at A.rles 
 with much ceremony ; and which consists in collecting 
 all the young horned cattle within a certain area, and 
 branding them with the mark of their owner. 
 
 15. — Li Santo (see note 21 to 1" Canto.) Faraman 
 and Aubaroun are hamlets in Camargue. Aigui-Morto 
 (Aigues-Mortes) is in the department of the Card. It was 
 at the port of this town that S' Louis twice embarked for 
 the Holy Land. Here also Francis I and Charles V had 
 an interview in 1579. 
 
 16. — Salicorne and centaury. See note 5. to 10th 
 Canto. — T, 
 
 17. — Luberoiin. See note 15 to 3rd Canto. 
 
 18. — Tamarisks. See note 5 to lOtli Canto. 
 
 19. — Forty-six feet (set cano), seven Cannes. The canne 
 is equal to six feet seven inches English, consequently 
 the seven are equal to 46 ft 1 in. - T. 
 
 20. — Cheese-vessels (fiscello), from the Latin fiseella, 
 same meaning. These are earthen vessels for making 
 cheeses in. The bottoms are pierced with small holes 
 through which the whey runs when the cheeses are 
 pressed.
 
 NOTES TO THE FOURTH CANTO. 99 
 
 21. _ Sylvarial, a forest of parasol-pines, situate in 
 Petite-Camargue (see preceding note 12). A small fort, 
 built to protect tlie shipping of the neighbourhood, com- 
 mands this island and bears the name of Fort de Sylva- 
 real. 
 
 22. — Nenuphar, a beautiful aquatic plant, the water- 
 lily or rose ; njimphwa heracUa, Plin. — T. 
 
 23. — Colombin, the name of a large and superior sort 
 of grape. — T.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 THE BATTLE 
 
 The Ventoureso^ breeze was freshening, 
 The shadow of the poplars lengthening, 
 Still the sun had two good hours to run ; 
 Nevertheless to him the toiling ploughmen 
 Ever and anon would turn their eyes, 
 Longing for dewy eve to greet 
 Their wives upon the door-step. 
 
 Ourrias, the hrander, left the spring 
 
 Revolving in his mind the insult 
 
 He had just received. Shame made him furious, 
 
 So furious the blood would rush up 
 
 To his forehead. Spite inveterate 
 
 His bosom filled. Across the fields he galloped 
 
 Muttering his wrath.
 
 102 V, THE BATTLE. 
 
 As damsons in a busli the stones in Crau 
 
 Are plentiful : with these he would have picked 
 
 A quarrel and have fought ; he would have 
 
 Pierced the sun through with his lance. 
 
 A wild boar startled 
 
 From his lair, and running o'er 
 
 The desert slopes of black Oulimpe -, 
 
 Ere he turns upon the dogs pursuing him 
 
 Erects the rugged bristles of his back, 
 
 And sharps his tusks against the oaks. 
 
 Well favored Vincenet ^ 
 
 Along the same path coming 
 
 Meets the herdsman, chafed and tortured 
 
 With resentment; 
 
 Whereas he is all smiles, 
 
 Musing o'er th;> sweet words 
 
 That the loving maid had said to him 
 
 One morning 'neath the mulberry- tree. 
 
 Straight as a Durance cane he walks. 
 
 While happiness peace love 
 
 Beam from his countenance.* 
 
 His loose unbuttoned shirt 
 
 The soft breeze swells ; 
 
 Over the stones he steps, barefooted, 
 
 Light and merry as a lizard. 
 
 Many a time in the cool evening 
 
 When the earth was wrapped in shadow; 
 
 When the clover in the fields,
 
 V. THE BATTLE. 103 
 
 Its leaves, so sensitive to cold, had closed ; 
 
 He'd como and flutter like a Initterfly 
 
 About the homestead where the maiden dwelt. 
 
 Or cleverly concealed, 
 
 The little chirrup of the golden-crested 
 
 Or the ivy-wren would imitate. 
 
 The loving maiden too w^ould understand 
 
 Who called her, and would quickly 
 
 To the hawlhorn-Juish repair, but cautiously 
 
 And with her heart a little ])eating. 
 
 Charming is the moonlight 
 
 Shining on narcissus-buds ; yea, 
 
 Charming are the summer-evening zephyrs 
 
 RustUng through the ears of corn, and causing 
 
 Undulations, thousands upon thousands, 
 
 So that like a heaving bosom 
 
 They with love seem palpitating. 
 
 Joy ineffable the chamois feels 
 
 When after being chased the whole day long 
 
 By huntsmen, o'er the rocks of Queiras '', 
 
 He stands at length upon a peak alone. 
 
 Amid the larches and surrounding glaciers. 
 
 Faint however are like joys and charms 
 
 Compared to the brief moments of felicity 
 
 Together Vincen and Mireio passed. 
 
 But, my lips, speak low, 
 
 For bushes have their ears ! 
 
 As favored by the friendly shade
 
 104 V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 Their hands, would come together. 
 
 There were intervals of silence 
 
 During which their feet with pebbles played, 
 
 And then, not knowing better what to say, 
 
 The tyro-lover would 
 
 The common misadventures 
 
 That befell him laughing tell ; 
 
 Such as, the nights he passed out in the open air. 
 
 The was-dogs' bites, with which his legs 
 
 Were scarred. Or else Mireio would 
 
 Her little occupations of the day 
 
 Or day before relate. 
 
 Or what her mother to her father said. 
 
 Or how the goat had eaten all the trellis-flowers. 
 
 Once only Vincen lost his self-command. 
 
 He, crouching like a wild cat 
 
 On the barren moor. 
 
 Came creeping to the damsel's feet. 
 
 But, my lips speak low. 
 
 For bushes have their ears! 
 
 Let me entreat of you one kiss, Mireio ! 
 
 Mireio, I can neither eat nor drink. 
 Believe me, for the love I bear you. Yea, 
 Your breath the wind deprives me of I would 
 Lay up within my blood! From early dawn 
 To early dawn at least, Mireio, 
 Let me on your garment's border kneel 
 And cover it with kisses I
 
 V, THE BATTLE. 105 
 
 Vincen, that is sinful ! 
 
 Then the black-caps and the penclulines ^ 
 
 Will go and tell the secret of our love ! 
 
 Don't fear their telling it, for every penduline 
 
 And black-cap in La Crau, as far as Aries, 
 
 I will to morrow banish. Ah ! I see 
 
 A perfect paradise in you, Mireio ! 
 
 Mireio, listen. In the Rhone, 
 
 Said Master Ambroi's son, 
 
 There is a plant we call rerbeto di frisoiin'^; 
 
 It bears two flowers on two stems ; 
 
 These stems are widely separate ; 
 
 The plant grows at the bottom of the water. 
 
 When however comes the time to woo. 
 
 One of the flowers to the surface rises. 
 And its bud exposes to the warm sun. 
 Whereupon the other flower 
 Seeing her so fair is fired with love 
 And swims away amain to kiss her. 
 To keep clear of the impeding weeds 
 She finds it hard; so hard, poor dear, 
 
 Her pedicle gets broken ! Now she free 
 
 At last, but dying, raises to her sister's 
 
 Her pale lips ! One kiss, and then my death, Mireio! 
 
 We are all alone ! She pallid stood. 
 
 He gazed enraptured. Suddenly 
 
 He like a wild cat pounces on her. Quickly 
 
 She th' audacious arm shakes oU" that had her waist
 
 lOG V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 Encircled. Once again he seizes her. 
 
 But, my lips speak low ! 
 
 For hushes have their ears. Give over ! 
 
 Moaned she, bending now and writhing. 
 
 In a warm embrace however 
 
 He had folded her, and cheek pressed cheek. 
 
 The maiden pinched him, stooped, then slipped ofl'laughin 
 
 And away the saucebox ran 
 In mock'ry singing, Lingueto ! lingueto ^ .' 
 Thus it was at twilight these two sowed 
 Their wheat, their poulit hlad de luno ^. 
 They were flowery blissful moments; 
 Such as God to peasants as to kings 
 Abundantly dispenses. 
 
 One evening then, 
 
 In the vast plain of Crau, 
 
 The handsome basket-weaver 
 
 Ourrias encountered in his path. 
 
 The lightning strikes the tree 
 
 That first attracts it. 
 
 First the cattle-breaker spoke. 
 
 It's may be you, you son of a ..., 
 
 That have bewitched her, that Mireio ! 
 
 Since, rags and tatters, 
 
 You are going thither, tell her that I care 
 
 As little for her, or her weasel-face. 
 
 As for the old clout fluttering on your shoulders. 
 
 Pretty coxcomb ! tell her so much for me.
 
 V. THE BATTLE. 107 
 
 Vincen started ! thunderstruck : 
 
 His heart uphounded like a rocket. 
 
 Do you want me, churl, to strangle you? 
 
 To dou])le you in two ? he said. 
 
 And with a look confronting him 
 
 As terrible as when a famished leopard 
 
 Turns her head. 
 
 His face was purple, 
 
 All his body quivered. 
 
 Better try! replied the other, 
 
 On the gravel you'll roll head first. 
 
 Why, your hands are puny, fit for nothing 
 
 But to twist a bit of ozier, or 
 
 Rob hen-roosts, lurking in the shade. 
 
 At these insulting words exasperated, 
 
 Vincen answered, yea, I do twist ozier, 
 
 And your neck I'll twist! 
 
 Flee while you can, poltroon. 
 
 My anger flee ! or by S' James of Galicia, 
 
 YoiCll ne'er see your tamarisks again ; 
 
 This iron fist shall bray your bones first. 
 
 "Wondering and charmed to find so soon 
 A man on whom to wreak his vengeance; 
 Wait a moment, wait young madman, 
 Says the herdsman ; first, let's light a pipe. 
 Setting a blackened calumet 
 Between his teeth, he from his pocket draws 
 A buckskin-pouch,
 
 108 V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 Then scornfully resumes : While rocking you 
 
 Beneath the goose-foot \ did your gipsey-mother 
 
 Never tell of Jan de rOurse^"? 
 
 Jan de TOurse, two strong men in one ? 
 
 Who, when his master sent him with two yoke 
 
 To plough his stubble, seized, 
 
 As shepherds • seize a crook, 
 
 The plough and teams and hurled them 
 
 Over a tall poplar! And it's lucky, 
 
 Urchin, there's no poplar here. 
 
 Why, you're not fit to turn a donkey off a bank ! 
 
 Here Vincen standing as a pointer to the game, 
 
 I say ! he cries to split his throat. 
 
 Will yoil come down or must I fetch you? 
 
 Guzzling, heavy-eating, hog ! 
 
 You've bragged enough upon your jade. 
 
 You flinch now we're about to test 
 
 Who sucked the better milk ! 
 
 It's you, is't ? beardy scoundrel ! 
 
 Why, I'll tread you as a sheaf is trod ! 
 
 It's you despise the virgin of the mas, 
 
 The flower of the land, Mireio ! 
 
 I, the basket-maker, Vincen, 
 
 I, her suitor, Vincenet, 
 
 Your calumnies shall wash out in your blood, 
 
 If you have any ! 
 
 Arri, arri! shouts the herdsman; 
 
 Gipsey-suitor to a cupboard, stay a bit ;
 
 V. IllE BATTLE. 109 
 
 And lights upon the ground. 
 
 Away lly coats, fall fists ! 
 
 The pebbles i-oll. 
 
 They on each other rush like two bulls. 
 
 Two bulls that have on the rank savannah, 
 
 Where the huge sun glares. 
 
 Spied the sleek liaunches of a dark young heifer 
 
 Lowing in the tall grass am'rously; 
 
 The thunder bursts within them suddenly 
 
 And both go mad and Ijlind with love. 
 
 They paw the ground, then at each other starc^ . 
 
 Spring forward, charge with muzzle low, 
 
 Retire and charge again ; the air .resounds 
 
 With the battering of their heads. 
 
 Horribly long the battle lasts. 
 
 For it is love intoxicates. 
 
 All powerful love that urges goads them on. 
 
 Thus these two chanifiions fought. 
 
 Thus they upon each other fell. 
 
 The first blow Ourrias got. 
 
 And being threatened with another. 
 
 lie his huge list raises like a club 
 
 And with it prostrates Vincenet. 
 
 There, urchin, parry that ! See, man, 
 
 If I have got a scj-atch ! the latter cries. 
 
 The former. Count the bruises, bastard, 
 
 That my list has made on you ! 
 
 Horrible monslei'. count the ounces of hot blood
 
 NO 
 
 V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 That from your flattened nose have spouted ! 
 
 Then they gra])ple, Lend and stretch; 
 
 To shoulder shoulder is and foot to foot ; 
 
 Their arms are wreathed together like coiled serpents. 
 
 While their veins are sw^clled to bursting 
 
 And the muscles of their calves by tension hard. 
 
 Long, stiff and motionless they stand, 
 
 Their flanks pulsating like 
 
 The heavj- flapping of a bustard's wings; 
 
 And one against the other pressing 
 
 They support each other, 
 
 Like th' abutments wide and rough 
 
 Of the huge bridge that strides the Gardoun ". 
 
 Suddenly they sunder, 
 
 And their fists are doubled, 
 
 And the pestle in the mortar brays again. 
 
 Now in the fury that possesses them 
 
 They use their teeth, their nails. 
 
 Heavens, how Vincen peppers him with blows ! 
 
 Heavens, the awful hits the herdsman deals ! 
 
 His club-like fists fall crushing, smashing! 
 
 But how rapidly and thick 
 
 The Valabregan's patter 
 
 Like a sudden storm of pelting hail; 
 
 While round about his foe iie whizzes 
 
 Like a sling whirled round. 
 
 Now, villain, look your last ! he cries ; 
 
 But as he benjls his back to deal his blow,
 
 V. THE D ATTLK. I I I 
 
 The puissant herdsman seized liiin by the small, 
 
 And in Proveneal fashion 
 
 Tosserl him oVr his shoulder 
 
 Like a shoveil'ul of wheat 
 
 Into a field away off, 
 
 Where he fell upon his side. 
 
 Pick up, woi'in I pick uii llie dirl 
 
 You have disturljed, and eat it if you want! 
 
 J^nough discoursing, ill-broke brute ! 
 
 Tlireo rounds ])efore it's over we must liave I 
 
 Retorts the lad with bitter hate 
 
 And reddening to his hair-roots. 
 
 He, the basket-weaver, rises 
 
 Like a dragon ; and, to save his honor 
 
 At the risk of perishing, 
 
 On the Gamargan savage ruslies 
 
 And a blow delivers him 
 
 With force ({uite marvellous at his age, 
 
 A straight-ont-from-the-shoulder blow 
 
 Upon the breastbone. 
 
 The Gamargan staggers, 
 
 Feels for something to support him ; 
 
 To his misty optics all seemed turning ; 
 
 Icy-cold sweat broke out on his forehead : 
 
 Then upon the stony plain. 
 
 And with a falling tower's crash, 
 
 Great Ourrias falls ! 
 
 Into deep silence all La Grau wasi hushed ;
 
 112 V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 Its misty limits merged 
 
 In the far-distant sea, the sea's 
 
 In the hlue ether. Shining water-fowl, 
 
 Swans, and flamingoes witli tlieir flame-like wings, 
 
 Came to salnte 
 
 The last of the declining light 
 
 Along the meres. 
 
 The herdsman's white mare 
 
 Cropped the dwarf-oak leaves; 
 
 The loose large iron-stirrups 
 
 Jingled as they dangled at her sides. 
 
 Again bndge and I squash you ! 
 
 Ruffian, now you feel it's not 
 
 By feet and inches only men are mejtsurcd. 
 
 In the silent wold 
 
 The conquering hasket-weaver 
 
 Pressed his heel on (3urrias' prostrate breast. 
 
 The brander under the incumbent pressure 
 
 Struggled, and there from his mouth and nostrils 
 
 Flowed a stream of thick black blood. 
 
 He strove t'unsettle thrice 
 
 The horny-footed basket-lad, 
 
 And thrice a swinging blow 
 
 From Master Ambroi's son 
 
 Resettled him upon the gravel. 
 
 Haggard, blowing, mouth agape, 
 
 Like some sea-monster horrilde the herdsman lay. 
 
 The onlv mould of men
 
 V. THE BATTLE. 1 13 
 
 Your Jiiollicr wasn"!, after all ! 
 
 Jeered Vincen. To the JjuUs of Sylvareal go 
 
 And tell thcni my list's weight ! 
 
 Go to the Jjottoiii of Camargue 
 
 And hide your hruises, insolence, 
 
 And shame, away among your cattle ! 
 
 Saying which he ihe ferocious beast released. 
 
 Just as the shearer in the fold 
 
 A full grown ram retains between his legs 
 
 Till fully shorn, then with a ra]i 
 
 Upon the crupper looses him. « 
 
 With rage exploding and with dust all soiled 
 
 Released, the herdsman 
 
 Springing up departs. 
 
 But what infernal o])ject sets him 
 Ferreting about the fields, 
 Among the dwarf-oaks and broom-bushes ? 
 Chafing, storming, cursing all around ! 
 What is he seeking? / / /.' now he stoops. 
 1 ! i ! i ! o'er his head he brandishes 
 His trident savagely and rushes up 
 
 To Vincen. 'Neath the murderous lance 
 
 All unrev(>hged and hopeless 
 
 Vincen paled as on tlu> day he di(^d. 
 
 Not tliat he f(^'U-ed to die ; 
 
 But J)y infciMial cunning to lie mastered. 
 
 To become a felon's prey, 
 
 W'as too much for his nature.
 
 114 V. THE BATTLP]. 
 
 Traitor, would yon dare ? he'd hardly utlered 
 
 When he resolntely as a martyr 
 
 Checked himself, lor he remembered yonder, 
 
 Hidden hy the trees, the mas of his l^eloved. 
 
 Tenderly he turns to it, 
 
 Mireio, look at me ! as if to say, 
 
 For yon it is I am ahout to die ! 
 
 Intent as ever upon her he loved ! 
 
 O noble Yincen, no])le heart ! 
 
 Your prayers say! tlmndered Ourrias, 
 
 In a voice hoarse, pitiless ; 
 
 Then pierced him ^vith his iron ! 
 
 \Vith a heavy groan th'unhappy Aveaver 
 
 Fell and rolled upon the grass. 
 
 The grass is llattened, stained with Idood ; 
 
 Already the field-ants 
 
 Are coursing over his bare legs. 
 
 The brander gallops off, and mutters as he Hies 
 
 By moonlight, scattering the Hints, 
 
 To-night the Crau wolves 
 
 Over such a feast will laugh ! 
 
 Into deep silence all La Crau was hushed ; 
 
 Its misty limits merged 
 
 In the far distant sea, the sea's 
 
 In the blue ether. Shining water-fowl. 
 
 Swans, and flamingoes with their flame-like \Niugs, 
 
 Came to salute the last 
 
 Of the declining light along the meres.
 
 V. THE BATTLE. i 15 
 
 Away, ])rav(3 herdsman, gallop, gallop ! 
 
 Gallop without ceasing ! 
 
 Hopo ! hopo 1 shout green herons '=^ 
 
 In his mare's ears, 
 
 Causing her to prick them 
 
 And dilate her eyes and nostrils wide. 
 
 The Rhone was sleeping on his stony bed 
 
 By moonlight: like a pilgrim of S'« Baume^'' 
 
 Who from fatigue and heat has stretched him 
 
 At the bottom of a deep ravine. 
 
 ilo, ho, ho! boat ahoy! 
 
 Ho ! don't you hear ? on deek or in the hold 
 
 1 must be taken over with my mare ! 
 
 The riihian to three Ijoatmen cries. 
 
 On board come quickly then, good master; 
 See, the night-lamp has ah-eady risen. 
 Answered cheerily a voice ; the iish 
 Are frisking round the prow and oars ; 
 They're lively and the hour is good : 
 On board at once, my master, • 
 We've no time to spare. 
 
 On to the poop tlie villain '•' gets. 
 
 The mare swims haltered to the stern. 
 
 Large scaly lishes, 
 
 Having their deep grottoes left, 
 
 Now rulUe the smooth surface of the Khone, 
 
 And sliiuing play a])out the sid(>s. 
 
 A care have, master pilot,
 
 116 
 
 V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 For luelliinks the craft is growing skittish ;. 
 Then again the speaker, foot to stretcher, 
 Like a withy hends the oar. 
 Awhile ago I noticed it : I tell thee 
 "We've an evil freight on hoard, 
 Replied the pilot, then was silent. 
 Rolled and reeled the old craft 
 
 Pitched and staggered like a drunkard ; 
 She w\is crazy, rotten w^ere her timbers. 
 Iron de Dim! cried the hrander. 
 Seizing on the helm to stay himself. 
 The craft, due to some cause occult. 
 Writhed like a snake whose hack 
 A shepherd with a stone has Ijroken. 
 
 Why all this commotion, comrades? 
 
 Are you bent on drowning me ? 
 
 Appealed the hrander, pale as plaster. 
 
 I can't hold the craft. 
 
 The pilot said; she springs about 
 
 And wriggles like a carp. 
 
 Villain ! you've murdered some one ! 
 
 I! who told you that? 
 
 May Satan drag me to the bo;tom 
 
 With his pitchfork if I have ! 
 
 The pilot blandly then pursued : 
 
 Ah! I am wrong; I had forgot; 
 
 S' Medard's night this is, on which return 
 
 To land from th' horrible pits
 
 V. THE UATTLE. 1 17 
 
 The gloomy (b^pths, all poor drowned folk, 
 
 However dt^ep in water Ijiiried. 
 
 Lo, the long procession has already started ! 
 
 There they are, poor weeping soids ! 
 
 Ochold them on the shingly shore ! 
 
 Thciy rise bare-foot : the turbid liquid 
 
 In large drops is falling 
 
 From their mnd-soiled clothes and from their matted hair, 
 
 As in tlie shade of the tall poplars 
 
 They defile with lighted tapers in their hands. 
 
 Another rises ever and anon 
 
 Rejoicing to climb the river's bank. 
 
 "Tis these who like a tempest beat and toss 
 
 The craft about in this wild manner, 
 
 Their cramped legs and arms all mottled 
 
 And their heads still covered with the weeds 
 
 Struggling to free. See how they hwatc the stars ! 
 
 llow they inhale the limpid air, 
 
 And thrill at sight of Crau, 
 
 And scent the harvest odors, j-evelling 
 
 In their liberty of motion 
 
 With the water raining from tlieir garments. 
 
 Ever and auon another rises 
 
 From the river's bed. Here come, pursued 
 
 The master of the craft, the aged men 
 
 And women, and th(5 young. S(H! liow they dasli 
 
 The mud-clots oir their clotlies ! Yon forms, gaunt loothless, 
 
 In what horror do they lishing hold !
 
 118 V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 Fishers who caught the lamprey and the perch, 
 
 And who have food])econio for perch and lampreys. 
 
 ^'ow behold another troo]) dehling 
 
 All discons'late on the shingle : 
 
 They are maidens fair and loving, 
 
 Who, abandoned by their lovers, 
 
 111 despair besought the Rhone 
 
 For hospitality, and in the river 
 
 Drowned their grief immense. 
 
 Ah ! me, alas ! poor souls, they moan 
 
 So piteously, and heave so painfully 
 
 Their weed-encumbered bosoms, that I question 
 
 Whether it be water dripping 
 
 From their veils of hair or ])itter tears ! 
 
 The pilot ceased. 
 
 The souls had each a light, 
 
 And followed silently the river's bank. 
 
 The Hying of a moth might have liecn lie;ird. 
 
 Why, master pilot. 
 
 They seem seeldng something in the gloom ! 
 
 Cried the Camargan all aghast. 
 
 Aud so they are, poor things ! 
 
 See how from side to side they turn their heads. 
 
 It is the good works 
 
 And the acts of faith 
 
 They sowed on earth they're seeking. 
 
 And as sheep run to the clover. 
 
 When these spy the object of their hope
 
 V. THE BATTLE. 119 
 
 They hasten up to it, and cnllod, 
 The good work or the act of faith becomes 
 A flower hi their hand ! and when the crop's 
 Enough to make a jjouquet, joyously to God 
 They tender it, when they are by the flowers 
 To S' Peter's gate conveyed. Tims to those 
 Fallen into Death's liuge jaws by drowning, 
 
 God himself a respite grants in wliich 
 
 They may redeem themselves. But ere tlie day dawn 
 
 Many will return to bury them anew^ 
 
 Beneath the gloomy river's Uquid mass ; 
 
 Dovonrers of tiie needy, 
 
 Atheists, traitors, viurdererSy 
 
 And all the rest of the worm-eaten herd. 
 
 These also seek some saving dee 1 ; 
 
 But in the gravel of the river lind 
 
 But heavy sins and crimes in sliape of stones, 
 
 'Gainst which they stumble with their naked feet. 
 
 The mule when dead is further Iteatiug spared ; 
 
 But heaven's pardon these shall 'neatli 
 
 The roaring wave in vain implore for ever. 
 
 Ourrias here, the pilot's slioulder clutching 
 
 Like a robber at a turning, cries, 
 
 There's water in the hold ! 
 
 The Ijuckel's there ! replies th(.' pilot coolly. 
 
 Ourrias sets to baling out as for bis life, 
 
 And he toils bravely. But on 
 
 Trincataio bridge '", that night, the Trmi '" d.iiH'cd '.
 
 120 V. THE BATTLE. 
 
 Bale, Ourrias, brave man, bale away ! 
 
 The mare to break her halter madly striving, 
 
 What's the matter, Blanco? 
 
 Asks her master, hair on end ! 
 
 Are you afraid too of the dead ? 
 
 Meanwhile the surge is rising, 
 
 Rises to the gunnel, plashes over ! 
 
 Captain, I can't swim ! 
 
 The craft is sinking, can you save her '? 
 
 No ! and in the twinkle of an eye she'll sink ! 
 
 But from the river's bank a cable 
 
 Will be heaved us by the dead, 
 
 The dead that so alarm you. 
 
 And the vessel foundered in the Rhone. 
 
 The pale lamps 
 
 In the murky distance. 
 
 Trembling in the hands of the poor drowned, 
 
 Now cast a ray of light as bright as lightning 
 
 Quite across the river. 
 
 Then, as you've observed a spider 
 
 In the morning spin a tliread and glide along it. 
 
 So these fishers, who were Trevo, 
 
 Caught the brilliant beam 
 
 And swooped along it. 
 
 From the gurgling water's midst too 
 
 Ourrias his hands extended to the cable ! 
 
 But on Trincataio bridge that night 
 
 The Trevo danced.
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE FIFTH CANTO 
 
 1. — The Vcntoureso, a certain N. wind. See on the 
 subject the poet's note to Srd canto. — T. 
 
 2. — Oulimpe (Olympe), a lofty mountain on the 
 boundary-Jine of the Yar and Bouches du Rh6ne. 
 
 (Pronounce the final of Oulimpe. — T.) 
 
 3. — Vinccncl, the diminutive of Vincen, as Veranet 
 of Yeran. See note 11 to 4tii caiito. — T. 
 
 4. — Queiras (Queyras), a valley of the upper Alps. 
 (Pronounce the Quci of Queiras, as the Italian Avord 
 
 quel. — T.) 
 
 5. - Penchiline, molacilla penduUna . 
 
 6. — L'i'rbclo ill frisnun (vaUsncria spiralis, Lin.), a 
 plant found in the Rhone and in the marshes round 
 about Tarascon and Aries.
 
 152 NOTES TO THE FIFTH CANTO. 
 
 7. — Linrjueto, a ^\•ord untranslatable into French, 
 repeated laugliingly to another while holding something 
 temj)ting out of reach. 
 
 8. — Poulit Mail de luno (pretty moon-wheat). Faire 
 cle blad de luno signifies literally to rob parents of their 
 wheat by moonlight. Figuratively it is used to mean 
 love-making on the sly. 
 
 9. — The goose-foot {I'ourse), chenopodiinn fridicosum, 
 Lin., a plant commonly found by the sea-shore. 
 
 10. — Jan de VOurse, a storybook-hero, a Hercules 
 of Provence, to whom many exploits are attributed. He 
 was son to a shepherdess and a bear, and had for 
 comrades in his exploits two adventurers of fabulous 
 strength. The name of one was Arrache-Montagne, and 
 of the other Pierre-de-Moulin. M"' Hippolyte Babou has 
 given the history of Jan de I'Oursin his Paiens innocents. 
 
 (Pronounce the final of Ourse, making of the word two 
 syllables. — T.) 
 
 11. — The huge bridge, the Roman antiquity known 
 as the Pont du Gard. 
 
 12. — A sea-monsler or sea-devil, a hideous fish. 
 
 13. — j4 green heron, ardea viridis, Lin. 
 
 14. — Sainle Baume, a celebrated grotto in the midst 
 of a virgin-forest near S' Maximin (Var), to which S' 
 Magdalen used to repair to do penance. (See XI canto.) 
 
 15. — The villain (lou fena), in French a mauvais 
 siijel, sacripant, scelerat, Horace speaking of a like
 
 NOTES TO THE FIFTH CANTO, I "^3 
 
 character says, Femtm liabel in conui. This A\as a 
 proverb among the Romans, originating in the ancient 
 custom of enveloping the horns of dangerous bulls with 
 liay as a sign that they were to be avoided. 
 
 10. — Trincataio, a suburb of Aries in Camargue, 
 and united to the town by a bridge of boats. 
 
 17. — The Trcvo {U Trcvo), sprites that are said to 
 dance on the tips of waves by the light of the sun or 
 moon.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 THE WITCH 
 
 The cheery voices of the feathered choir 
 Await the first clear streaks of morn. 
 Th'enamourecl earth, of freshness redolent, 
 Awaits the sun. E'en as the maid 
 Attired in her most becoming robes, 
 Persuaded to elope, the youth awaits 
 Who urged their speedy flight. 
 
 Three swineherds Crau were traversing 
 
 On their return from Saint Chamas, 
 
 Ycleped the wealthy, where the mart is held. 
 
 Their herds they had disposed of, 
 
 And their money-bags were slung 
 
 Over their shoulders covered ])y their cloaks. 
 
 They chatted as they walked.
 
 126 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 When suddenly one of the three cries, Silence ! 
 
 Comrades, there's a sound of moaning 
 
 In the heather. Hon ! quoth the others, 
 
 It's Maussano's ^ or S' Martin's tolling, 
 
 Or the tremoimtano ^ wind 
 
 The branches of the dwarf-oaks swaying. 
 
 Hardly was this said when they were all 
 
 Arrested by a moan so jjiteous 
 
 It rived the heart. Jeuse Mdia ! 
 
 They exclaimed, There's been foul play! 
 
 They crossed themselves, then gently bent their steps 
 
 Towards the spot from whence the sound proceeded. 
 
 What a spectacle ! There Vincen lay. 
 
 His face supine upon the stony grass, 
 
 The grass all gory, the ground trampled, 
 
 Scattered o'er with willow-rods, his shirt 
 
 To ribbons torn, his bosom pierced. 
 
 Abandoned on the moor, the stars 
 
 For only company, the poor lad there 
 
 Had passed the night. The light of humid early 
 
 Morning falling on and opening his lids 
 
 Revived the life fast ebbing from his veins. 
 
 The three Samaritans their homeward way 
 
 Forsaking o'er him bend, a hammock 
 
 Of their cloaks they make for him, then bear him 
 
 Off between them in their arms 
 
 And bring him to the Falabrego-Mas, 
 
 The nearest place.
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 127 
 
 Friends of my youth, beloved, valiant poets 
 
 Of Provence, who listen to my songs 
 
 Of other days : you Roumanille who mingle 
 
 In your harmonies the people's tears 
 
 The laugh of maidens and the flowers of spring : 
 
 And you, superb Aubanel, who the gloomy 
 
 And the bright of woods and rivers seek 
 
 To sooth your heart consumed by dreams of love : 
 And you, Grousillat, who confer 
 Upon the Touloubro '^ more fame than ever 
 She derived from Nostre-Dame '* her sombre 
 Astrologer : and you, Matthieu Anselme, 
 Who contemplate so pensively beneath 
 The trellised bower the charming maids : 
 
 And you, dear Paul, merry joker ! 
 
 And poor peasant Tavan, who attune 
 
 Your ditty to the chirrup of the cricket 
 
 Peering at your pickaxe, wistly : 
 
 And my dear Adolphe Dumas, who when 
 
 The Durance overflows return therein 
 
 To steep your thoughts, and by our sun of Provence 
 
 Warm the Franchiman '>* : gro\vn up and rushing 
 
 From her mas^ ingenuous, amazed, 
 
 'Twas you who took Mireio by the hand 
 
 At Paris. Finally Garcin, 
 
 O worthy son of Marshal d'Alleins ! 
 
 Whose soul a fiery wind burns lashes tortures 
 
 Bears away ! All of you waft me
 
 128 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 With your holy breaths, as upward 
 
 To the fair ripe fruit I climb my way. 
 
 Good morrow, Master Ramoun, on arriving 
 
 Said the swineherds. Yonder on the moor 
 
 We found this poor young man. Look out some linen 
 
 Quickly, for an ugly hole is in his chest. 
 
 Then Vincen laid they on the table of stone. 
 
 On hearing of the catastrophe, Mireio 
 
 From the garden with her basket full 
 
 Of vegetables on her hip arrives 
 
 Distracted. All the laborers run up. 
 
 Mireio both her hands extends. Her basket 
 
 Falls. Maire de Dieu ! shrieks she, 
 
 Vincen bleeding ! Why, what have they done to you? 
 
 The head of her beloved she raised, gently 
 Turned, and gazed in consternation mute 
 And long, as if with sorrow petrified. 
 Large drops rained down upon her bosom. 
 Vincen knew the hand that held him 
 Was the loving maiden's. In a dying 
 Whisper, Oh ! he cried, have pity ! 
 
 Lou bon Dim's company I need. 
 
 I'm greatly to be pitied. Let them with. 
 
 Here Master Ramoun said, a drop 
 
 Of agriotat^ your palate moisten. 
 
 Drink some now, it will revive you. 
 
 Quick the cup his daughter seized, and drop 
 
 By drop she made him drink, and talking to him
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 129 
 
 Eased his pain. From like misfortunes 
 
 God preserve you, Vincen said, and all your care 
 
 Repay. He wouldn't say it was for her 
 
 He'd fought and fallen. Splitting ozier on my breast 
 
 The knife was oversliarp and slipping pierced it. 
 
 But he to the subject of his love 
 
 Returned as flies to honey. 
 
 The anguish on thy face depicted is, 
 Said he, to me more bitter than my wound. 
 The pretty basket we began together 
 Must remain unfinished. For my part, 
 Mireio, I'd have liked, I know, to see it 
 Full of thy love ! Stay and let me drink 
 More life's elixir from thine eyes. 
 
 Oh ! if thou couldst do something 
 
 For the basket- weaver yonder, 
 
 My poor father, worn with age and labor? 
 
 In despair, Mireio bathes his wound. 
 
 Others prepare the lint, some to the Alpine 
 
 Run for herbs medicinal. 
 
 "When, To the Fairies' cavern bear him ! 
 
 In the vale of hell ^ ! 
 
 Jane Mario cries. More potent 
 
 Is the Witch the more the hurt 
 
 Is dangerous. Four bear him forth. 
 
 There is a spot, among i\ui rocky ramparts 
 
 Of the hills of Baux, to which the vultures 
 
 As they sweep around it point.
 
 130 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 It is a hole flush with the rock, 
 Among the tufts of rosemary concealed, 
 By salamanders haunted. Ever since 
 The tongue of holy Angelus, in honor 
 Of the Virgin, strikes the sounding metal 
 Of the hasilics, the antique fairies 
 Have been forced to shun the splendor 
 
 Of the orb of day within its depths. 
 
 They used, these light mysterious little spirits, 
 
 In and out between the forms of matter 
 
 To meander. Half terrestrial 
 
 Created, that the souls perceptible 
 
 Of nature they might be. Created female 
 
 That they might assuage the savagery 
 
 Of primal man. So fair however 
 Did the sons of men appear in fairies' eyes 
 That they became enamoured of them, 
 And the fooHsh ones, instead of raising 
 Mortals to celestial spheres, inflamed 
 With human passions into our obscure 
 Condition fell, as birds fall fascinated 
 
 From their heights. 
 
 The bearers by this time had Vincen 
 
 Gently lowered down the narrow 
 
 Eocky funnel leading to the cavern. 
 
 But no one into the dismal passage with him 
 
 Venture durst, except Mireio, who 
 
 To God his soul commended as they went.
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 131 
 
 They reached the bottom where they found a grotto 
 Vast and chilly. In the centre Taven sat 
 With body bent, Taven the Witch, 
 In meditation and deep melancholy, 
 Holding in her hand a sjjrig of brome. 
 Poor serviceable little herb ! Some people 
 Gall you devil's wheat, she mumbled out; 
 
 Yet you are one of God's own signs. 
 
 Mireio trembling scarcely had begun . 
 
 To tell the object of their visit, when, 
 
 I knew it! cried the Witch, her head still bowed. 
 
 The brome again addressing she pursued, 
 
 Poor little llower of the field ! the flocks 
 
 Your leaves and pedicles the whole year browse 
 
 And trample, yet the more they trample you 
 
 The more your fibres maltiply and clothe 
 
 The north and south with verdure. 
 
 Taven ceased. A feeble light 
 
 Was in a snail's shell set, whose flicker 
 
 Gheckered the dank wall of rock with lurid light. 
 
 Upon a forked perch a raven roosted 
 
 Side by side with one white hen. 
 
 A sieve hung to the wall. 
 
 Abruptly now the Witch, and as if tipsey, 
 
 Gries, and what care I whoe'er you be ! 
 
 Faith with her eyes shut walks and Charity 
 
 Blindfold, and neither from her even tenor swerves. 
 
 Say, basketman of Valabrego, have you faith?
 
 132 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 I have. Then follow in my wake ! 
 Eagerly as a she-wolf lashing with her tail 
 Her flanks, the Witch into a hole descends 
 And disappears, preceded by the croaking 
 Raven and the cackling fowl. With terror 
 Through the fearful gloom the Valabregan 
 And Mireio follow her. Nay, linger not, 
 
 She cried, the time is come to wreath our garlands 
 Of mandragora! Obedient to the voice 
 Commanding them the couple never parting 
 Groping stooping wend their way 
 Through the infernal passage leading 
 To a grotto larger than the former. 
 Lo, said Taven pointing, my lord 
 
 Nostradamus' ^ holy plant, the golden bough, 
 
 S' Joseph's staff and Moses' magic rod ! 
 
 She said, then reverently kneeling crowned it 
 
 With her chaplet. Rising from her knees, 
 
 'Tis time, she cried, to wreath our heads with mandrake, 
 
 Whereof, from the small plant growing 
 
 In the cleft of rock, she plucks three sprigs. 
 
 First wreaths her own head, next the young man's 
 
 And the maid's; then. Forward ! crying, 
 
 Down the haunted passage hies. 
 
 A troop of shining beetles march before 
 
 To light her steps. 
 
 Turning, sententiously she says, 
 
 Young people, every road to glory has
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 133 
 
 Its purgatory bit. So courage ! 
 
 We the horrors of, / / i ! 
 
 The Sabatori ^ are about to traverse. 
 
 As she said this, came a rush of wind 
 
 That cut their faces and their breathing stopped. 
 
 Lie down ! he down ! This is the triumph 
 
 Of the Fouletouns <» .' 
 
 The countless vagabond swarm came yelping 
 
 Whirling on, all of a sudden, 
 
 Like a white squall fraught with hail. 
 
 As it blew over the three mortals were 
 
 With perspiration drenched, and cold too 
 
 From the fanning of the icy pennons 
 
 Of the sprites. Away, or stand aside ! 
 
 Taven exclaimed, ye harvest-spoiling 
 Unlicked whelps, ye malapert curs ! To think 
 We must make use of such as you 
 To do the good we do ! Yea, even as 
 The sage physician extracts good from evil 
 We must loo compel, by witchcraft, evil 
 To engender good. For we are witches. 
 
 Nought is hidden from our vision. 
 
 Where the vulgar see a stone, a whip, 
 
 A malady, an antler, only, 
 
 We discern a force at work within 
 
 Like that beneath the scum of wine 
 
 In fermentation. Pierce the vat. 
 
 The liquor boiling will How out.
 
 134 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 Discover if you can the key 
 
 Of Solomon ! Speak to the mountain 
 
 In its language, and at your command it shall 
 
 Into the valley roll ! 
 
 Meanwhile they lower, lower still, descended. 
 
 Now a roguish little voice 
 
 Piped like a goldfinch, Hoi ! hoi ! 
 
 Gossip Taven ! Aunty Jano spins, 
 
 And winds ofT night and day. 
 
 (She thinks she's spinning worsted, 
 
 But she's only spinning hay !) 
 
 E zbu ! granny, spin away ! 
 
 As with the neighing of a fresh- weaned colt 
 
 The air resounded with his laughter. 
 
 Why, what's that voice, asked Mireio, 
 
 Singing laughing jeering so? Hoi! 
 
 Piped again the childish little treble ; 
 
 "Who is this so pretty? Let me lift 
 
 Your neckerchief, a little raise it only. 
 
 Are there nuts, pomegranates, under it? 
 
 I wonder ! Here the poor maid would have cried out 
 
 /.' but Taven interposed with, Hush! 
 
 Fear not : it is a Glari. Up to any 
 
 Lark is he. His name is 
 
 Esperit Fantasti. 
 
 In his better moods he'll sw^ep your kitchen, 
 
 Mind your fire and turn your roast, 
 
 Triple the number of your eggs.
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 135 
 
 But only let a whim possess him 
 
 And a very trouble-the-house is he. 
 
 He'll put a peck of salt into your broth. 
 
 He'll blow your light out ere you're half in bed. 
 
 Or if to Sant-Trefume ^ ' vespers 
 
 You be going, he'll or hide away 
 
 Or spoil your suuday-dress. 
 
 Now hear her ! hear the old hag ! 
 
 Hear the shriek of the ill-greased block, 
 
 Sharply replies tbe imp. withered olive, 
 
 Yea, I do o'nights the bedclotnes 
 
 Of the sleeping maids twitch oil". 
 
 I see them start with fear and tremlDle 
 
 And their bosoms heave. I see ... 
 
 And off the sprite went with his laugh. 
 
 For a brief space the witcheries were stayed 
 
 Beneath the grots, and in the gloomy silence 
 
 On the cristal ground the dripping 
 
 From the vaulted roof was heard at intervals. 
 
 Now in the semi-darkness a tall form 
 
 All white, that had been sitting on a ledge of rock, 
 
 Was seen to rise and stand up with one arm 
 
 Akimbo. As a quartz-rock motionless. 
 
 From terror, Vincen stood; 
 
 And had a precipice been possible 
 
 In such a place, Mireio would 
 
 Have plunged into it headlong. 
 
 What now ! lengthy scarecrow ! Taven cried,
 
 136 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 What mean you, say, by swaying to and fro 
 Your limp head like a poplar? 
 Then she, turning to the twain half dead 
 With terror, said. My dears, of course you know 
 The Laundress? Common people take her 
 When they see her perched on Mount-Ventour 
 To be a long white cloud. Not so the shepherds. 
 
 When they see her speedily they pen their sheep. 
 
 The Laundress of destruction well they know 
 
 About her draws the truant clouds 
 
 And beats them furiously, then wrings out 
 
 Bucketsful of rain and flame. 
 
 The neatherds also to the stable 
 
 Drive their cattle hastily. 
 
 And on the angry tossing sea 
 
 The seamen to the care of Nostro-Damo ^^ 
 
 Recommend their ships. 
 
 A most discordant din her speech arrests here. 
 
 Mewling, caterwauling, latches rattling, 
 
 AVhimpering, and words half uttered 
 
 That the devil only understands. 
 
 Dzin ! dzin ! Poun ! poun ! 
 
 On what fantastic caldron is that hammering? 
 
 Whence those shrieks of laughter, and those wails 
 
 As of a woman in her pangs ? That yawning, 
 
 Louder howling, and the gibbering. 
 
 And those groans? Give each a hand 
 
 That I may hold you both ! Take care
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 137 
 
 The magic garlands fall not from your heads. 
 Between their legs now rushes something 
 Squeaking, grunting, puffing, snorting. 
 Like a herd of swine. 
 
 'Neath snowy sheets when nature slumbers 
 On a cold bright night, the fowlers. 
 Torch in hand, the trees and bushes 
 
 By the riverside shake well and beat ; 
 When all the birds at roost aw^akened 
 From their sleep fly off in panic-fright. 
 And with a blast as of a smithy-bellows 
 Rush into the net. So drove the charmer 
 The foul herd away into the outer-darkness 
 "With her sieve; with which she also 
 
 Circles traced, and divers other figures 
 Liuninous and colored like the kermes. 
 / / waste-layers, locusts, arri ! 
 Quit my sight or woe betide you ! 
 Artizans of evil, in your burrows hide 
 Away again ! For you it's much too light. 
 Ye bats! well by the stinging in your flesh 
 
 Ye know the sun's still shining on the Alpine. 
 
 To the angles of the rocks return 
 
 And hang yourselves ! Away they flit on all sides, 
 
 And the noises gradually cease. 
 
 Of phantoms, Taven turning to the couple 
 
 Noticed, this is the resort so long 
 
 As on the ploughed lands and the fallows gleams
 
 138 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 The daylight. But no sooner has this 
 Vanished, than the lamps self-kindle 
 In the empty churches triply locked. 
 The hells begin to peal, or toll 
 Prolonged knells. The pavement flags 
 Start up, the dead arise and kneel, 
 A priest as pale as they says mass, 
 
 The gospel reads. The screech-owls know it, ask them. 
 
 Ask them, when the steeples they descend 
 
 To drink the oil from the lamps 
 
 On winter-evenings, if I lie? and if 
 
 The minister who pours the wine 
 
 Into the holy cup is not, of all 
 
 Partaking of the rite, the only one alive ? 
 
 Women, be careful not on chair-backs 
 
 To repose your heads too long and fall asleep. 
 
 Especially about the time 
 
 The Vieio jeers. What time 
 
 The Vieio February jeers ^'-^^ 
 
 Your charges, shepherds, hurdle earlier 
 
 Than usual, an ye heed not to remain 
 
 Aghast and seven years spell-bound with your sheep 
 And stiff of limb. The Fairies' cavern looses 
 Too at this time all its horde, to roam 
 On all-fours or to fly about in Crau ; 
 Whither repair like\vise by devious ways 
 The wizards of Varigoulo ^'' 
 And Fanfarigoulo ^^ magicians,
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 139 
 
 Who the golden tankard quaff and dance 
 
 The farandole. Behold the Garrigo ^^ 
 
 Are dancing it already. How they foot it! 
 
 Fretting with impatience too observe 
 
 The Garamaude ^^ awaiting the Gripet ^«. 
 
 Ah ! heartless flirt, fie ! Bite the carrion, Gripet, 
 
 Claw her bowels out ! They disappear : 
 
 No, here they are again ! the Chauco-Vieio 
 Foremost ; she who down the chimney comes 
 At night, and steahhily upon the bosom 
 Gets of him or her asleep, and crouching 
 Presses on it with a tower's weight, 
 And then into the sleeper's mind instills 
 All sorts of horrid dreams. 
 
 She you see stealing 
 
 Through the sea-kale yonder, dodging like 
 
 A burglar as she flies, is Bambarouche 
 
 The harridan. Upon her hard bald pate 
 
 She bears oil' Utile naked crying children 
 
 Tightly griped in her fierce talons. 
 
 Hark! that clatter as of doors and windows 
 
 Being from their hinges wrenched 
 
 Is by the Escarinche ^^ made in beating 
 
 All the fields of Marmau and of Barban 20 
 
 On the moor a fog to raise. The Dra 2* 
 
 Rush up by dozens from the Cevennes with their 
 
 Salamander paunches, and in passing, 
 
 Pataflou! unroof the homesteads.
 
 140 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 Moon, Moon ! what dire offense 
 
 Has angered you ? to scowl so red on Baux ! 
 
 The dog that bays beware of. He will snap you, 
 
 Foolish Moon, and bolt you like a cake ! 
 
 The dog that bays the moon is Gambal's 22. 
 
 I ! the holm-oaks bow their heads and bend 
 
 Their boughs like fern-leaves, and the ambient flames 
 
 Of S' Elme's wild-fire ^ leap, while the mad gallop 
 
 Of the Baron Gastihoun ^'' makes sterile Grau 
 
 Ring with the clatter of his horse 
 
 As with a peal of bells. The Baux witch. 
 
 Hoarse and out of breath, a moment paused. 
 
 Then, Gover yourselves up ! she cried. 
 
 Quick cover eyes and ears, the black lamb hails us ! 
 
 What ! that baaing lambkin ? Vincen ventured ; 
 But she, Shut your eyes and ears ! 
 Woe to the stumbler here! Sambuco's^^ path 
 Less dangerous is than that of the black Horn. 
 He has, as you've just heard, a honeyed tongue, 
 A tender bleat, alluring to wayfarers. 
 Heedless Ghristians turning at his call 
 
 He dazzles with the sheen of Herod's court, 
 
 Of Judas' gold, and shows the place 
 
 The Saracens confmed the golden goat to, 
 
 Which till death they milk, milk 
 
 To their hearts' content. But only let them 
 
 When the rattle's in their throats 
 
 The holy sacrament demand.
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 141 
 
 And savagely the black ram butts them 
 
 111 the ribs by way of answer. 
 
 Yet so rooted is the evil 
 
 Of the times, innumerable are the souls, 
 
 Greedy of gain, alas ! 
 
 Who swallow down the black lamb's bait, 
 
 And incense otter to the golden goat. 
 
 The white hen crowed three shrill unearthly crows. 
 
 My children, we are come, 
 
 Resumed the beldam, to the thirteenth grotto. 
 
 They, Mireio and the weaver, saw lieneatli 
 
 A huge wide chimney, warming at the hearth, 
 
 Seven black cats, all toms. Above the hearth, 
 
 And hanging to a hook they saw 
 
 An iron-caldron of vast size ; 
 
 They also saw two firebrands, dragon-like. 
 
 Up to the caldron belching blue flame. 
 
 Are the logs you use to cook your boil with, 
 
 Grandmother, the same as those? 
 
 They are, my son; they're branches of the wild vine, 
 
 Better far than any logs for burning. 
 
 Vincen shrugged his shoulders. Branches ! 
 
 Branches you may call them. But 
 
 This is no place for joking. Hurry on. 
 
 A large round porphyre table 
 
 In the middle of this grotto stood. 
 
 And from the grotto stretch beneath the roots 
 
 Of oaks, 'neath the foundations of the mountains, 
 
 10
 
 142 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 Thousands of transparent columns, 
 
 Pendent icicles resembling, 
 
 Forming the galleries immense the fairies 
 
 Have constructed. Here are porticoes 
 
 Majestic, which a hazy sort of light 
 
 Pervades; a marvellous collection 
 
 Of fine palaces, of temples, 
 
 Peristyles and labyrinths, as never 
 
 Babylon nor Corinth equalled. 
 
 All which with a breath a fairy 
 
 Can dissolve at pleasure. Here, 
 
 Like flickering rays of light, they wander 
 
 In the shady walks of this serene 
 
 Chartreuse, their life of love pursuing 
 
 With the knights they'd formerly enchanted. 
 
 Silence ! Peace be to all couples 
 
 Choosing shady w^alks. 
 
 The Witch now ready both arms lifts ■ 
 
 Over her head, then lowers them to the ground. 
 
 Vincen lay speechless with his wound agape 
 
 Upon the porphyre-table ; like S' Laurence, 
 
 Holy martyr. Taven's spirit seemed 
 
 At work within her mightily, and grown 
 
 In stature too she seemed as upright standing 
 
 She the ladle seized and plunged it 
 
 To the bottom of the caldron 
 
 Boiling over in large bubbles, while 
 
 The cats about her formed a ring.
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 143 
 
 The venerable Witch then with her hand, 
 Her left, scalds Vincen's bosom with the mixture 
 Boiling-hot, and charms away 
 The cruel hurt, as gazing at him fixedly 
 She murmurs, Christ is born is dead is risen, 
 Christ shall rise again ! while with her toe-nail 
 Thrice upon the quivering flesh she im^jrints 
 
 The cross' sign. Much as the forest-tigress, 
 
 Having coursed her victim down. 
 
 Unmercifully claws it. 
 
 Now her words tumultuously flow 
 
 And reach the misty portals of futurity. 
 
 Yea, he shall rise again ! I see him 
 
 In tiie distance rising, and his forehead 
 
 Bleeding heavy drops, amid the stones 
 
 And thistles of the hiU. Amid the thistles 
 
 And the stones he mounts ; his cross 
 
 O'erpowers him. Where is Veronica 
 
 To wipe the drops of blood away ? 
 
 The good man of Cyrene, where is he 
 
 To support him when he faints ? Where are 
 
 The weeping hair-dishevelled Marys ? No one ! 
 
 And yet yonder rich and poor behold him 
 
 Mount, and mutter. Whither goes he 
 
 With his shouldered beam ? for ever climbing 
 
 Without ceasing ! Cain's descendants, 
 
 Carnal souls ! with no more pity 
 
 For the bearer of the cross than for the cur
 
 144 VI. THE WITCH. 
 
 They see his master stoning wantonly. 
 Ah ! race of Jews, that hercely hite the hand 
 That feeds you, whij^e ye lick the one that flogs you 
 To the marrow. Ye will have it so. 
 Accordingly all horrors shall assail you. 
 All your jewels into dust shall crumble; 
 What were pulse and wheat shall turn to ashes 
 
 In your mouth and scare your hunger. 
 
 Heaps of carrion I see 
 
 The torrents foaming over! 
 
 Oh ! the many swords, the many lances ! 
 
 Peace be to thy waves, stormy sea ! 
 
 / .' Peter's antique bark has gone to wreck 
 
 Upon the senseless rocks ! 
 
 Nay, ])ut the man-fisher has quelled 
 The rebel-waves, and in a fine new bark 
 The Rhone is entering with God's cross 
 Upon her poop ! Rainbow divine ! 
 clemency immense, sublime, eternal! 
 Lo, another land another sun I see 
 Rejoicing the hearts of olive-pickers 
 
 As they dance the farandole around 
 
 The hanging fruit. The reapers tap the cask 
 
 Reclining on the barley-sheaves. 
 
 Revealed by signs so many God is worshiped 
 
 In his holy temple. With her finger 
 
 Here the Witch of Baux dismissed the children, 
 
 Pointing the way out. At the extremity.
 
 VI. THE WITCH. 145 
 
 D 
 
 Light gleamed in. Hurriedly they make for it, 
 And tliread the passage to the Trau de Cordo -**, 
 Where they see the sun again. They also see 
 As in a dream Mount-Majour's ruins scattered 
 O'er the mountain. But, or ever passing out 
 Into the sunny air, with one consent 
 They turn and tenderly embrace. 
 
 r
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE SIXTH CANTO 
 
 1 . — Maussano, Saint Martin, villages in Crau. 
 
 2. — Tremountano, the N. E. wind. — T. 
 
 3. — The Touloubro, a small river that empties itself 
 into the lake of Berre, after traversing the territory of 
 Salon, the fatherland of the poet Crousillat. 
 
 4. — Nostre Dame (Nostradamus). Michel de Nostre- 
 dame, or Nostradamus, was bom at S' Remy in 1503, and 
 died at Salon in 1565. He practised medicine very 
 successfully under the latter Valois, applied himself to 
 mathematics and astrology, and published in 1557, under 
 the title of Centuries, the famous prophecies that have 
 rendered his name popular. Charles IX appointed him 
 his physician in ordinary and loaded him with honors. 
 
 5. — Franchiman, the term used by Provencaux to 
 designate the French speaking part of the nation. — T.
 
 NOTES TO THE SIXTH CANTO. 147 
 
 6. — Agriolat, a liquor composed of brandy and sugar, 
 with which a certain quantity of the short-stalked cherry, 
 well bruised, is mixed. 
 
 7. — The Fairies' cavern. We like to quote our friend 
 Jules Canonge because he has happily described most of 
 the places mentioned in this poem. 
 
 « From the bottom of a gorge, aptly named Enfer, I 
 descended to the Fairies' grotto. But instead of the grace- 
 ful phantoms with which my imagination had peopled 
 it, I saw nothing but low vaults under which I was forced 
 to crawl, blocks of stone heaped up, bats and gloomy 
 depths. I have just observed that this gorge is aptly 
 called Enfer. No where else in fact have I ever seen 
 rocks so tormented. They stand erect with cavities in 
 their sides, and their gigantic entablements covered with 
 aerial gardens, in which a dishevelled sort of vegetation 
 obtains, defile out like the Pyrenean rock cleft by the 
 sword of Rolland. » (Histoire de la ville des Baux. Avi- 
 gnon, Aubanel freres.) 
 
 On comparing the description of Dante's Inferno with 
 this tortured Cyclopean fantastic vista, one is persuaded 
 of one thing, that the great Florentine poet who had 
 travelled in our parts and even sojourned at Aries, must 
 have visited the town of Baux, sat on the escarpments of 
 the valoun d' Infer, and being struck with the grandeur 
 of its desolation, conceived in the midst of its cataclysm 
 of rocks the outline and sombre character of his Inferno. 
 Every thing leads to the idea, even the name of the gorge 
 itself. Infer, its amphitheatrical form, the same given by 
 Dante to Hell, and the large detached rocks forming its 
 escarpments, 
 
 In su I'estremita d'un' alta ripa 
 
 Che facevan gran pietre lolte in ccrrliio, 
 
 And the Provencal name of these same, /vfl»5, Italianised
 
 148 NOTES TO THE SIXTH CANTO. 
 
 by the poet into bak-o, and given by him to the 
 escarpments of his own lugubrious funnel. 
 
 8. — Nostradamus. See note 4. — T. 
 
 9. — Sabatori. Besides its etymological meaning this 
 ■word is used to designate a meeting supposed to be held 
 by sorcerers at night to worship the devil. It is also used 
 in speaking of any great noise, disorderly and confusedly 
 made. — T. 
 
 10. — The Foiileionns, a sort of spirits considered 
 mischievous but not wicked. — T. 
 
 II. — Sant Trefume (S' Trophimus), the cathedral at 
 Aries, built in the VII century by archbishop Saint 
 "Virgile, in which Frederic Barberousse was consecrated 
 emperor in 1178. (Pronounce the final of Trefume as it 
 would be in Italian. — T. 
 
 12. — Nostra Damo, Notre Dame de la Garde at Mar- 
 seilles, the patroness of mariners. — T. 
 
 13. — The ViHo February jeers. Peasants in the south 
 of France have remarked that the three last days of 
 February and the three first days of March are almost 
 always visited with a renewal of cold, and this is how 
 their poetic imagination accounts for the fact. 
 
 An old woman, once upon a time, was tending her 
 sheep. It was towards the end of February which that 
 year had not been severe. The old woman, believing
 
 NOTES TO fllE SIXTH CANTO. 149 
 
 that she was well clear of winter, began jeering February 
 as follows : 
 
 Adieu, Febrie ! Me ta febrerado. 
 M'as fa ni pfeu ni pelade ! 
 
 (Farewell, February ! With your frost 
 
 Harmed me you have not and nothing cost. — T.) 
 
 The jeering of the old woman enraged February, who 
 went in search of March. March, do me a favor ? — Two 
 if you like, answered the kind neighbour. — Lend me 
 three days and, with the three I have left, I'll both harm 
 and cost her plenty. 
 
 The weather immediately after became intolerably bad, 
 all the sheep of the old woman were killed by the frost, 
 and she the peasants say, kicked against it. Ever since, 
 this inclement period has been known as the Regwignado 
 (le la Vieio, the kicking of the old woman. 
 
 14. — Varigoulo, a deep cavern near Murs (Vaucluse). 
 
 15. — Fanfarigoulo, a valley in Crau, near Istre (B' du 
 Rhfine). 
 
 16. — Garrigo. See note 20 to 1" canto. 
 
 17. — Garamaiifle, the iinp-llirt. — T. 
 
 18. — Gripel, the demon of the influenza, from gnpa 
 to gripe. — T. 
 
 19. — Escarinche, fog-raising spirits, hollow meagre 
 apparitions of mere skin and bone. — T.
 
 150 NOTES TO THE SIXTH CANTO. 
 
 20. — Marmau and Durban, names of phantoms used 
 to frighten little children. — T. 
 
 21. — The Dra (li Dra), hurricane-raisers, or spirits 
 of the waters, especially of the Rhone, called also 
 Trevo. — T. 
 
 22. — Cambal (Camhau), the name of a spectre for- 
 merly supposed to issue at midnight from a sewer still 
 existing at Avignon, called the coimclu de Cambau. — T. 
 
 23. — St Elme's iviid-fire or ignis faiuus. — T. 
 
 24. — The Baron Castihoun , a rattling phantom- 
 horseman. — T. 
 
 25. — Sambuco's palh, in the mountains of Sambuco, 
 to the east of Aix, and much dreaded by travellers. 
 
 26. — Trau-de-Cordo. « To the east of Aries two hills 
 arise which originally must have formed but one, but 
 which now a morass separates. Upon the flat rocky 
 summit of tlie lower the Celts had formerly made an 
 excavation. It is believed the Saracens subsequently 
 encamped upon this hill and gave it the name of Cordo 
 (which it still preserves), in memory of Cordova. Won- 
 derful traditions animate and poetise it (the excavation) . 
 It is the haunt of the Fairy serpent, or Milusine Pro- 
 vencale ; of the golden goat that enables people to 
 discover hidden treasure, but who thoroughly disheartens 
 those that do not deserve it. — The other hill, the
 
 NOTES TO THE SIXTH CANTO. 151 
 
 larger, bears the almost Roman name of Mont-Majour. • 
 (Jules Canonge. Illustration, 29 May, 1852). 
 
 Upon this hill arc the gigantic ruins of the celebrated 
 abbey Mont-Majour. Both the Grotte de Corde and the 
 Grotte des Baux bear the name of the Trou di Fado, 
 (Fairies' cave), and the popular belief is that the two 
 excavations communicate.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO YU 
 
 THE OLD MEN 
 
 Eyeing Master Ambroi wildly 
 
 Vinceii to his latlier said, 
 
 (While the Mislval ', the mighty poplar-bender 
 
 Of the land, his howling added 
 
 To the young man's voice,) I've told thee, father. 
 
 O'er and o'er again that I am mad ! 
 
 Dost think I'm laughing ? 
 
 'Fore his Rhone mud-hut, capacious 
 
 As a nutshell, on a tree-trunk sat 
 
 The old m'an, ozier-withies pealing. 
 
 Sitting on the door-step was the youth, 
 
 With hand expert and vigorous, his father's 
 
 White rods bending into basket-form. 
 
 The Rhone with bosom ruflled by the wind
 
 154 VII. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 His billows seaward hurried like a drove 
 
 Of cows; while round about the hut a mere 
 
 Of azure water gently flowed in 
 
 From the distant waves ; the willows 
 
 Offered shelter from the wind and pleasant shade; 
 
 Along the placid border of the mere 
 
 The beavers gnawed the willows' bitter bark, 
 
 While yonder, in the azure deep, brown otters 
 
 Might be seen disporting, darting 
 
 Through the limpid crystal after fish, 
 
 The silver-flashing fish. 
 
 The pendulines had hung their white nests 
 
 To the reeds and willows ; tiny nests 
 
 And woven in and out witli cotton 
 
 Gathered from the aubo - when in bloom. 
 
 The little warblers frisked and chirped, 
 
 And sang away the hours. 
 
 A sprightly lassie, golden-headed 
 
 As a tourtihado ^, was engaged 
 
 In spreading out upon a fig-tree 
 
 A large fishing-net with water dripping. 
 
 Sure the amphibious beasts and pendulines 
 No more afraid of her were than they feared 
 The reeds and willows rustling in the wind. 
 Poor child ! her name was Yinceneto, 
 Master Ambroi's daughter. No one yet 
 Had ever bored her eais. Her eyes were blue 
 As damsons. Scarcely was her bosom formed.
 
 VII. THE OLD MEN. 155 
 
 She was indeed a caper-blossom 
 
 That the amorous Rhone rejoiced to splash. 
 
 A hlockhead you must be, my son, 
 
 To speak like that. Thus with his coarse wliite beard 
 
 Descending to his girdle. Master Ambroi 
 
 His son answered. He retorted, For the ass 
 
 To shp his halter, sweet must be the mead. 
 
 But what's the use of w'ords ? 
 
 Thou knowest her. Her juniors one day 
 
 "When she goes to Aries will hide them weeping. 
 
 For the mould of maids was broken after her. 
 
 How wilt thou answer when I tell thee she said, 
 
 You I will have! Poverty and riches, 
 
 Fool, shall answer you. 
 
 Oh ! prithee, father, Valabrego leave 
 
 And promptly to the Falabrego hie 
 
 And tell them all about it. Tell them 
 
 They the virtue of a man should heed 
 
 And not what's in his pocket. 
 
 Tell them how I harrow, drive the ploughshare deep 
 
 In stony land, can prune the vines. Moreover 
 
 Tell them that their six yoke '• with my guiding 
 Will plough double. Tell them I'm a man 
 Respectful to old people. Tell them 
 Should they part us, she and I will close 
 Our hearts for ever, her and me they'll bury. 
 Ah! it's easy seen that you are young. 
 Quoth Master Ambroi ; it's the white hen's efjfj ^,
 
 156 VII. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 The chafTinch on tlie branch. You'd like to have 
 The pretty bird, will whistle for it, 
 Promise it the sugared cake, and even 
 To the grave will pine for it; but never 
 To your finger will the chaffinch come 
 And perch, for you are but a poor lad. 
 Poverty's the plague tlien ! Vincen 
 
 Tearing out his hair exclaimed. 
 
 Why, lou bon Dim who disposes so, 
 
 Who thus denies what only could to living 
 
 Reconcile me, is he just ? And wherefore 
 
 Are we poor? and why do others gather 
 
 All the best fruit of the vineyard teeming 
 
 With rich grapes, and we get but the refuse ? 
 
 Master Ambroi answers with uplifted arms. 
 Weave on, weave on, your ozier-rods, 
 And tear that nonsense from your head. 
 The ears of corn may then rebuke the reaper, 
 And the worm God reprimand and say, 
 Peirastre^! why a star didst not thou me 
 Create ? the ox, why not a drover me ? 
 
 For he the corn consumes aud I the straw. 
 
 No, no, my son; through good and evil all 
 
 Submissively must hold their way. 
 
 The hand's five fingers are of diverse lengths. 
 
 The Master chose to make you a grey lizard. 
 
 Quiet keep upon your bare wall. 
 
 Drink your sunbeam and be thankful.
 
 Vir. THE OLD MEN. 157 
 
 But I've told thee I adore her ! . 
 
 More than sister, more than God! 
 
 I must possess her, father, or I die. 
 
 Then off he to the troubled river's bank 
 
 Precipitately ran. 
 
 His sister, Vinceneto, came up weeping 
 
 And addressed as follows the old weaver. 
 
 Ere my brother you dishearten 
 
 Listen to me, father. At the farm 
 
 Where I was serving was a laborer 
 
 As much in love as he. He loved 
 
 The master's daughter. Alls. Him they called 
 
 Sivestre; and so doughty had love made him 
 
 He at labor was a wolf! 
 
 Expert at every thing, an early riser, 
 
 Quiet, economical; in peace 
 
 You may suppose the masters slept. 
 
 One morning, (see now, father, how perverse ! 
 
 One morning,) master's wife o'erhcard 
 
 Sivestre talking. He his love 
 
 Was telling out to Alls. 
 
 When the men came in to dinner 
 
 And had settled round the table. 
 
 Master's eyes flashed lightning. Traitor! cried lio, 
 
 Take your money, go! I've seen you. 
 
 Oil" the serviceable servant went. 
 
 We looked at one-another, ve.xed jiikI shocked 
 
 That he should be dismissed. 
 
 II
 
 158 VII. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 For three weeks afterwards we saw him, 
 
 While we were at work, 
 
 Lurking about the homestead 
 
 With his clothes all tattered, 
 
 His face pale, dejected, haggard ; 
 
 And at night we heard him as he prowled 
 
 Around the trellis calling Alls. 
 
 Sometime after an avenging fire 
 
 Bursting from the corners all at once, 
 
 Consumed the hayrick ; and, father ! 
 
 From the well a drowned man was drawn up ! 
 
 Here Master Ambroi grumbled out, 
 
 A little child but little trouble gives; 
 
 Grown up great trouble. 
 
 Then he goes, dons his long spatterdashes 
 
 Which himself had made in former days, 
 
 Puts on his hobnailed shoes, his large red bonnet. 
 
 And for Crau departs. 
 
 It was the season when the land 
 
 Her increase yields. It was S' John's eve. 
 
 And the paths along the hedges 
 
 Crowded were with troops of jobbers 
 From the mountains, sunburnt, dusty. 
 Coming armed our fields to reap. 
 Their sickles, lodged in quivers made 
 Of lig-tree wood, were slung behind them. 
 By a shoulderbelt attached. By twos 
 And twos they came. Each couple had
 
 VII. THE OLD MEN. 159 
 
 A Ugarello. Pipe and tamljouriii 
 
 With ribbons decked accompanied the carts, 
 
 In which reclined the weary oldsters. 
 
 moun Dieu ! what fine wheat ! 
 
 What splendid tnfts of ears ! they all cried 
 
 As they skirted the tousello', which the wind 
 
 Was whipping into angry waves. 
 
 Won't they ])e pleasant reaping ? How the wind 
 
 Prostrates them ! Bnt how soon they right themselves ! 
 
 Is all your Provence wheat as ripe as this, 
 
 Grandfather? one youth asked, 
 
 Addressing Anibroi coming up. 
 
 The red is still behind, he answered ; 
 
 But and if this windy weather last 
 
 The pickles won't be equal to the work. 
 
 How the three candles shone like stars at Christmas ! 
 
 'Twas a blessed sign of plenty, children. 
 
 May God hear thee and bestow it 
 
 In thy granary, grandfather! 
 
 Friendly thus the woodcutter and reapers 
 
 Chatted as their way they wended 
 
 Through the willows. Now it happened 
 For the Falalu'cgo-Mas the reapers 
 Too were bonnd. It happened also 
 Master Ramoun went out purposely 
 To listen what the wheat had got to say 
 Against the ruthless scatlerer of seed, 
 Mistral. Accordingly he strode across
 
 160 VII. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 The yellow plain from north to south, and heard 
 The golden corn complaining, Master, see 
 How ill the wind is treating us! It spills 
 Our grain and blurs our bloom. Behold the time 
 Is come to put your fingerstall of reed ^ on. 
 Others urged. The ants already 
 At our ears are busy tearing out 
 
 The all-but-hardened wheat. Are not the sickles 
 Ever coming? Tow'rds the trees the master 
 Turned his eyes and soon perceived the reapers 
 In the distance. "When the troop came up, 
 They waved their sickles flashing in the sun 
 Over their heads by way of compliment. 
 Then Ramoun shouted to the rural band 
 
 As far as he could make his voice heard, 
 Welcome to you all ! It's lou bon Dieu sends you. 
 And of ligarello he had soon a bevy 
 Round him. Shake hands, master. Santo Crous ! 
 "What heaps of sheaves this year will strew 
 Your treading-floor ! Appearances, good friends, 
 We cannot judge by altogether. 
 
 When the bushel has the treading checked, 
 
 Then only we shall know the rights. 
 
 There have been years that promised crops of twenty 
 
 Eimino per eiminado **, and that 
 
 Only yielded three. Contented 
 
 Let us be however. Then with smiling 
 
 Visage he shook hands all round,
 
 VII. THE OLD MEN. 161 
 
 And friendly talked with Master Ambroi. 
 They were entering the path that to the homestead 
 Leads, when he, Mireio ! cries ; Prepare 
 The chicory; and, tron de goi! draw the wine. 
 She soon the lunch upon the table set. 
 Ramoun the very first sits down at one end. 
 Then the others take their places. 
 
 Into bits the thickly crusted bread 
 
 Is crunched between the sturdy grinders. 
 
 Meanwhile hands in turn are dipped 
 
 Into the, barba-bou *". 
 
 Glean as' an oak-leaf was the table. 
 
 On it in profusion set 
 
 And circulating were cachat ^' cheese 
 
 Truly odorous; onions, fiery garlic, 
 Merinjano '^ grilled, green peppers ; 
 Stimulating dishes all. 
 Master at table as at labor, Ramoun 
 Kept the flagon by him, which he raised 
 From time to time with. Gome, let's drink 
 A bumper ! for the sickles keen to keep 
 
 On stony soil, must be whetted. 
 
 Often whetted. Then the men in turn 
 
 Held out their goblets. Whet the edges ! 
 
 And the wine flowed from the pitcher. 
 
 Red and limpid, down the gullets 
 
 Of the reapers. Further Ramoun 
 
 To the men at table spoke as follows :
 
 162 VII. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 When your hunger you've appeased 
 And strength recruited, all of you, 
 According to old usage, set to cutting 
 From the copses branches. Bring them out 
 In faggots, pile them up into a heap, 
 And when that's done, my lads, to-night 
 We'll do the rest. To-night's S' Jolm's eve 
 
 And his [He. S' John the friend of God, 
 
 S^ John the reaper ! Thus the master 
 
 Ordered them. The noble and great art 
 
 Of managing a farm, commanding people, 
 
 And of making golden ears to spring 
 
 From under the dark sods, well drenched with sweat, 
 
 None understood so well as he. 
 
 His was a patient sober life. 
 
 In sooth long labor and the weight of years 
 
 Had bent him somewhat. But at seasons 
 
 When the treading-floors were full, 
 
 Many a time has he before the young 
 
 Farm-servants, proud and radiant, borne 
 
 Upon his tiorny palms two pecks '^ of wheat. 
 
 He understood the influence of the moon, 
 
 When adverse and when favorable ; 
 
 When she the sap inclines to rise, when checks it. 
 
 What the weather would be when a ring 
 
 Inclosed her; when she paled to silver 
 
 Or when red became. Clear signs to him 
 
 Were mouldy bread, the little birds.
 
 VII. THE OLD MEN. 163 
 
 The Vaco's < ' evil days, the fogs that August ' 
 
 Vomits, parahelions, S' Clara's dawn. 
 
 Wet quarantines, disastrous droughts. 
 
 Seasons of frost, and eke good-yielding years. 
 
 I've sometimes witnessed ploughing 
 
 In propitious seasons six stout handsome beasts. 
 
 It was a sight to see and truly wonderful 
 
 The soil open silently before the share 
 And turn its bosom over to the sun ; 
 And the six handsome mules ne'er from the furrow 
 Breaking. Toiling they seemed to understand 
 The wherefore and importance of their labor. 
 For with muzzles lowered to the ground. 
 And necks arched like bent bows, 
 
 They neither trotted nor too slowly walked. 
 Then with an eye upon the furrow 
 And a song upon his lips, the ploughman 
 Followed guiding with one handle only. 
 Thus went on the freehold Master Ramoun 
 Husbanded, and which he governed 
 Splendidly as any king his realm. 
 
 The chief says grace and makes the cross' sign. 
 
 And heavenward turns his eyes. The laborers 
 
 Depart the bonfire to prepare : 
 
 Some cut down branches of the sombre pines, 
 
 Others collect dry wood. 
 
 The two old men remain at table. 
 
 Master Ambroi was the first to speak.
 
 164 VII. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 To thee I come, Rnmoiin, for advice. 
 I am in a predicament tliat only 
 Thou canst get me out of. How myself 
 I'd extricate I do not see. Thou know'st 
 I have a son, who till this present 
 Had been passing good. He'd given proof 
 Of it repeatedly. I should be wrong 
 
 To state the contrary. But every jewel 
 
 Has its flaw, yea even lambs 
 
 Convulsions have, and stagnant water 
 
 Is the most perfidious. Never wilt thou credit 
 
 What the crazy lad has done. 
 
 He's filled his head with thoughts of a rich 
 
 Landlord's daughter, and he icill have her, 
 
 He says he will, the madman. His despair 
 
 And love are such he frightened me. 
 
 His folly I demonstrated. I told him 
 
 That in this world wealth increased 
 
 But poverty waxed poorer. Vainly. 
 
 Run and tell her parents I must have her, 
 
 Cost what 'twill, he answered. That the virtue 
 
 Of a man should heeded be and not 
 What's in his pocket. Tell tliem how I harrow 
 Drive the ploughshare deep in stony land, 
 Can prune the vines. Moreover tell them 
 That their six yoke with my guiding 
 Will plough double. Tell them I'm a man 
 Respectful to old people. Tell them.
 
 VII. THE OLD MEN. 165 
 
 Should they part us, she and I will close 
 Our hearts for ever, her and me they'll bury. 
 Now, liamoun, that thou knowest all, 
 Advise me whether I should sue the parents 
 For the maid, or leave my son to perish? 
 Pou! answered Ramoun; spread no sail 
 To such a breeze. Go to, not he, nor she, 
 
 Will die of it. I toll thee so much. Ambroi, 
 
 Never fear. I would not in thy place, 
 
 Good friend, distress myself so much. 
 
 I'd tell him plainly. Lad, I'd say, begin 
 
 By quieting your mind ; else should you raise 
 
 The storm at last by your caprices, I'll 
 
 Indroctrinate you, sarnipabeume ! 
 
 Soundly with a cudgel. When the jackass 
 Brays for extra fodder, Ambroi, never go 
 And throw him more, hut take thy bludgeon 
 And belabor him. In former days 
 Our families were united brave and healthy, 
 Every storm resisting like a plane-tree branch. 
 Doubtless they had their quarrels. Nay we know it. 
 
 But when Christmas-eve came round, 
 
 And when his generation were assembled 
 
 Round the blessed table which he headed, 
 
 'Neath his star-bespangled tent. 
 
 The grandsire, with his wrinkled hand 
 
 In benediction raised. 
 
 Drowned all their diflerenccs.
 
 166 VII, THE OLD MEN. 
 
 Moreover, Ambroi, if a father is a father 
 He should make himself obeyed. A flock 
 That takes to driving its own shepherd 
 Soon or late the wolf devours. 
 When we were young had any son 
 Opposed his father's will, it's more than like 
 His father would have killed him. 
 
 Thou wilt kill me then, my father ! 
 
 Me it is that Vincen loves! 
 
 'Fore God ad 'fore our Lady 
 
 None shall have my soul but he ! 
 
 Mireio's words a death-like silence followed. 
 
 Jano Mario broke it, 
 
 Starting from her chair and crying 
 
 With clasped hands, The speech that has escaped you, 
 
 Daughter, an atrocious insult is to us. 
 
 Your love's a buckthorn that has long 
 
 Our bosom tortured. Alari the shepherd, 
 
 Owner of a thousand sheep and asses, 
 
 You refused. The Keeper, Veranet, 
 
 Whom your disdainful airs disgusted. 
 
 You refused. The rich in oxen, 
 
 Ourrias, the same you treated 
 
 For a puppy, for a scapegrace ! 
 
 Go then with your ragamufTin 
 
 Through the country. Go and herd 
 
 With Roumano the fortune-teller 
 
 And Bertoun. Go with the hag and cook your pot
 
 Vri. THE OLD MEN. 167 
 
 Under the bridge upon three stones. 
 
 For you are your own mistress, gipsey! 
 
 Master Ramoun let her say on. 
 
 But his eyeball flaming like a taper 
 
 Now flashed lightning 'neath his shaggy brow. 
 
 His anger burst all bounds and rushed 
 
 Precipitately into utterance like 
 
 A swollen mountain stream to meet the river. 
 
 Go, your mother's quite right, said he. 
 
 Take the tempest with you yonder ! 
 
 Nay, but you shall not go ! you shall stay, 
 
 Though I should have to shackle you 
 
 And hook you through the nostrils like a jumart 
 
 With an iron-hook ! Though I should see 
 
 Your cheeks grow pale and wear away 
 
 With gloomy sickly sorrow. 
 
 Fade like snow upon the hill-sides 
 
 Under the hot sun, but you shall stay ! 
 
 Mireio, mark : as surely as that brick 
 
 Supports the ashes of the hearth ; 
 
 As surely as the Rhone when surcharged 
 
 Overflows; and mark, assure as that's a lamp; 
 
 You'll never see him more ! 
 
 Then with his list he struck the table 
 
 Such a blow as made it start. 
 
 Mireio wept. Her tears fell thick as dew 
 
 Upon the smallage. Heavily they fell 
 
 Like o'er-ripe grapes when shaken by the wind.
 
 168 ^'II. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 And who, resumed the old man, bUnd with fury- 
 Is to certify, Ambroi, curse it ! 
 Is to certify that thou, thou Master Ambroi, 
 Hast not with thy scamp this infamous 
 Abduction plotted in your hut together ? 
 All the latter's spirit kindled. Well, 
 Malan de Dim! An we are of low 
 
 Condition, let me tell thee that our hearts 
 Are noble ! Poverty is neither vice 
 Nor yet pollution that I wot of. 
 Forty years'good service in the navy 
 Tend to use one to the roar of cannon. 
 Scarce could I a boat-hook handle when 
 I Yalabrego left and shipped as shipboy 
 
 In a man-of-war. I've seen the empire 
 
 Of Melinda, India haunted with Suffren, 
 
 The universe gone over as a soldier, 
 
 Done my duty in the mighty wars 
 
 Of the great warrior of southern origin. 
 
 The same who passed his red destroying hand 
 
 O'er Spain to Russia's stepps, 
 
 f 
 And at the beating of whose drums 
 The whole world trembled like an aspen-tree. 
 Apart the horrors of the boarding 
 And the agonies of shipwreck, I have 
 Traversed days more bitter than the sea. 
 The poor man's child who had not 
 In his motherland a bit of ground
 
 VII. THE OLD MEN. 169 
 
 To plougli 01- dig, I for my country 
 
 Forty years of suffering endured. 
 
 We slept out in the rime 
 
 And eat the bread of dogs. 
 
 Weary of life we rushed into the slaughter 
 
 To defend the name of France. 
 
 But no one now remembers it. 
 
 On ending his remonstrance, to the ground 
 
 He cast his caddis-cloalv. 
 
 Is't Sant Pieloun *^ thou'rt hunting for 
 
 On Mount-de-Vergue ^^ ? asked ironically 
 
 Master Ramoun. I've too heard 
 
 The thunder of the bombs 
 
 Filling tlie valley of the Toulon people ; 
 
 Seen the bridge of Arcole stormed, the sands 
 Of Egypt soaked with living blood. 
 But from these wars returning tooth and nail 
 Like men, we set to laboring in a way 
 To dry our marrow up. The day began 
 Before it broke, and bending o'er the hoe 
 The evening moon oft caught us. 
 
 It is said the earth is generous. She is. 
 But like the hlbert-tree she notliing gives 
 Unless well beaten. And if foot by foot 
 The clods of landed ease my labor 
 Has afforded me were told, the drops 
 Of sweat that trickled on them 
 From mv forehead would be counted.
 
 170 VII. THE OLD MEN. 
 
 By S' John of Apt ! must I then 
 
 Hold my peace ! or like a satyre *'' 
 
 Toil and moil in labor , eat my siftings, 
 
 That the homestead might grow rich and that 
 
 T might with honor stand before the world, 
 
 Then go and give my daughter to a tramping 
 
 Straw-loft-sleeping vagabond ! 
 
 Go to the tron de Dieune ^^ with your dog, 
 
 I keep my swan ! 
 
 Such were the masters last rough words. 
 
 The other old man from the table rose, 
 
 Picked up his cloak and leaning on his staff, 
 
 But two words said : Adieu ! 
 
 One day may'st thou have nothing to regret. 
 
 And may the orange-laden bark 
 
 Surrounded and directed be 
 
 By lou grand Dim with his angels. 
 
 Now as he proceeded on his way 
 
 At nightfall, from the branch-heap rose, 
 
 Curled horn-shape by the wind, 
 
 A lenghty tongue of flame, round which the reapers 
 
 Merrily the farandole were dancing, 
 
 "With their feet time keeping and their free 
 
 And haughty heads thrown back; 
 
 The fierce flame crackling in the wind that fanned it 
 
 Lighted up their faces. 
 
 With the sound of falling wood 
 
 Into the brazier, mingled the smal music
 
 Vr. THE OLD MEN. 171 
 
 Of the fife, but lively as the wee 
 Hedgesparrow's song. S' John, oh ! when 
 Thou visitest the earth she to her centre thrills. 
 The bonfire crackled, sparkled, and the tabor 
 Hummed incessantly and gravely like 
 The murmur of the sea when gently breaking 
 On the rocks. The swarthy dancers seize 
 
 Their sickles suddenly and wave them 
 
 In the air, then thrice with mighty springs 
 
 Athwart the flames 
 
 They the bravado *^ do, and as they leap 
 
 They throw into the glowing embers cloves 
 
 Of garlic from a string, and with their hands 
 
 Full of Si John's-wort and of holy-herb, 
 
 Which blessed become by passing through 
 
 The purifying flame, S' John ! S' John ! 
 
 S' John ! they shout. The plain and hills arc lit 
 
 Alike, and sparkle as if stars were raining 
 
 In the dark. And doubtless all this incense 
 
 Wafted is by the unconscious breeze 
 
 To where the Saint in the Ijlue ether soars.
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE SEVENTH CANTO 
 
 1. — The Mistral, the N. "W. wind. This wind blows 
 down the valley of the Rh6ne, and occasionally with 
 great violence. — T. 
 
 2. — The aubo, the white poplar, popu/ui alba. — T. 
 
 3. — Toiirtihado, a cake in the form of a crown, 
 made of fine paste, sugar, eggs, and aniseed. 
 
 4. — Six yoke. « A yoke of mules outgoes a yoke of 
 oxen, when set to work at the same time ; for mules are 
 swifter. • Broome. — T. 
 
 5. — The while he)is egg. This is a proverbial expression 
 for something rare precious and much held to. 
 
 Sorcerers were wont to go where several roads met 
 and invoke the devil, with these words thrice I'epeated. 
 
 In virtue of my white hen ! 
 
 Juvenal, speaking of a lucky man saj's he is gallinx 
 filius albw.
 
 NOTES TO THE SEVENTH CANTO. 173 
 
 6. — Peiraslre, a bad father. — T. 
 
 ■7. — The tousello, a beardless wheat with a rather 
 long stalk, the grain is large, and the bread made from it 
 remarkably w'hite. — T. 
 
 8. — Finger-stall of reed. This reapers put on their 
 left hand fingers to protect them from being wounded by 
 the sickle. 
 
 9. — Eimino a bushel. Eiminado is a land-measure 
 equal to 8 ares 75, but varying according to the locality. 
 
 10. — Barba-bou, goatsbeard, of which a salad is 
 made. — T. 
 
 11. — C achat, a sort of cheese made by kneading, and 
 which in fermenting acquires a sharp taste. It daily 
 figures on the tables of farm-servants. 
 
 12. — Merinjano, in French aubergines, a vegetable 
 much esteemed in the south; it is of a purple color and 
 belongs to the egg-plant family. — T. 
 
 13. — Two pecks. The sestie, in French setier, is a 
 measure far exceeding the perk, but it is also used as 
 this word is to signify a great deal. — T. 
 
 14. — The vaco's evil days. These are the three last 
 days of March and the four first of Ajiril, a period much 
 dreaded by peasants. The Vicio was explained in note 
 13 to the VI canto. The end of the fable is as follows: 
 
 "When the old woman lost her flock of sheep she 
 
 13
 
 174 NOTES TO THE SEVENTH CANTO. • 
 
 bought some cows, and having reached the end of March 
 without damage, she said imprudently : 
 
 En escapant de Mars e de Marsfeu, 
 Ai escapa mi Taco e mi vedeu. 
 
 (March escaping and March -weathers 
 
 I've escaped (saved) my cows and heifers. — T.) 
 
 March in dudgeon called on April. — April, says 
 March, lend me four days, and with the three I have 
 remaining the old woman's cows shall not escape. April 
 consented. A hard frost destroyed all the vegetation, 
 and the poor old woman's kine perished. 
 
 15. — Sant Pieloun is the name of a rocky peak in 
 which is the grotto to which S' Magdalen used to retire. 
 
 16. — Mouni de Vergue, a hill to the east of Avignon. 
 
 17. — Like a satyr. Instead of saying a man w'orks 
 like a negro, they say in Provence like a satyr. The 
 ancients may have mistaken wild negroes for those 
 divinities of the woods they called satyrs, and hence in 
 the popular mind the two words may have become 
 synonimous. 
 
 18. — Iron de Dieiine, thunder of God. — T. 
 
 19. — The bravado. Formerly by this word were 
 designated the volleys of musketry fired on proceeding to 
 light the bonfire of S' John. It is now applied to the 
 preliminary ceremonies, and to the leaping over and 
 through the flames.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO YlII 
 
 LA CRAU 
 
 Who shall the mighty lioness restrain, 
 When on returning to her den she misses 
 What a Moorish huntsman at full gallop 
 Through the thorny hrakes has home away, 
 Her only whelp? Awhile she roars, 
 Then rushes light and lank 
 Over the hills of Barhary. 
 
 And who shall you restrain? lovesick maidens ! 
 
 In her somhre little bedroom 
 
 Dimly lighted by the stars, Mireio 
 
 On her bed is lying weeping, 
 
 With her forehead in her hands. Oh! tell me, 
 
 Noslro Danio crAmour what to do? 
 
 cruel fate ! witiiering care !
 
 176 VIII. LA CRAU. 
 
 father hard, that tread me under foot! 
 if you could see the sad disorder 
 
 In my heart you would have pity 
 
 On your child. You used to call me darling. 
 
 Now you bend me to the yoke as if 
 
 1 were a colt to labor to be broke. 
 Oh ! why does not the sea o'erflow 
 
 And flood La Crau ? With joy I'd see 
 
 This property engulfed and hidden 
 
 From the sun ! the only cause of all 
 
 My tears. Or why was I not in some serpent's 
 
 Hole, of some poor woman born ? 
 
 Then, then perhaps, if any lad had sued me, 
 
 Vincen even, sued me for my hand 
 
 They willingly had let him have it. 
 
 my handsome Yincen ! 
 
 Only if with you I might live ! 
 
 I'd embrace you as the i\'y does the oak. 
 
 Food to my hunger your caresses would be, 
 
 And contentedly at pools 
 
 I'd go and drink. 
 
 YV^hile thus upon her bed the lovely child 
 
 Laments, her heart consumed with love, 
 
 With fever throbbing; she goes over 
 
 In her mind the calm and happy, 
 
 Oh, so happy ! spring-time of her love. 
 
 Then Yincen's counsel 
 
 Suddenlv occurs to her.
 
 VIII. LA CRAU. 
 
 177 
 
 ,Twas you, she cried, came one day to the mas 
 And said, 'twas your own self. Should ever dog 
 Or lizard, wolf or snake, or any other 
 Prowling creeping creature, wound thee 
 With its fang ; should e'er misfortune 
 Overtake thee; hie thee quickly 
 To the Saints \ thou'lt surely get relief. 
 
 Misfortune now lias overtaken me. 
 
 We'll go, and shall return contented. 
 
 Saying which she lightly glided off 
 
 The Itttle white cot; oped with the hright key 
 
 The wardrobe that contained her clothes ^ ; 
 
 An article of furniture superb, 
 
 In walnut-wood with chiseled ornaments ; 
 
 Her childhood's little treasures were therein ; 
 
 Her coronal put on the first time 
 
 She her bon jour ^ said ; 
 
 A withered sprig of lavender ; 
 
 A small wax-taper almost wholly burnt. 
 
 That blessed had been the thunder 
 
 In the gloomy distance to dispel. 
 
 A smart red petticoat she takes out. 
 She herself had quilted into squares, 
 A little masterpiece of needlework. 
 She fastens this around her waist, 
 And over it another handsomer 
 By far she slips on. Next into a black 
 Casaque ^ she glides, and fastens it
 
 178 VIII. LA CRAU. 
 
 Beneath the bodice with a pin of gold. 
 
 Her loose hair hangs in tresses long and dark, 
 
 And covers the white shoulders like a mantle. 
 
 Now she seizes the stray coils, 
 
 And quickly rolls them up, and binds them 
 
 In a piece of fine transparent lace. 
 
 The tresses bound, she girds them gracefully 
 
 Round three times with a ribbon tinted blue; 
 
 And thus completes her fair young brow's 
 
 Arlesian diadem. 
 
 Lastly her apron she puts on 
 
 And neatly folds a muslin neckerchief 
 
 Across her bosom. But she had forgot, 
 
 Unfortunately in her haste, her small-crowned, 
 
 Called Provencal, hat with broad wings flapping, 
 
 To protect her from the mortal heat. 
 
 Thus dressed the ardent maid 
 
 Descends the wooden staircase 
 
 Stealthily, with shoes in hand; 
 
 Removes the heavy door-bar, 
 
 Recommends herself to the good Saints, 
 
 And in the fearful night forth rushes 
 Like the wind. It was the hour at which 
 The constellations are to seamen 
 Favorable. The Eagle » of S' John 
 Was seen to blink as it, in one 
 Of the three stars in which the Evangelist 
 Alternately resides, alighted
 
 VIII. LA CRAU. 179 
 
 At his feet. The weather was serene, 
 The sky with stars refulgent; 
 And the Chaiaot of Souls immense, 
 Its winged wheels precipitating, 
 With its blessed load ascended 
 Up the shining starry vault 
 Towards the heavenly Paradise. 
 
 And as the flying Chariot passed 
 
 The sombre hills looked on. 
 
 Mireio hastened ; as did Magalouno ^ 
 
 Formerly; she that, so long 
 
 Disconsolate, had sought through woods 
 
 Her lover Peire of Provence, who had been 
 
 Parted from her by the waves in fury, 
 
 And had left her lone and wretched. 
 At tlie boundary of the lea 
 Mireio, in the sheepfold shepherds 
 Of her father sees already milking. 
 Some the sheep are holding quiet 
 By the muzzle 'gainst the pen-side, 
 For the tawny laml)s to suck. 
 
 Meanwhile the bleating of some sheep 
 
 Was heard incessantly. Others are driving 
 
 Lambless mothers tow'rds the milker. 
 
 Silent as the night. 
 
 Astride upon a stone and squeezing 
 
 From the hard swelled teats the good warm milk. 
 
 The milk into the pail gushed.
 
 180 VIII. LA CRAU. 
 
 Fast and frothy rising round the sides. 
 
 The dogs were sleeping quietly ; 
 
 The line large dogs, as lilies white, 
 
 Stretched round the enclosure, with their muzzles 
 
 Buried in the thyme. 
 
 Throughout the balmy country all 
 
 Reposed and slept. The weather was serene, 
 
 The sky with stars refulgent. 
 
 Like a lightning-flash along the hurdles 
 
 Now Mireio passes, crying, 
 
 To the Holy Marys will no one 
 
 Among the shepherds go with me ? 
 
 As when a sudden hlast assails them. 
 
 Sheep and shepherds bend their heads low ; 
 
 And the damsel passes like a sprite. 
 
 The 7nfl5-dogs knew her, but they budged not. 
 
 She is far away already. 
 
 Threads the dwarf-oaks; like a partridge flies 
 
 Over the holly and the camphyre-bushes ; 
 
 Flies, her feet ne'er touching ground. 
 
 Oft on her passage, huddled in the grass 
 
 Together, sleeping at the foot 
 
 Of the small oaks, the curlieus 
 
 From their rest disturbed arose in flights. 
 
 And as they flew off, Courr'li! courr'li! courr'li! 
 
 Cried in sombre barren Crau. 
 
 •Aurora with her dew-bespangled hair 
 
 The mountain-heights descended
 
 VIII. LA CRAU. 181 
 
 To the plain and valleys. Vocal flights 
 
 Of tufted larks her progress hailed. 
 
 The summits of the Alpine cavernous ^ 
 
 Seemed moving in the sunbeams. 
 
 Then was visible La Crau, 
 
 Untillod ami barren; Crau immense and stony; 
 
 Crau antique, whose proud ancestral giants 
 
 Were destroyed by a deluge 
 
 Overwhelming, if rei)ort speak true. 
 
 They thought to overturn the Almighty 
 
 With a ladder and an effort of their shoulders. 
 
 They the crest of Santo-Vitori » 
 
 Had torn oil" with a lever and were 
 
 Piling it upon the Ventour, 
 
 As they had the huge jagged sides they'd sundered 
 
 From the Alpine. God his hand extends 
 
 And the mistral^ t)ie thunderbolt, 
 
 And hurricane, fly oil" three eagles-like 
 
 From every abyss, ravine, in Crau, 
 
 To loose the marble pile ; and rising 
 
 Like a fog opaque, Aquilo 
 
 And the thunderbolt and hurricane 
 
 Prostrate all the colossuses beneath 
 
 A vast tbick covering of puddingstone. 
 
 Crau to tiie twelve winds open, Crau the mute, 
 
 The d(?solated, still preserves 
 
 Her hideous covering. 
 
 Mireio meanwhile further speeds
 
 182 Vm. LA CRAU. 
 
 From the paternal lands. The ardent sun 
 
 Makes sensible to sight the quivering air; 
 
 And baking in tlie grass the shrill cigalas 
 
 Madly and incessantly 
 
 Their tiny cymbals beat. Nor tree for shade 
 
 Nor beast was there. 
 
 The many flocks that in the winter nip 
 
 The short but savory grasses 
 
 Of the vast wild plain, had climbed the cool 
 
 Salubrious Alps for pastures ever green. 
 
 Still through the pouring fire of June Mireio 
 
 Runs, runs on like lightning. And the large 
 
 Grey lizards peeping from their holes 
 
 To one-another say, Mad she must be 
 
 To scamper o'er the shingle in a sun 
 
 That dancing sets the junipers ^ on the hills 
 
 And gravel in La Crau. And in the spare shade 
 
 Of the reeds the praying-ladies ^" urge her 
 
 To return. Return, pilgrim ! 
 
 Lou bon Dim opened hath 
 
 Springs of clear water, shade-affording trees 
 
 Created, to preserve the roses 
 
 Of your cheeks, and you your own face burn 
 
 In this fierce summer-heat. 
 
 The butterflies all vainly too 
 
 Their warning voices raised. But her 
 
 The wings of Love the wind of Faith 
 
 Bear forward on together,
 
 viir. LA CRAu. i83 
 
 As the gale the seagulls in the briny 
 Aigues-Mortes plains. A sheepcot 
 Now and then appears, profoundly sad, 
 Abandoned by the sheep and shepherds, 
 Overrun with typha. All alone 
 In the vast scorching wilderness 
 With neither spring nor pool 
 
 To slake lier thirst, she slightly shuddered. 
 Great S' Gent^'! she cried, hermit 
 Of the Bausset mountain ! handsome 
 Youthful laborer, who to thy plough 
 Didst harness the lierce mountain- wolf. 
 Divine recluse, who the hard rock didst open 
 For two jets, of water one and one of wine, 
 
 To flow and quench thy dying mother's thirst. 
 
 Like me thou, while they slept. 
 
 Thy family desertedsl, and thy mother 
 
 Found thee all alone with God 
 
 Among the Bausset gorges. As she was 
 
 I am. So open for me, good S' Gent, 
 
 A spring of limpid water, for my feet 
 
 Are blistered by the hot and stony ground 
 
 And 1 am dying of thirst. 
 
 In the empyrean good S^ Gent 
 
 Mireio heard. Accordingly she soon 
 
 Perceived a well with a stone-cover 
 
 Shining in the distance. Like a martin 
 
 Through a shower of rain, she through
 
 184 VIII. LA CRAU. 
 
 The flaming sunbeams flew to it. 
 
 It was an ancient well with ivy overgrown, 
 
 At which the flocks were watered. 
 
 By it, in the scanty shade 
 
 One of its sides aflbrded, sat 
 
 A little hoy at play. Beside him 
 
 "Was a basket full of small white snails ^^^ 
 
 The child was one by one withdrawing 
 With his little brown hand from the basket 
 The iDoor little harvest-snails and singing to them 
 Snaily, snaily, little nun, 
 Quickly come out from your cell, 
 Quickly show your little horns 
 Or I'll break your convent-walls. 
 
 The lovely Crau maid who had dipped 
 
 Both lips and face into the bucket, looked up, 
 
 With her rosy visage flushed with running, 
 
 Now and said, Why, little one ! 
 
 What are you doing here ? A slight pause. 
 
 Picking snailies oil" the stones and grass ? 
 
 Thou'st rightly guessed, the child said. 
 
 See how many I have ! 
 
 I have harvest-snails, nuns, and platello ^^. 
 
 And you eat them ? I ? not I ! 
 
 On Fridays mother carries them to Aries 
 
 To sell, and brings us back delicious soft bread. 
 
 Hast thou ever been to Aries ? 
 
 No, never. What ! hast never been to Aries ! ,
 
 VIII. LA CRAU. 185 
 
 I speaking to thee have ! 
 
 Ah ! poor young lady ! If thou knewest 
 
 What a large town Aries is. 
 
 How Aries spreads and covers 
 
 All the wide lihone's seven mouths. 
 
 Aries has sea-cattle grazing on the islands 
 
 Of her lakes. Aries has sea-horses. 
 
 In one summer Aries yields corn enough 
 To keep her seven years. She's fishermen 
 Who bring her loads of fish from every sea 
 And river. She has mariners who go 
 And brave the storms of distant seas! 
 Thus marvellously glorying in 
 His sunny motherland, the pretty boy 
 
 Told of the blue sea varying rough and smooth, 
 
 Of ^lount-Majour that feeds the mills 
 
 With hampersful of olives soft, 
 
 And of the bitterns booming in the marshes. 
 
 But, O charming nut-brown city, 
 
 He'd forgot to tell of your supreme 
 
 Phenomenon. The child forgot to say 
 
 Your sky, fertile land of Aries, 
 
 Dispenses to your daughters beauty pure ! 
 
 As it does wings to birds, aroma 
 
 To the hills and grapes to autumn. 
 
 Meanwhile pensive, inattentive. 
 
 Stood the country-maid. She said at last, 
 
 Briglit boy, before the frog is heard to croak
 
 186 VIII. LA CRAU. 
 
 Upon ih(3 willows, I must be across 
 
 The Rhone, and left there to the care of God. 
 
 Pecaire ^ '' / thou hast fallen on thy feet, 
 
 The little fellow answered; we are fishers, 
 
 And to-night dressed as thou art 
 
 Thou'lt sleep with us beneath the tent. 
 
 Pitched at the foot of the white poplars ; 
 
 And at dawn to-morrow, father 
 
 Over in our boat will put thee. No. 
 
 I'm strong enough to wander on to-night. 
 
 Forbear ! dost thou then care to see the band 
 
 Escaping plaintive from the, / / i! i ! 
 
 Trau de la Capo ? If they meet thee, down 
 
 Into the gulf they'll drag thee after them. 
 
 Trau de la Capo! what is that? 
 
 While walking o'er the stones. 
 
 Young lady, I will tell thee. He began. 
 
 There w^as a treading floor that groaned 
 
 Beneath its weight of sheaves. Thou'lt see 
 
 The spot to-morrow by the riverside. 
 
 For a whole month or more the piled up sheaves 
 
 A round of Camargue horses trod 
 
 Unceasingly. Not e'en a moment's rest 
 
 Had they. Their hoofs were aye at work. 
 
 And on the dusty lloor were heaped 
 
 Mountains of sheaves still to be trod. They say 
 
 The sun was so intensely hot 
 
 The treading-floor glowed like a furnace.
 
 VIII. LA CRAU. 187 
 
 Wooden pitchforks pitched in unremittingly 
 
 More sheaves. The beardy ears 
 
 Were shot like cross-bow arrows 
 
 At the horses' muzzles. 
 
 On S' Charles' as on S' Peter's day 
 
 The Aries bells rang and might ring. 
 
 Neither holiday was there nor Sunday 
 
 For the harrassed steeds. But aye 
 
 The weary tramping, aye the pricking goad, 
 
 And aye the husky shouting of the keeper 
 
 In the fiery gyrating turmoil. 
 
 Miserly as hard, the master 
 
 Of the white corn-treaders actually 
 
 Muzzled them. Our Lady's day in August came '5. 
 
 Upon the heaped up sheaves the beasts, 
 As usual coupled, were still treading. 
 Bathed in foam, their livers sticking 
 To their ribs, and muzzles slobltcring; 
 When lo, a blast of cold wind blows in, 
 I ! a blast of the mistral^ and sweeps 
 The floor ! The greedy eyes of the despisers 
 
 Of God's day into their sockets sink. 
 
 The treading floor quakes horribly and opens 
 
 Like a huge black caldron. Whirls the piled-heap 
 
 Furiously. Pitchforkers, keepers. 
 
 Keepers' aids, unaljle arc to save it. 
 
 Owner, treading-floor and van, van-goats 
 
 And millstones, drivers, horses, all
 
 188 VIII. LA CRAU. 
 
 Are ill the fathomless abyss engulfed. 
 
 You make me shudder, says Mireio. 
 
 Ah ! but that's not all, and may be 
 
 For a little fool thou takest me. 
 
 But by the place thou'lt see to-morrow, 
 
 In the water playing carp and tench, 
 
 And hear marsh-blackbirds singing on the reeds. 
 
 But when our Lady's day comes, 
 
 And the fire-crowned sun to the meridian 
 
 Climbs, then lay down softly and with ear to ground 
 
 And eye upon the water thou shalt see 
 
 The gulf from limpid (darken with the shadow 
 
 Of the sin ; and gradually thou'lt hear 
 
 A humming sound as of a fly's wing 
 
 Rise up from the troubled deep. 
 
 Then 'twill be like the tinkle of small bells. 
 
 And then thou'lt hear among the weeds 
 
 A tumult horrible, like voices 
 
 In an amphora. 'Twill next be like 
 
 A sound of weary trotting on a hard 
 
 Dry sonorous surface; horses trotting. 
 
 Very lean, and that a swearing shouting 
 
 Keeper brutally insults. 
 
 But as the holy sun declines 
 
 The blasphemous sounds arising from the gulf 
 
 Grow gradually faint. 
 
 The limping studd are heard to cough, 
 
 The tinkle ceases of the little bells
 
 VIII. LA CRAU. 189 
 
 Among the weeds, 
 
 And on the tops of the tall reeds 
 
 The blackbirds sing again. 
 
 Thus chatting walked the little man 
 
 Basket in hand before Mireio. 
 
 With the sky the mountain was now blending 
 
 Its blue ramparts and its yellow cresls ; 
 
 And as the sun receded with his glory, 
 He the peace of God left to the marshes, 
 To the Grand Clar *'"•, to the olives 
 Of Vaulongo *', to the Rhone extending 
 Away yonder, to the reapers who unbend 
 At length and drink the sea-breeze. 
 Now the little fellow cries, Young lady, ■ 
 
 Look ! there's our pavillion's canvas fluttering 
 In the wind. The poplar-tree that shelters it, 
 See ! brother Not is climbing. lie's cigalas 
 After, or may be he's looking out for me. 
 Ah ! he has seen us. Sister Zeto who 
 Was lending him her shoulder has turned round. 
 Away she runs otT to advise our mother 
 
 She may set the bouiabaisso ^^ on at once. 
 So now there's mother stooping for the fresh fish 
 At the bottom of the boat. Then as the two 
 With equal haste were nearing the pavillion, 
 Cries th(3 lisher. Wife, our Androun soon 
 Will be the pink of fishers, for already. 
 See, he's bringing us the Queen of eels! 
 
 13
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE EIGHTH CANTO 
 
 1. — Ihe Sai?ils. See note 21 to the 1" Canto. 
 
 2. — He?' clothes (soun prouvimen), the provision of 
 clothes composing in whole or part the dower of a Pro- 
 vencal country-girl. — T. 
 
 3. — Her hon jour, her salutation to the Yirgin at her 
 first communion. — T. 
 
 4. — Casaque, a short jacket, something like what is 
 called a zouave. — T. 
 
 5. — Tin Eagle, a constellation. 
 
 6. — Matjalouno. According to an old chivalrous ro- 
 mance, as popular as that of Quaire flls Aymoti, Count 
 Pierre of Provence having eloped with Magalouno , 
 daughter to the king of Naples, fled with her across the 
 hills and valleys. One day as Magalouno was sleeping 
 by the seaside, a bird of prey carried off a jewel that
 
 NOTES TO THE EIGHTH CANTO. 191 
 
 was glittering on the neck of the princess. Her lover 
 followed the bird in a boat out to sea; but suddenly a 
 storm arose, by which Pierre was driven to Egypt, where 
 he was received and loaded with honors by the Soldan. 
 After many romantic adventures they met again in Pro- 
 vence, where Magalouno, having become an abbess, had 
 founded an hospital, around which, according to this 
 fabulous chronicle, the town of Magalouno was afterwards 
 built. 
 
 7. — The Alpine cavernous, an epithet suggested by 
 the caverns of Baux and Cordes both being in this 
 mountain. 
 
 8. — Santo-Vitori, a lofty peak to the east of Aix. It 
 derives its name from the great victory gained by Marius 
 over the Teutons at Pourrieres in the neighbourhood. 
 
 9. — Juniper, the juniperus phanicea. Lin. 
 
 10. — The praying-ladies, or mantes (li prego-Dieu). 
 In French, mantes religieuses. 
 
 « A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is 
 « Not a whit better than a Mantis, — 
 « An insect, of what clime I can't determine, 
 n That lifts its paws most parson-like, .„ » 
 
 Thomas Hood. — T. 
 
 11. —St Gent, a young laborer of Monteux who, at 
 the beginning of the XI century, retired to the gorge of 
 the Bausset, near Yaucluse, to live as a hermit. His 
 hermitage, and the miraculous fountain that he caused 
 to spring, tradition says, by touching the rock with his 
 finger, are objects of many pilgrimages.
 
 192 NOTES TO THE EIGHTH CANTO. 
 
 12. — Harvest-snails, so called because they climb up 
 and stick to the ricks after harvest : helix exspihim. 
 
 13. — Plalello, helix algira. Nuns, helix vermiciilata. 
 
 14. — Pecaxrc ! a very usual Provencal exclamation, 
 generally equivalent to poo7' thing! poor dear ! As it is 
 here. - T. 
 
 15. — Our Lady's day in August, the 15tli-, also the 
 fele of the Emperor. — T. 
 
 16. — Grand Clar, a vast pond in Crau, between Baux 
 and Aries. ^ 
 
 17. — Vaulongo, a valley in the Alpines. 
 
 18. — Bouiabaisso, a favorite Provencal broth, made of 
 every kind of fish, and poured boiling-hot upon slices of 
 bread. - T.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 GANTO IX 
 
 THE MUSTER 
 
 The large old falabrego-trees 
 
 Were sad ; the bees disconsolate 
 
 Themselves shut up within their hives, 
 
 Forgetful of the heath with savory and 
 
 Milkthistlc strewed ; and the nympha?as 
 
 Asked the pretly kingfishers as they • 
 
 The vivan^ approached, Have you Mireio seen ? 
 
 Old Ramoun and his wife at home 
 
 Together sat, their grief indulging. 
 
 Death was in their hearts. 
 
 Their eyes were swollen with weeping. 
 
 Cerles, she must have frenzied been ! 
 
 giddy wretched child ! 
 
 hea\7 awful downfall !
 
 194 IX. THE MUSTER. 
 
 What disgrace ! our beautiful Mireio 
 
 With the last of trampers to elope ! 
 
 A gipsey ! Who shall tell the place 
 
 The kidnapper has hid her in ? 
 
 What distant cave ? 
 
 shameless daughter ! 
 
 And they knit their angry brows. 
 
 Now the cupbearer, punctual as usual, 
 
 With ass and panniers came, and on the threshold 
 
 Standing said. Good morrow, master ! 
 
 For the lunch ^ I come. 
 
 Go, malediction ! cried the old man. 
 
 Without her I feel as though my bark 
 
 Were like the cork-tree's, stripped. 
 
 Hark ye ! Return, cupbearer, whence you came, 
 
 Across the fields like lightning speed, 
 
 And bid the ploughmen and the mowers 
 
 Quit their scythes and ploughs, the reapers 
 
 Lay aside their sickles, shepherds 
 
 Leave their sheep, and hither come to me. 
 
 The faithful servant instantly departed, 
 
 Fleeter than the goats. He springs 
 
 Through the red clover-grass. 
 
 Over the stony fallow, threads 
 
 The scarlet-oaks 2, bounds o'er the skirting roads, 
 
 Already he inhales the perfume 
 
 Of the new-mown hay. He hears 
 
 The measured sweep of the long scythes
 
 IX. THE MUSTER. 195 
 
 Amid the tall tlue-tufted lucern, 
 
 Sees the sturdy mowers bending 
 
 To the sward ; he sees the grass laid low 
 
 Before the steel, a pleasant sight; 
 
 He sees some langhing maids and children 
 
 Raking up in heaps the swalh, 
 
 And they were singing, and the crickets 
 
 That before the scythes had flitted, listened. 
 Further, on an ash-wood cart, he sees 
 The mown-grass heaped up high ; he sees 
 The skilful cartman, mounted on the waggon, 
 Constantly and by large armsful 
 Heightening the forage round his waist. 
 Until it covered rails and wheels and beam. 
 
 And when the waggon laboring, forward moved 
 
 At last, by two white oxen drawn. 
 
 It looked like some unwieldy sailing-craft. 
 
 The loader now stands upright, shouting 
 
 To the mowers, Cease, there's something wrong. 
 
 Behold a messenger! The waggoner's 
 
 Assistants who with pitchforks tendered him 
 
 The grass, the drops wiped from their streaming foreheads, 
 
 And the mowers, whetting edges, 
 
 Kept their eyes fixed on the plain, 
 
 On which the sun was winging shafts. 
 
 The rustic messenger addresses tliem. 
 
 Attend. men, to what tlic master says ! 
 
 Return, cupbearer, whence you came ;
 
 196 IX. THE MUSTER. 
 
 A'Toss the fields like lightning speed, 
 
 And hid the ploughmen and the mowers quit 
 
 Their scythes and plouglis, the reapers lay aside 
 
 Their sickles, shepherds leave their sheep, 
 
 And hither come to me. The faithful servant 
 
 Instantly departed, fleeter 
 
 Than the goats. He strides across the banks 
 
 Whereon the madders grow, most precious 
 Souvenir of Althen ^. Every where 
 He sees the centaury-s tarred held '' 
 Deflonred. He sees the earth. 
 Roused from her sleep of winter. 
 Turned up in unshajiely clods, 
 And in the furrow broad 
 
 ^ J 
 ') 
 
 The frisky wagtail following the plough. 
 
 Attend, men, to what the master says ! 
 
 Return cupbearer, whence you came. 
 
 Across the helds like lightning speed and bid 
 
 The ploughmen and the mowers quit 
 
 Their scythes and ploughs, the reapers lay aside 
 
 Their sickles, shepherds leave their sheep. 
 
 And hither come to me. Again the faitliful 
 Servant instantly departed, fleeter 
 Than the goats. He jumps the ditches. 
 All with prairie-flowers bordered; 
 Dashes through the white-oat pieces, and is 
 Lost at last in the tall golden wheat. 
 Twice twenty reapers, like devouring flames.
 
 IX. THE MUSTER. 197 
 
 Divest the land of lier rich fragrant mantle, 
 
 Gain upon the Held they reap like wolves, 
 
 Despoiling earth and summer 
 
 Of their golden bloom. Behind the men 
 
 The wheat falls in long files in order, 
 
 Like vine-tendrils. Ardent ligareUo 
 
 Calch it up hy handsful, under one arm stow, 
 
 And when they have enough they press it 
 
 With their knees, then tightly Linding 
 
 Cast the sheaf behind them. The bright sickles 
 
 Glisten like the wings of swarming bees. 
 
 Or like the laughing ripple on the water 
 
 When the llounder frolics in the sun. 
 
 The tall slieaves mingling their rough beards 
 
 By hundreds rise in heaps pyramidal, 
 
 Giving the fields the appearance of a tented 
 
 Camp ; like that of Beaucaire formerly. 
 
 When Simon and the P'rench crusaders, 
 
 And the legate who commanded them, 
 
 Came with their horde impetuously 
 
 And laid waste Provence, slaughtering connt Ramoun. 
 
 Meanwhile go ajjont as if in play 
 
 The gleaners, gleanings in their hands ; and many, 
 
 A blitherome lassie mid the Provence canes 5, 
 
 Or in the warm shade of the stacks of corn. 
 
 Is seized with languor, 
 
 After one long fascinating gaze. 
 
 Love is a reaper too !
 
 198 IX. THE MUSTER. 
 
 Attend, men, to what the master says! 
 The rustic herald shouts addressing them. 
 Return, cupbearer, whence you came, 
 Across the fields like lightning speed and hid 
 The plougmen and the mowers quit 
 Their scythes and ploughs, the reapers lay aside 
 Their sickles, shepherds leave their sheep, 
 
 And hither come to me. Again 
 
 The faithful servant instantly departed. 
 
 Fleeter than the goats. He takes 
 
 The shortest cut through the grey olive-trees, 
 
 And like a rude north-easter hends the branches 
 
 In the vine-fields. Now behold him 
 
 "Where the red-legged partridges are heard, 
 
 In solitary arid Crau. Afar 
 
 Under the dwarf-oaks. he perceives the sheep 
 
 Reposing, and the shepherds with their chief 
 
 Reclining on the heather, and the wagtails 
 
 On the ruminating sheep disporting 
 
 Undisturbed. He sees a white 
 
 Light gauze-like vapor slowly 
 
 From the sky descending. Had 
 
 Some female Saint of heaven 
 
 P'aint in the aerial heights, 
 
 The sun too nearly skirting. 
 
 Of her convent- veil relieved herself? 
 
 Attend, men, to what the master says, 
 
 The rustic herald to the shepherds cries ;
 
 IX. THE MUSTER. 
 
 199 
 
 Return, cupbearer, whence you came, 
 
 Across the helds like lightning speed, and bid 
 
 The plonglimen and the mowers quit 
 
 Their scythes and ploughs, the reapers lay aside 
 
 Their sickles, shepherds leave their sheep. 
 
 And hither come to me. Whereon 
 
 The scythes ceased mowing, ploughs stood still, 
 
 The forty highland reapers dropped their sickles; 
 All came rushing like a young-winged swarm 
 Disturbed and lighting on a pine-tree. 
 Came the men of all work, waggoner 
 And is assistants, shepherds, gleaners. 
 Reapers up of sheaves, 'rick-builders. 
 Mowers, reapers, Ugarello 
 
 And rastelarello •^, all, and mustered 
 
 At the homestead. On the grass-grown 
 
 Treading-lloor the master sat 
 
 His wife beside, the Muster of the hands 
 
 Awaiting silently. The people 
 
 Marvelling at being called olf 
 
 From their tasks, said on arriving. Master, 
 
 Thou hast sent for us and here we are. 
 The great storm always comes in harvest. 
 Master Ramouu raised his head and said; 
 However well-advised we may be 
 But poor creatures we are all, aye stumbling 
 On misfortune. Tell me now, good friends,. 
 What each knows and wiiat each has seen.
 
 200 IX. THE MUSTER. 
 
 Lauren de Gout " 
 
 Forward steps. He never from a child 
 
 Had once failed with his sickle quivered, 
 
 When the corn-fields yellowed, to the plains 
 
 Of Aries to find his way. Brown as a church-stone 
 
 Was his skin, and he as strong 
 
 As an old rock the sea has vainly battered 
 
 With its waves. The sun might scorch 
 
 Or the mistral might IjIow, 
 
 But this old captain of the sickle 
 
 Ever was the first at work. 
 
 The reapers had elected him their chief. 
 
 Began Lauren de Gout : 
 
 God arrest the earthquake ! 
 
 Master presages us tears ; of this 
 
 We may be sure as that it rains or snows 
 
 Whene'er the dawn is ru idy. 
 
 As the light this morning night was driving 
 
 Westward, wet with dew as usual, 
 
 We beginning were when, Comrades ! 
 
 Cried I, let's about the work go 
 
 Properly, and with a will. Accordingly 
 
 I tuck up sleeves and gaily to my task bend. 
 
 Master, lo, at the first stroke I cut myself ! 
 
 For thirty years it, beu Bondieu ! 
 
 Hadn't happened to me. Then he showed 
 
 His fingers bleeding from a deep gash. 
 
 Seeing which Mireio's parents groaned
 
 IX. THE MT'STER. 
 
 201 
 
 More heavily. Jan Bouquet, mower, knight 
 Of Tarascon, of La Tarasque «, a fine youth, 
 Rough but kind and friendly, was the next 
 To speak. Ah ! none so well as he 
 And with such grace in Condamino * 
 Waved the javelin in the air. 
 When the old witcli, Lagadigadeu, 
 
 Ran the streets through, and the gloomy town 
 With dances brightened up and rang 
 With noisy mirth. He w^ould have ranked 
 Among the masters of the scythe had he 
 To duty's path kept in the pastures. But 
 When holidays came round, adieu the scythe ! 
 He was a roisterer, a very Thraso- 
 
 At the revels in the arbour. 
 
 At the orgies in the vaulted tavern, 
 
 In the interminable farandole, 
 
 And at the hull-baits. Thus began the youth : 
 
 Master, as wo were mowing with long sweeps 
 
 I spied a nest of francolins beneath 
 
 A tuft of tares. They were their half-lledged pennons 
 
 Fluttering, and I gaily stooped to count them. 
 F3ut, fatal luck! poor little animals! 
 Some frightful red ants had possession got 
 Of nest and little oues. Three were already 
 Dead. The r(>st infested with tlie vermin 
 Stretched their piteous lu^ads out of the nest 
 As if to say, Oh ! come and save us !
 
 202 IX. THE MUSTER, 
 
 But a cloud of ants more venimous 
 Than nettles, furious eager greedy, 
 Were upon and stinging them. AVhile I, 
 All pensively incumbent on my scythe, 
 Afar the mother heard bewailing them. 
 This tale of woe to fatlier mother 
 Was a lance- wound, tending to confirm 
 
 Their worst presentiments. Then as 
 
 The tempest gathers sile'ntly in June, 
 
 Over the plain the weather lowers. 
 
 Clap follows clap, and the north-east ^^ is lit 
 
 With lightning ; lo, Lou Maran comes ! 
 
 On winter-evenings, when the stalled mules 
 
 Drew lucern from the racks. 
 
 Oft would the ploughmen, speaking of the day 
 
 He came for hire, the oil in their lamps 
 
 Exhaust. It was at seed-time. 
 
 All the plougmen had begun to trace 
 
 Their furrows, save Lou Marran, 
 
 Who remained his tackle, coulter, ploughshare, 
 
 Eyeing as though he the instrument 
 
 Had never seen before. At last 
 
 The ploughman-chief assails him, Lout ! 
 
 You plougli for wages! Why, I'll bet 
 
 A hog would with his snout plough better. Done ! 
 
 Says Marran, and whichever, master, loses, 
 
 I or thou, three golden louis loses. 
 
 Blow the trumpet ! They two lofty poplars
 
 IX. THE MUSTER. 203 
 
 Take for goal. The ploughshares cleave 
 
 The stubble, never from the straight line swerving, 
 
 While the sun both ridges brightens up. 
 
 Rampau de Dicu^* ! cried the men at once. 
 
 Thy furrow is, chief, the furrow 
 
 Of a man of valor. But and nothing but 
 
 The truth to tell, so straight the other is 
 
 That verily one could throughout its length 
 
 An arrow shoot. Lou Marran won the wager. 
 
 In the parliament assembled he, 
 
 Trembling all over, pale, his Ijitter word 
 
 Deposed as follows. As I' was, said he, 
 
 Awhile since whistling o'er the share ; 
 
 The ground is hard, thought I, the day we'll stretch 
 
 A bit to hnish off. When lo, I see 
 
 My two beasts bristle up their hairy coats, 
 
 Lay back their ears, with horror quake, and stop short 
 
 Then and there. I saw the field-herbs 
 
 Bend down even with the ground, and fade. 
 
 I touch my beasts. Baiardo sadly 
 
 Looks at me, l)ut never budges. Fallet 
 
 Snuffs the furrow's ridges. With my whip 
 I lash their shins. They start off scared. 
 The beam, an ashen one, is shivered to bits. 
 Tackle and yoke are carried off. And I, 
 Oppress(}d and pale, was seized as with a lit 
 Of epilepsy. With involuntary 
 Strong convulsion my jaws grouutl.
 
 "204 IX. THE MUSTER. 
 
 I felt Death like a gust of wind 
 
 Pass over me. On end my hair stood 
 
 like a thistle ! 
 
 The afflicted mother here cries desp'rately 
 
 Bo7io Maire de Dim! with thy mantle 
 
 Cover my sweet child. And as she 
 
 On her knees, with face to heaven turned, 
 
 Again was 'bout to speak, behold Anteume, 
 Shepherd-chief and milker, comes up with long strides 
 And mutt'ring. What possessed her to so early 
 Rise and haunt the junipers ? then entering 
 The council he as follows spoke : 
 Master, the welkin over the vast plain 
 Was still all hobnailed with the stars of God, 
 
 And we beginning were to milk the sheep, 
 When lo, a soul, a spectre or a shadow, 
 Flits across the path ! The dogs are mute 
 With fright. The sheep together huddled. 
 If a good soul you be, speak to me ! 
 If not, then to the flames return ! 
 Thought I, who never have at Nostro Damo, 
 
 Master, leisure for an ave. Then 
 
 A well known voice cried, To the Holy Marys 
 
 Will no one among the sliepherds 
 
 Go with me ? And in an instant 
 
 She had vanished. Wilt thou credit it, 
 
 O master, 'twas Mireio ! 
 
 Is it possiJjle ! they all exclaimed at once.
 
 IX. THE MUSTER. 205 
 
 It was Mireio, I affirm it ! 
 
 Cried the shepherd-chief; I saw her 
 
 In the starhght sweep by me. 
 
 1 tell you verily I saw her. 
 
 Not as once she used to be, 
 
 But with her wan scared face, by which 
 
 On earth we knew some heavy grief oppressed her. 
 
 "With a groan the laborers grasp 
 
 Each-other's horny palm. 
 
 The stricken mother cries, O young men, 
 
 Take me over to the Saints ! 1 must. 
 
 Wherever she has flown to 
 
 Follow my sweet bird, my partridge 
 
 Of the stony fields. The ants ! 
 
 Should they attack you, to the last 
 
 My grinders grind them shall, ant-hill and all ! 
 
 Should gaunt voracious Death 
 
 To twist you venture, I will jog 
 
 His old worn scythe, and you'll llee through the jungle! 
 
 Wildly thus raved Jano Mario 
 
 As they through the fields returned, 
 
 Beside herself with apprehension. 
 
 Now the master speaks. Set up the cart-tilt, 
 
 Cartman ; grease the axle, wet the nave, 
 
 And sharply put Moureto '- to, 
 
 For it is late and we have far to go. 
 
 Into the cart gets Jano Mario, 
 
 And tlic air is more than ever filled with 
 
 14
 
 20G IX. THE MUSTER. 
 
 Her delirious, plaintive, transports. 
 
 Lovely darling ! Stony wilderness 
 
 Of Crau ! vast salt-plains ! you great sun I 
 
 Be loving to my drooping daughter. 
 
 As for the abominable Witch 
 
 That wheedled to her den my child, 
 
 And most assuredly poured out for her 
 
 And made her drink her potions 
 
 And her poisons ; Taven ! may the demons 
 
 Seize her, every one that terrified 
 
 S' Anthony, and drag her over all 
 
 The rocks of Baux ! 
 
 The poor unhappy woman's voice 
 
 Was by the noisy jolting of the cart 
 
 Now drowned. The servants of the mas, 
 
 One last look taking just to see if haply 
 
 Some-one from La Crau 
 
 Might not be coming, 
 
 Slowly to their work returned. 
 
 Musketoes swarmed, meandered humming. 
 
 Happy they !
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE NINTH CANTO 
 
 1. — Lunch, a light meal reapers take about ten in 
 the morning. 
 
 2. — The scarlet-oak, called by some Ihe holm. 
 Quercus ilex. — T. 
 
 3. — Jean Althen, an Armenian adventurer who, in 
 1774, introduced the cultivation of madder into the 
 Comtat Venaissin (depart', of Vaucluse). In 1850, a statue 
 was erectsd to him on the Avignon rock. 
 
 i. — Tfie cenlaury-slarred field. Centaury, \]ie solstice 
 centaury, centaurea solstilialis, a plant that teems in the 
 fields after harvest. Its yellow flowers and star-like 
 prickles have suggested its Provencal name, auriolo, 
 which means a halo.
 
 208 NOTES TO THE NINTH CANTO. 
 
 5. — The Provence cane (ariindo vulgaris vel clonaoc), 
 very common in Provence, whereof are made cattle-pens, 
 angling rods, etc. — T. 
 
 6. — Rastclarello, female rakers. — T. 
 
 7. — Gout (Goult or Agoult), a village in the department 
 of Vaucluse, that has given its name to one of the most 
 illustrious houses in Provence. 
 
 8. — La Tarasque. All the world has heard of La 
 Tarasque, a monster that, according to tradition, ravaged 
 the banks of the Rh6ne, and was destroyedbyS' Martha. 
 Every year the people of Tarascon celebrate their 
 deliverance by the exhibition of the monster in eiBgy; 
 and at intervals of time more or less long the fete is 
 enhanced by various games, such as that of the pike and 
 the flag mentioned in the poem, which consists in 
 gracefully waving and in throwing to a great height and 
 catching with address a standard with large folds, or a 
 javelin. Lagadigadeu is the ritoiirnello of a popular song: 
 ascribed to king Rene, and sung at Tarascon at this 
 fete. 
 
 9. — Condamino, la Condamine (campus Domini), the 
 name of a certain quarter in Tarascon. 
 
 10. — Tlie north east. The iremountano is the N. E. 
 wind, and by extension the N. E. 
 
 11. — Rampau de Dieu, palm of God. — T.
 
 NOTES TO THE NINTH CANTO. 209 
 
 12, — Moureto the name of the female, Mouret that of 
 the male, animal, — T. 
 
 In the country beasts of burthen are usually named 
 after their color. The most common names are Mouret, 
 black; Blanquet, white; ^ninen, brown ; Falet, grey; 
 Baiard, bay; liouhin, light bay.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO X 
 
 CAM ARGUE 
 
 Good people of Provence from Aries to Venco', 
 
 And from ■ Valensolo to Marsiho -, 
 
 Listen to me. Wliilo Mireio 
 
 I sing, you pity Vincen. 
 
 Should you find the weather warm, friends, 
 
 We will to the Durencolo-^ hanks 
 
 Repair and sit. 
 
 Managed by Andreloun, the little boat 
 
 The water cleft as noiseles as a sole. 
 
 The lovesick maiden 1 have sung 
 
 With Andreloun has ventured 
 
 Oil Ihe Rhone, and sitting 
 
 Contemplates with vacant air the waves. 
 
 The boy says rowing. See how wide the Rhone is !
 
 212 X. CAMARGUE. 
 
 'Twixt Camargue and Grau, young lady, 
 
 Might be held line jousts! That island 
 
 Is Camargue ; it reaches far enough 
 
 To see the Arlesian river ope 
 
 His seven mouths. Some tartanes as he spoke 
 
 Were slowly moving up, like graceful swans. 
 
 The stream resplendent with the rosy tints 
 
 Of early morn. The sea-breeze swelled 
 The canvas of the crafts and urged them on 
 Gently before it, like a shepherdess 
 A flock of white lambs. Feathery ash-trees 
 And gigantic poplars grateful shade 
 Afforded to the river's bank. Around these 
 And their stouter boughs were twisted 
 
 Aged wild vines, wdth their fruit 
 
 In knotty clusters hanging. And the Rhone 
 
 Pursued his way majestically tranquil, 
 
 Seemingly profoundly sad at losing 
 
 In the sea his waters and his name ; 
 
 Or weary, sleepy, like a tall old 
 
 Dying man, his farancloles 
 
 And symphonies regretting, and his palace 
 
 Of the popes at Avignon. 
 
 Meanwhile the lovesick maiden I have sung- 
 
 Has jumped ashore. Walk on as far as you've 
 
 A road before you ! cries the little man ; 
 
 The Saints will lead you to their chapel straight. 
 
 Then he the sculls seized, backed with one,
 
 X. CAM ARGUE. 213 
 
 And with the other pulled his boat's head round. 
 
 Mireio, through the hre tJiat June 
 
 Is pouring down, like lightning flies. 
 
 North south east west •* she sees a plain immense; 
 
 Savannahs that present no limit 
 
 But the horizon; marshes, bitter prairies 
 
 Where, luxuriating in the briny air, 
 
 Black oxen and white horses freely roam. 
 For only vegetation at rare intervals 
 Some tamarisks, sodas, shavegrass. 
 Golden-herb and salicornes ^ ; at times 
 A seagull ; or a long-legged hermit, 
 Casting as he flies across the ponds 
 His shadow ; or a red-legged chevalier c, 
 
 Or hern with a fierce look ', that proudly erects 
 His crest of three white plumes composed. 
 The heat begins to enervate the maid. 
 Her neckerchief she loosens. But the sun 
 Now rising to the zenith glares 
 Ferociously, and, like an Abyssinian lion 
 Ravenous for food, devours the desert 
 
 With a look. How good it were 
 To stretch oneself beneath a beech-tree here ! 
 The radiance of the sunbeams simulates 
 The sparks from steel upon a grindstone. 
 Quivering as they fly ; or swarms of furious 
 Hornets. Worn and gasping from fatigue 
 And heat, love's pilgrim has the pin withdrawn
 
 214 X. CAM ARGUE. 
 
 That held her ])odice ; and her bosom, heaving 
 Like twin-billows in a limpid brook, 
 Resembles the pancratia ^ that expose 
 Their whiteness to the sea in summer. 
 Presently the scene its sadness loses, 
 And a rippling spacious lake is seen. 
 All round its shore 
 
 The ground is oozy. The phylleria 
 And atriplex » have grown in stature. 
 And a little grateful shade afibrd. 
 It is a heavenly prospect, a refreshing 
 Dream of Promised land. A town appears 
 Along the azure water, with a wall 
 All round it, having princely houses, 
 
 Fountains, churches wdiose tall steeples 
 
 Lengthen in the suashine, suburbs; 
 
 Ships, pinello '*' with their snow-white sails, 
 
 Are entering the port; the wind is light, 
 
 The flags and oriflames play languidly 
 
 Upon the masts. 
 
 Mireio from her forehead wipes 
 
 The abundant moisture and, A miracle, 
 Moun Dim! is about to cry, 
 But she runs on, persuaded that the Marys' 
 Tomb is there. Alas ! the more she runs 
 The more the picture changes, the illusion 
 Fades. Fantastic ' had the subtile fabric 
 Woven with a sunbeam, and its tints
 
 X. CAMARGUE. 215 
 
 Had borrowed from the clouds. She notwithstanding 
 
 Follows it. Its Uimsy stull" 
 
 Is now disturbed ; it wavers, melts, 
 
 And like a mist evanishes. 
 
 Mireio all alone, bewildered 
 
 By the heat, still goes on o'er the heaps 
 
 Of odious burning moving sand, 
 
 Over the large salt-crusted marsh '-, 
 Dazzling, and crisp-ljaked by the sun. 
 And onward through the rushes, reeds, 
 And fenny-herbs, the home of gnats. 
 With Vincen in her thoughts she'd skij-ted 
 Long the Vacares' salt-shore ^=* ; already 
 The white church of the great Saints she'd sighted, 
 
 Looming in the distance like a ship 
 
 Making for land. The beams of the relentless 
 
 Sun here pierce her forehead as with arrows. 
 
 Toor unhappy maid ! she sinks down 
 
 Hy the sea, she falls death-stricken 
 
 On the sand. O (-ran, thy llower is 
 
 Cut down ! young men, weep for her ! 
 
 When in a valley, by the river-side, 
 
 A sportsman tnrtlo-doves spies innocently 
 
 Drinking, others cooing. 
 
 Quickly through the bushes with his gun 
 
 He comes up ardently, ami it's the fairest 
 
 Always that he pierces with his shot. 
 
 The poor cjiild in a swoon lay stretched
 
 216 
 
 X. CAMARGUE. 
 
 Upon the beach. A swarm of gnats 
 
 Was passing hy, who seeing her expiring 
 
 Without e'en a sprig of juniper ''' 
 
 To screen her from the burning verberation, 
 
 Plaintively the viol playing 
 
 With their little wings, they hummed out, 
 
 Get up quickly, pretty one ! quick get up ! 
 
 For the heat of this salt-marsh 
 
 Is too malignant. And they stang her poor 
 
 Hot hands and all her neck and forehead ; 
 
 While the salt-sea-spray with bitter dew 
 
 Her face besprinkled. Groaning 
 
 She rose up, and crying, / .' my head ! 
 
 Dragged her slow way along, poor child. 
 
 From salicorne to salicorne, 
 
 Till at the sea-side Saints at last 
 
 She staggering arrived. 
 
 Then with her eyes suffused with tears 
 
 She cast herself dowm on the chapel pavement, 
 
 Damp with inflltration from the sea, 
 
 And ardently as follows prayed : 
 
 holy Marys, who can into smiles 
 
 Change our bitter tears, incline 
 
 Unto my grief a ready ear. 
 
 For when you know, alas ! my cruel pain, 
 
 All my load of care. 
 
 You'll pitifully come 
 
 And side with me.
 
 X. CAM ARGUE. 217 
 
 1 am a maiden young and love a youth, 
 
 Handsome Vincen ; him, dear Saints, 
 
 I love, I love with all my heart ! 
 
 I love him as the stream meandering 
 
 Loves to glide ; or as 
 
 The little Hedged bird loves 
 
 To try his ^\ings. 
 
 • 
 
 Yet they would have me to put out this fire. 
 Quenched it will not be ! They'd have 
 Me rend the almond-tree in bloom ! 
 
 holy Marys, who can into smiles 
 Change our bitter tears, 
 
 Incline unto my grief 
 A ready ear. 
 
 Nor anxious mother, Crau, nor wilderness, 
 
 Nought arrested me ; from far, 
 
 From far I've come in quest of peace. 
 
 1 feel the sun's fierce rays upon my head ; 
 Down they seem to come 
 
 Like thorns and red-hot nails 
 And pierce my brain. 
 
 You may believe mo though, mo Vincen give; 
 
 Gay and smiling we will ]joth 
 
 Together come and see you here. 
 
 My temples then will cease to torture me ; 
 
 Yea, my face now bathed 
 
 In tears of anguish will 
 
 For joy shine.
 
 218 X. CAMARGUE. 
 
 My father stern objects to link our fates; 
 
 But a trifle 'twere for yon 
 
 To touch his heart, Saints of gold ! 
 
 Though hard tlie olive be the Advent wind, 
 
 Breatliing only on, 
 
 Will mollify it to 
 
 The proper point. 
 
 The medlar, sorb, are both sour when they're picked, 
 
 Make one shudder ; yet a wisp 
 
 Of straw strewed '^ serves to sweeten them. 
 
 O holy Marys, who can into smiles 
 
 Change our bitter tears; 
 
 Incline unto my grief 
 
 A ready ear. 
 
 What's this that dazzles me ? is't Paradise ? 
 
 Open is the church ! with stars 
 
 Bespangled all the vault above ! 
 
 happy I ! the Saints descend, moun Dieu ! 
 
 Cloudless is the air; 
 
 To me they come, with liglit 
 
 All radiant ! 
 
 And is it really you "^ patrons fair ! 
 
 Hide away the rays emitted 
 
 By your crowns or I must die ! 
 
 Your voices call me? oh, do veil yourselves ! 
 
 Weary are mine eyes ! 
 
 Where is the chapel ? Saints ! 
 
 You speak to me ?
 
 X. CAMARGUE. 219 
 
 Thus in an ecstacy, Mireio 
 
 On the flags knelt gasping, half dead, 
 
 With her arms extended, 
 
 Her head backward lying, 
 
 And her eyes wide open seemed to see 
 
 S' Peter's portal and the other world. 
 
 Her lips moved not. Her soul was rapt 
 
 In contemplation and her lovely face 
 Transfigured. As the day advances 
 With its gold to crown the poplar-tops, 
 The night-lamp's rays that light death's chamber 
 Pale and paler grow. And as at daybreak 
 Flocks disperse, so now the chapel's roof 
 And pillars all withdrew, to make-way for 
 
 The Marys, three divinely lovely women, 
 
 In white shining robes, descending 
 
 Out of heaven down a pathway 
 
 Glittering with stars. 
 
 One to her bosom pressed an alabaster vase. 
 
 Alone the star that lightens shephoi-ds 
 
 On calm nights recalls 
 
 Her Paradisian brow. 
 
 The second her fair tresses lets become 
 
 The winds' sport, and advances palm in hand. 
 
 The third, still young, her dark complexion 
 
 Veils a little with her pure white mantle, 
 
 While the Hashes of her gorgeous eyes 
 
 The diamond's surpass.
 
 220 X. CAMARGUE. 
 
 They reach the mourner. Over her they bend, 
 And speak to her. Their speech so soft is, 
 And their smile so loving, that the thorns 
 Of martyrdom bloom on Mireio. 
 Poor Mireio ! say they, comfort take, 
 We are the three Judoean Marys ; 
 Comfort take, we are the patrons 
 
 Of the stormy-sea-surrounded bark ; 
 
 At sight of us the waves return to calm. 
 
 Now raise your eyes. That is S* James' road. 
 
 We were together at the further end 
 
 E'en now, and looking through the stars 
 
 At the processions that on pilgrimage 
 
 To Goumpoustello *^ go on his, our son 
 
 And nephew's, tomb to pray. 
 
 We hearkened to the litanies the pilgrims 
 
 In the fields recited, blended with 
 
 The murmur of the fountains 
 
 And the peals of bells. In concert 
 
 All gave glory to our son and nephew, 
 
 Spain's apostle, sainted James the Major. 
 
 Happy at the glory thus ascending 
 
 To his memory, on the pilgrims' brows 
 
 We shed the dew of peace, and poured 
 
 Into their souls the oil of pure gladness. 
 
 Then it was your sad complaint ascended 
 
 To us ardently as flames of fire. 
 
 Your faith, little maid, is of the sort
 
 X. CAMARGUE. 221 
 
 The great are constituted. But your prayer 
 Distresses us. From fountains of pure love 
 Foolishly you would drink, and foolishly 
 Before death you would try the strong life 
 Which we live in God himself. 
 Wherever found you here below 
 True happiness? Beheld it have you 
 
 In the rich man ? Puffed up, cushioned, 
 
 Garlessly extended, in his heart 
 
 He God denies. But when the leech is gorged 
 
 Tt falls ; and what will he do with his swelling 
 
 When he stands before the Judge who entered 
 
 On an ass' foal Jerusalem ? 
 
 F^eheld it have you on the mother's brow, 
 
 As with emotion to her infant she 
 
 Imparts her milk's lirst jet? One sup of bad 
 
 Suffices. O'er the cradle bending see her 
 
 Now, beside herself, her little dead-one 
 
 Covering with kisses. 
 
 Have you seen it on the bride's brow, as 
 
 With her betrothed she takes the path to church? 
 
 Go to, that path has more thorns for the couple 
 
 Treading it than has the sloe-bush of the heath ; 
 
 For it is all besprent with trials and grave trouble. 
 
 The most limpid water here below 
 
 When (Inink turns l)ilt(>r. Here below 
 
 The worm is born with the young fj-uit, and all 
 
 To ruin falls or to corruption turns. 
 
 15
 
 222 X. CAMARGUE. 
 
 All Tainly you may from the basket choose 
 
 The sweetest orange. Bitter 'twill 
 
 As gall become in no time. They who seem 
 
 To breathe in your world only sigh. But whoso 
 
 At a source unfailing incorruptible 
 
 Would drink, let him or her with suffering 
 
 Purchase it. The stone must needs be broke 
 
 To atoms for the silver-ore to be 
 Extracted. Happy therefore those 
 Who trouble take and in good works 
 Exhaust themselves, and who on seeing others 
 Weep, weep too, and who the cloak 
 From off their shoulders take to cover 
 Naked poverty, and who are humble 
 
 With the humble, and who stir for him 
 
 Or her a-cold their fire into a blaze. 
 
 The great word man forgets is. Death is life ! 
 
 The meek the simple and the good are blessed. 
 
 Favored by propitious gales, they wing 
 
 Their way to heaven quietly, and white 
 
 As lilies leave a world in which the saints 
 
 Are stoned continually. Could you, Mireio, 
 
 See from the supreme Empyrean heights 
 
 How full of suffering is this nether world. 
 
 How foolish miserable all your ardor 
 
 After matter, and your churchyard-fears ! 
 
 Poor lambkin, you would bleat for death and pardon. 
 
 But before the wheat can grow up
 
 X. CAM ARGUE. 223 
 
 Into ear, it must wilhin the earth 
 
 Ferment. Such is the law. 
 
 We too before we had our beams 
 
 Had drunk our bitter cup. 
 
 And now, that your faith fail not, we will 
 
 All our voyage's alarms 
 
 And tribulations tell you. 
 
 The Saints paused. 
 
 The waves to listen, coaxingly 
 
 Had flocked along the shore ; 
 
 The pine-trees signs made 
 
 To the rustling reeds ; 
 
 And to the wonder of the teal and Igulls 
 
 The Vacares her bosom calmed. 
 
 The sun and moon adored. 
 
 Inclining their large crimson brows 
 
 Over the farthest marshes ; and Camargue 
 
 Salt-saturated thrilled, 
 
 As the three blessed Saints 
 
 To fortify love's martyr 
 
 Thus began.
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE TENTH CANTO 
 
 1. — Venco, a small town in the department of thd 
 Var, not far from Antibes, formerly a see. 
 
 2. — Marsiho, Marseilles. — T. 
 
 3. — Durehcolo. This name is given to the canals 
 derived from the Durance. Valensolo, a small town in 
 the L. Alps. 
 
 Ik. — N. S. E. W. The Provencal locution literally 
 is from sun to sun and from wind to wind, meaning from 
 east to west and from north to south. 
 
 5. — Tamarisk, etc. ; lamarix gallica, Lin. Soda, 
 salsola soda, Lin. Salicorne, salicornia frulicosa, Lin. 
 All plants common in Camargue. 
 
 6.-4 red-legged chevalier. The Provencal name, 
 cambet, designates several birds of the order of the
 
 NOTES TO THE TENTH CANTO. 225 
 
 ichas$iers, chiefly the large red-legged chevalier, scolopax 
 calidrix, Lin., and the small red-legged chevalier, tringa 
 gambetta, Lin. 
 
 7. — A hern with a fierce look, ardea nyciicorax, Lin. 
 
 8. - Pancratia, campaneto or He de mar in Provencal . 
 The author alludes to the beautiful flower, pancratium 
 marilinum, Lin. 
 
 9. — Phylleria and airiplex ; phylleria laiifolia, Lin., 
 a large shrub of the family of the jessamine -, atriplex 
 porlulaco'ides, Lin. (Orage or, orach, golden-herb. — T.) 
 
 IQ. — Pinello, sailing-boats. — T. 
 
 11. — Fantasti. See Canto VI, st. 38, and following. 
 
 12. — The large salt-crusted niarsh, b. vast sterile space 
 covered with a saline incrustation due to infiltration from 
 the sea. 
 
 13. - The Vacar^s. See note 7 to 4th Canto. 
 
 14. — Juniper the juniperus phccnicea, Lin. 
 
 15. - Straw strewed. Medlars and sorbs are ripened 
 on straw. 
 
 16. — Coumpoustello, in the middle ages, Campus 
 StelLv, erst the capital of Galicia in Spain, now a town 
 of about 30,000 inhabitants, with a fine old cathedral 
 containing the tomb of S' James the Major, the patron 
 Saint of Spain. — T.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO XI 
 
 THE SAINTS 
 
 The Cross was standing, Mireio, 
 
 Damp still vvilli the Llood. of God : 
 
 Over the city of the crime it cried, What hast 
 
 Thou done, what hast thou done, with Bellilehem's king ? 
 
 Loud clamors from her streets no longer rose. 
 
 Cedron lamented him afar ofi". Jordan 
 
 Sorrowing i)ursued his desert-course, 
 
 And murmured mid the lentisks 
 
 And green terehinths his sad complaint. 
 
 And the poor people too were sad. 
 
 Full well they knew he was their Christ, 
 
 He who the door of his own sepulchre 
 
 Had forced ; he who to his companions 
 
 And disciples had returned
 
 228 XI. THE SAINTS. •• 
 
 To sliow himself; and who, the keys to Peter 
 
 Having left, ascended up to heaven 
 
 Like an eagle. Ah ! they mourned in Jewry 
 
 For the handsome Galilean carpenter; 
 
 The fair-haired carpenter who all hearts won,. 
 
 What with the honey of his parables, 
 
 What with his bounty to the multitude 
 
 In feeding them with bread unleavened 
 On the hills, their lepers cleansing, 
 And their dead restoring them alive. 
 But all the horde of traffickers the Master 
 From his holy temple drove, the scribes 
 The priests the kings, these muttered, 
 How restrain the multitude, unless 
 
 In Sion and Samaria the Cross' light 
 
 We speedily extinguish ? And they raged, 
 
 And holy martyrs witnessed. 
 
 Stephen till he died was stoned. 
 
 Another, James, despatched they with the sword. 
 
 And others crushed were under blocks of stone. 
 
 But all on yielding up the ghost exclaimed, 
 
 Christ Jesus is the son of God ! 
 
 Then us, the sisters and the brothers 
 
 Who had followed him from place to place^ 
 
 They drove on board a crazy hulk 
 
 Deprived of sail or oar. 
 
 And to the fury of the sea consigned. 
 
 The men their eyes to heaven raised,
 
 229 
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 We women shed a flood of tears. 
 
 Receding we already mark the city, 
 
 Temple, palaces and towers; 
 
 Finally the Mount of Olives, 
 
 Carmel's crests and rugged sides. 
 
 When suddenly a voice is heard. We turn 
 
 And lo, upon the shore a maid. 
 
 She raised her arms and cried. My mistresses, 
 
 Oh ! take me with you in the boat ! 
 
 I too must die a bitter death 
 
 For Jesus' sake ! It was our servant Sarah ; 
 
 And you see her now in glory 
 
 Shining like an April dawn. 
 
 Aquilo far from shore was blowing us. 
 
 But lo, Salome, God-inspired, overboard 
 
 Into the water cast her veil. And now, 
 
 mighty faith ! upon the white and blue 
 
 Rough sea, the handmaid from the far-ofl" shore 
 
 Our frail bark reaches, by Aquilo driven 
 
 And the veil upheld ! Again we turn 
 
 Our faces landward, and as through the haze 
 
 We watch the hill-tops vanish one by one, 
 Till nought was visible but sea and sky. 
 Then the homesickness we were seized with 
 None can realise but those who've felt it. 
 Holy-land, adieu ! Judaea doomed 
 To grief. For crucifying thine own God 
 And driving from thee thy just ones,
 
 230 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 Thy vines, thy dates, the tawny lion's pasture 
 
 Shall become ; thy halls the haunts of serpents. 
 
 Over the fearful sea 
 
 A storm of wind the vessel drove. 
 
 Upon the poop was kneeling Saturninus, 
 
 Also Martial. In his cloak wrapped round him 
 
 Sat, by bishop Maximin, old Trophimus 
 
 In meditation. On the main-deck 
 
 Lazarus was standing, with the mortal 
 
 Pallor of the grave and windingsheet 
 
 Upon him still. He seemed the stormy 
 
 Elements defying. By him was 
 
 His sister Martha and, crouched in a corner 
 
 Weeping, Magdalen. The hulk by demons urged 
 
 Contained besides, Eutropius, 
 Sidonius, Arimathoan Joseph, Gleon, 
 And Marcellus. Leaning 'gainst the sides, 
 In psalmody they raised their voices, 
 And we all joined in Lauclamus te Deum! 
 Oh ! how the wretched bark toiled througii 
 The sparkling waves ! The whirling wind 
 
 Their crests stirred into foam. Out of the sea 
 
 The sun arose and in it set. 
 
 Day after day we wandered o'er 
 
 The vast salt-plain, the winds' sport ever. 
 
 Still from shoals and rocks God kept us free. 
 
 For he'd an end in view which was that we 
 
 Should under his law bring the Provence people.
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 231 
 
 Fine it was one morn above all others. 
 Night had fled before us lamp in hand, 
 Some early-rising widow like 
 Her oven going-to to turn her loaves. 
 The sea was smooth as any trcading-floor, 
 And scarcely beat the sides. Anon we hear 
 A dismal moaning that with horror fills us. 
 
 And it louder grew. It seemed to issue 
 From the extreme horizon. 'Twas the wind ! 
 It bore down on us rapidly. We watched 
 The waves dumfonnded, scared; the sea about us 
 Grouched, was motionless and held the bark 
 The same as if by magic, ominously ; 
 While the blast swept formidably over. 
 
 Presently a liquid mountain rises 
 
 High and terrible, and the whole sea in heayis 
 
 With vapory sombre crests came, 
 
 Lord ! rushing on us, and we » 
 
 To the bottom of a gulf were 
 
 By a monster-wave precipitated, 
 
 Giddy, dying; then uplifted 
 
 By another to its summit. 
 
 Awfully the thunder burst; 
 
 The lightning cleft the darkness. Hell itself 
 
 Seemed 1oos(h1 to swamp us. Roan^d and shrieked the wind, 
 
 Oh! what rough shaking, and what tossing! 
 
 On the shoulders of the sea we're raised, , 
 
 Now to tlie abyss of darkness plunged,
 
 232 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 Where sharks, seals, and sea-peacocks wander,. 
 
 And alas ! where the complaints 
 
 Of the poor sea-tossed drowned are heard. 
 
 A huge wave sweeps clean over us. 
 
 We're lost ! My God ! cried Lazarus, 
 
 Our tiller be ! Once thou didst snatch me 
 
 From the grave. Send help, the bark 
 
 Is foundering ! Like a w'oodpigeon 
 Did his cry for succour pierce the sky 
 And fly to heaven. Jesus saw him 
 From his elevation. Jesus sees his friend 
 Upon the raging sea, his friend 
 Who in another minute had been buried 
 In the same. His eyes beheld us 
 
 Tenderly, and all at once a lengthy 
 
 Sunbeam, alleluia! penetrates 
 
 The storm. Upon the water up and down 
 
 However we continue to be tossed 
 
 And harassed, and to taste the bitterness 
 
 Of sickness. But all dread had left us 
 
 With the clearing of the dense clouds. 
 
 With the quelling of the haughty waves, 
 
 And with the sight of green land through 
 
 The brightened weather. 
 
 Still the old hulk labored heavily. 
 
 At last her head is veered round 
 
 By some friendly breath, when like a grebe ^ 
 
 She glides between the breakers and her keel
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 233 
 
 Ploughs up the froth in flakes. 
 
 She touches, alleluia! 
 
 On a rockless shore. 
 
 We cast us down upon the damp sand 
 
 And exclaim, Our heads that thou hast rescued 
 
 From the tempest ready are, we swear. 
 
 To preach tliy law e'en to the death, Christ ! 
 
 At this new name with joy thrilled 
 
 The noble land of Provence, with her mountains 
 
 Forests plains and lakes ; e'en as the dog. 
 
 Hearing his master's step, runs forth 
 
 To w^elcome him. A feast thou, Pater noster 
 
 Qui in calis es, hadst ready for us 
 
 After our long fast. The sea had thrown up 
 
 Shells; a spring among the salicornes 
 
 We found ; the same that limpid wholesome 
 
 And miraculous still wells up 
 
 In the chapel where our bones repose. 
 
 By faith impelled at once along 
 
 The shingly Rhone we speed, then over moors. 
 
 At length we lind with pleasure 
 
 In the land some traces of the plough. 
 
 Aries' towers we perceive surmounted 
 
 By the standard of the Emperors. 
 
 A reaper thou art now, O Aries! Reposing 
 
 On tliy trcading-lloor thou dreamosl 
 
 Of tliy former glories with delight. 
 
 For then thou wast a Queen, and mother
 
 234 Xr. THE SAINTS. 
 
 Of so fine a race of rowers 
 
 That the wind could not the shipping 
 
 Of thy harbour traverse. Rome had newly 
 
 Clad thee in white well-knit stones. 
 
 She'd pranked thysuburhswith thesix score portals 
 
 Of thy large Areno. Thou, princess 
 
 Of Rome Imperial, hadst thy pompous 
 
 Aqueducts, thy theatre and hippodrome 
 
 To while thy leisure hours away. 
 
 Now we the city enter. To the theatre 
 
 The crowd in famndole was going. 
 
 Thither we repair too. Through the shady 
 
 Marble-temples and the palaces 
 
 The throng of eager people rushes 
 
 Like a heavy rain-storm down 
 
 A maple-shaded deep ravine. 
 
 Oh, shame and malediction ! Bosom bare, 
 
 On the proscenium, ardently a troop 
 
 Of girls were dancing round a block of marble 
 
 They called Venus, to a chorus shrilly sung, 
 
 And by a lyre touched languidly 
 
 Accompanied. The people in their frenzy 
 Clamorously applauded them. Young men 
 And maids repeated, Let us the great goddess, 
 Venus, sing ; from whom all joy descends! 
 Venus the sovereign let us sing, the mother 
 Of the earth and tlie Arlesians ! 
 And the idol, myrtle-crowned, with forehead
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 235 
 
 High, and nostrils wide distended, seemed 
 Amid tho cloiuls of incense swollen with pride. 
 Old Trophinnis, indignant at so mucii 
 Audacity, springs forward interrupting 
 Shouts and dances, and with outstretched ai'ms 
 He, to the stupefaction of the crowd, 
 Aries people, listen ! cries with mighty voice, 
 
 In Jesus' name ! He said no more. 
 
 But at the frowning of his shaggy brow 
 
 The idol staggers, groans, and headlong 
 
 From her pedestal is cast. 
 
 The dancers likewise prostrate fall appalled. 
 
 One howling cry is heard, the multitudes 
 
 Assemble at the gate, then throughout Aries 
 
 They spread dismay and terror. The patricians 
 Dash their crowns olf, while the young men 
 Savagely rush on us with a thousand 
 Daggers gleaming in the air! But something 
 In a moment caused them to retreat. 
 Whether it was our salt-incrusted garments, 
 Whether Trophimus' now serene brow 
 
 Radiating holy light, or Magdalen 
 
 Veiled in a cloud of tears, more beautiful 
 
 A hundred times tlian theirown stone-cold Venus, 
 
 Matters not ; it [)Ossibly was all tliese. 
 
 Trophimus resumed. Arlesians, mark my words: 
 
 Afterwards you may *lv ill me. You have just seen 
 
 Smashed like glass your god, at the mere mention
 
 236 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 Of the name of mine. Ascribe not 
 To my voice this power, for we are nought. 
 The God that laid your idol low no temple 
 Has upon the hill, yet Day and Night behold 
 But Him up yonder. He alone the earth 
 Created, he alone made heaven sea and hills. 
 His hand is mighty. Generous to prayer, 
 
 He is severe against all crime. 
 
 One day from his exalted dwelling, he 
 
 His property by insects saw devoured. 
 
 He saw the slave drink hatred with his tears. 
 
 And never one to , comfort him. He saw 
 
 In sacerdotal garments Evil keeping 
 
 School upon the altars, and your daughters 
 
 Running forth to meet the libertines. 
 To purge all this iniquity, to put an end 
 To the long sulfering of pilloried 
 Humanity, he sent his own son, naked, 
 Poor, without array, into the ilesh. 
 He sent him of a virgin to be born 
 Upon some stable-straw. 
 
 People of Aries, repent ! 
 
 We the companions of his life 
 
 His miracles can vouch for. In the distant 
 
 Land where flows the yellow Jordan, 
 
 "We in his white robe of linen saw him 
 
 Compassed by a crowd. Of God 
 
 He spoke to us as of a being all-good
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 237 
 
 And almighty; of his father's kingdom 
 
 Which for cheats usurpers and the haughty 
 
 Shall not be, but for the lowly, simple. 
 
 Those who weep. He told us we should 
 
 One-another love. His doctrine 
 
 He confirmed by walking on the sea. 
 
 The sick he made whole with a word, a look; 
 
 The dead, dispite the sombre rampart, life 
 
 Restored to. Lazarus behold, 
 
 "Who in his windingsheet was rotting. 
 
 For such works and out. of jealousy 
 
 The monarchs of the Jewish nation took him, 
 
 Led him to a hill, on to a tree's trunk 
 
 Nailed him, spat on him, heaped on him 
 
 Infamy with raillery, then raised him 
 
 Bleeding on the trunk into the air. 
 
 Oh, mercy ! mercy ! cried the people sobbing, 
 
 Mercy ! What must we do to disarm 
 
 The Father's hand ! Speak, man of God ! 
 
 Say whether blood it is he wants ? if so 
 
 A hecatoml) forthwith we'll offer him. 
 
 Your vices, evil passions, immolate, 
 
 The Saint said, kneeling. No : what pleases thee, 
 
 O Lord, is not the odor of a butchery. 
 
 Nor temples built of stone. Thou lovest better 
 
 Far the crust presented to the starving, 
 
 Or the coming^of the youthful virgin. 
 
 Sweet and timid, to present to God 
 
 16
 
 238 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 Her chastity as 'twere a flower of May. 
 
 Thus from the great apostle's Hps 
 
 The word of God like holy oil flowed. 
 
 And tears to trickle down, and sick and poor 
 
 And working-men to kiss his robe, and idols 
 
 Do\vn the temple's steps to roll, began. 
 
 Sidonius then, the blind man born, bore witness, 
 
 Showing the Arlesians seeing eyes. 
 And Maximin the resurrection preached, 
 And the necessity of true repentance. 
 Aries that same day w^is baptized. 
 God's spirit bore us onward, like the wind 
 A fire of shavings. But behold, as we were 
 Leaving, comes an embassy imploring us. 
 
 One moment, strangers, sent to us from God. 
 Stay, listen. Hearing of your oracles 
 And miracles, our wretched city sends us 
 To your feet. While standing we are dead ! 
 A monster prowls about our forest and ravines 
 Insatiate of human flesh and blood, 
 Sent by the gods to scourge us. Pity us ! 
 
 A tail the beast has like a dragon's. 
 
 Redder are his eyes than cinnabar. 
 
 With frightful scales his back's all covered. 
 
 His large muzzle's like a lion's, and he has 
 
 Six human feet to mn I he better with. 
 
 His prey he carries to his den, 
 
 Under a rock that beetles o'er the Rhone.
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 239 
 
 Every day our fishermen, alas! 
 Grow fewer. Here the ambassadors begin 
 To wo('[). Without delay or hesitation 
 Martha cries, My mind's made up. We'll go, 
 MarcelUis, to this people and deliver them. 
 For the last time on earth we all embrace, 
 And part in hopes of meeting happily 
 
 In heaven. Martial to Limoges repaired. 
 The spouse of Saturninus was Toulouse. 
 Eutropius was the first in pompous Orange 
 The good seed to sow. And thou, sweet Virgin, 
 Whither art thou going? Martha, 
 Bearing cross and holy-water, cahnly 
 Mai-ched ^igainst the monster, the Tarasco 2. 
 
 To behold the rare encounter 
 
 The Barl^arians climb tlie pine-trees 
 
 Round the spot, ne'er dreaming she'd be able 
 
 To defend herself. Upon his litter 
 
 Roused, you should have seen the monster bound! 
 
 But 'neath the holy sprinkling vainly writhes he, 
 
 Growls and blusters, hisses ! 
 
 Martlia slips a halter made of moss 
 
 Around his neck, and leads him snorting out. 
 
 To worship her the people all run up. 
 
 Who art thou ? great Diana ? or the chaste 
 
 And wise Minerva ? No, the maiden answered. 
 
 No, I'm but a handmaid of my God. 
 
 And then she taught them till with her they bowed
 
 240 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 The knee to God. The rock of Avignon 
 
 She smote, hut with her voice alone ; 
 
 Whence forth gushed faith, and in such streams 
 
 That every heart consumed by sin 
 
 Ran to it for refreshment and forgiveness. 
 
 Clement and the Gregorys shall later 
 
 At it fill their chalices and drink. 
 
 Rome yonder for her glory trembled 
 Seventy years. How soon, when it has rained 
 A little, all the drooping trees and plants 
 Sprucely prick up their leaves. So soon did, 
 In Provence regenerate, ascend to heaven 
 Songs of praise, rejoicing to God. 
 Now notice her who's praying in yon grotto, 
 
 With her white arms tightly folded on her chest. 
 
 Ah ! poor unhappy one ! her knees are sore 
 
 With kneeling on the bare hard rocks. 
 
 For only clothing she her fair hair looses. 
 
 Lo, the moon with her pale torch is watching her. 
 
 To see her too the forest bends ni silence. 
 
 Angels e'en restrain their beating hearts 
 
 And watch her through an interstice; 
 
 And when they spy a tear fall, quickly they 
 
 The pearl pick up and put it carefully 
 
 Into a golden cup. Enough, enough, 
 
 Magdalen ! For thirty years the wind's breath 
 
 Through the woods has brought thee thy Lord's pardon, 
 
 Yea, the rock lienceforth shall weep thy tears,
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 
 
 241 
 
 And sprinkle, like a snow-storm, on 
 
 All woman's love their whiteness evermore. 
 
 But nought consoles the unhappy one, 
 
 A prey to sorrow : nor the little birds 
 
 On S' Pieloun^ that flock to her for blessings 
 
 On their nestlings ; nor the angels who 
 
 Seven times a day across the valley 
 
 Bear, and rock, her in their arms. 
 
 Marseilles the haughty, who thine eyeUds openest. 
 
 On the sea, and from the sea deem'st nothing 
 
 Worthy to divert thine eye, and who 
 
 In spite of adverse winds of gold art ever 
 
 Dreamiug, thou at Lazarus' word 
 
 Glosedst Ihy lids and saw'st the night within thee. 
 
 In L'Huveaune \ whose source the tears 
 
 Of Magdalen supply, before God 
 
 Thou didst wash away thy filth. 
 
 Again thine head thou'rt raising. 
 
 Ere the wind-storm blow remember. 
 
 On thy /t'fe-days, how the tears of Magdalen 
 
 Thine olives water. 
 
 Once more tell us, hills of Aix, abrupt 
 
 Crest of Sambuque ^ old junipers, tall pines 
 
 That clothe the rocks of Esterel «, and you 
 
 Mourven ^ of Trevaresso », with what joy 
 
 Your vales were filled when Maximin passed thro' them 
 
 Carrying the Cross. 
 
 Lord, to tliee is due all praise, and in
 
 242 XI. THE SAINT3. 
 
 Thine entire splendor and reality 
 
 May we behold thee ever. We poor women^ 
 
 By thy love touched, have of thy eternal 
 
 Glory some faint rays emitted. 
 
 To all ages, ye blue hills of Baux, 
 
 And Alpines, traces of our doctrine 
 
 Shall keep graved in' stone ^. 
 
 Death in the lonely marshes 
 At the bottom of Gamargue, at last 
 Released us from our labors. As with all 
 That falls, oblivion soon had hid our tombs. 
 Provence however sang and time ran on. 
 And e'en as in the Rhone the Durance 
 Ends her course at last,, so ends 
 
 The merry kingdom of Provence 
 
 By sleeping in tlie bosom of La France. 
 
 I'm dying, said her last king : 
 
 France, thy sister I commend 
 
 To thy good care. On the great work 
 
 The future has in store for you 
 
 Together counsel take. 
 
 Thou art the mighty, she the fair. 
 
 Heed me, and you shall see 
 
 Rebellious night before the splendor 
 
 Of your brows united flee ! 
 
 One night, as in his featherbed he slumbered, 
 
 We revealed to Rene where our bones reposed. 
 
 With bishops twelve, his pages, splendid court,
 
 XI. THE SAINTS. 243 
 
 And equipages, came the king 
 
 To this seashore, and found our graves 
 
 Under the saUcornes. Time flies ! 
 
 Adieu, Mireio : we life flickering 
 
 In your body see, as in a lamp expiring. 
 
 Ere her soul its mortal frame quit, sisters, 
 
 We must to the heavenly hills repair 
 
 In haste. It's meet we should be there before her; 
 Meet and urgent. Her white robe and roses 
 We've to see to ; for 'tis as love's martyr 
 And a virgin she's about to die. 
 Glory to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! 
 Celestial avenues with llowers blow ! 
 Empyrean's holy light shine on Mireio !
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE ELEVENTH CANTO 
 
 1. — A Grebe, a bird of the order of the palmipedes, 
 podiceps crislatus, Lin. 
 
 2. — The Tarasco. See note 8 to the IX canto. — T. 
 
 3. — St Pieloun. See note 15 to YII canto. 
 
 4. — L'Hiiveaune, a small river that rises in the Sainte 
 Baume mountain (Var), flows past Aubagne and reaches 
 the sea at Marseilles near the Prado. A poetical legend 
 ascribes its origin to the tears of S' Magdalen. 
 
 5. — Sambuque, a mountain to the east of Aix. 
 
 6. — Esterel, a mountain and forest in the department 
 of the Yar.
 
 NOTES TO THE ELEVENTH CANTO. 245 
 
 7. — Moiirven, the Phcenician juniper. 
 
 8. — The Trevaresso, a mountain-chain between the 
 Toulorabre and the Durance. 
 
 9. — It has been seen in the relation of the holy Marys 
 that the bark of the proscribed Saints was cast upon the 
 extremity of the isle of Camargue. These first apostles to 
 the Gauls ascended the Rhone to Aries, and then disper- 
 sed oviir the south. It is even held that Joseph of Ari- 
 mathea proceeded as far as England. Such is the Arlesian 
 tradition. 
 
 That of Baux continues the Odyjjsey of the holy wo- 
 men. It states that they went and preached the faith in 
 the Alpines, and to eternalise the memory of their doc- 
 trine, they miraculously carved their elBgies on a rock. 
 On the eastern side of the Baux rock this mysterious and 
 antique monument may still be seen. It is an enormous 
 upright block detached, and standing over the brink of a 
 precipice. Upon its eastern side are sculptured three 
 colossal faces, which are objects of veneration to all the 
 neighbourhood round about.
 
 MIREIO 
 
 CANTO XII 
 
 DEIATH 
 
 As vvliL'ii God's day of labor ends 
 
 111 orange-lands, the maids each-other help 
 
 To lift the heavy basketful on head or hip ; 
 
 As when they 've lowered their nets, the tishers 
 
 Haul their boats up high beneath the rocks ; 
 
 As when the golden clouds 
 
 Successively evanish ; or as wlien 
 
 The far-oir organ -peal, or hymn's last note, 
 Flits with the zephir over the old church ; 
 As when prolonged harmonious the sounds 
 Of bleating goats, of s^iepherd''* pip*?? o^" songs 
 Of love, along the serpentining Argen's ' banks, 
 Over the hills and plains, aloa.tr the lanes, 
 Grow gradually faint, and night
 
 248 XII. DEATH. 
 
 And melancholy take their place : 
 
 So fainter grew the ascending Mary's words, 
 
 Till they were heard no longer. 
 
 Sleeping, dreaming on her knees, she seemed ; 
 
 And a strange freak of sunlight crowned 
 
 Her brow with loveliness unwonted. 
 
 Thus it was her parents found her. 
 
 They had diligently followed her 
 
 Across the river and the wilderness ; 
 
 And, standing now beneath the porch. 
 
 They watch her in amazement. 
 
 Still or ever entering 
 
 They holy-water take and cross themselves. 
 
 The woman and the old man then 
 
 Over the sounding flags advance. 
 
 She, fi'ightened as a yellov/hammer 
 
 At the sight of fowlers, cries : 
 
 Mou7i Dim! father, mother, whither 
 
 Are you going? then falls prostrate. 
 
 With her face all stained with tears 
 
 Her mother runs up, folds tier in her arms. 
 
 Your forehead's burning, child ! she cries ; 
 No, no, it's not a dream deceiving me. 
 It is herself ! it is my child, my child ! 
 And she together laughs and weeps. 
 Mireio, darling, is is I, your father. 
 Rubbing these poor little hands so cold ! 
 The old man wails out in his anguish.
 
 XII. DEATH. 
 
 249 
 
 But the wind by this time 
 
 Had the great news wafted through Li Santo'-, 
 
 And the church's porch was thronged 
 
 With anxious people entering. 
 
 Up to the upper chapel, shouted some, 
 
 The sick child must be borne to kiss 
 
 With dying lips our Saints' bones 
 
 In their reliquaries. Instantly 
 
 She's seized and borne off by two women. 
 
 Built with solid blocks of rock, three chapels 
 
 Superposed, with their respective altars, 
 
 Constitute this graceful church. 
 
 S' Sarah is by the Bohemians =' 
 
 Venerated in the chapel 
 
 Underground ; the one above 
 
 Contains God's altar; 
 
 And the uppermost, supported 
 
 By the pillars of the sanctuary. 
 
 Is the funereal chapel of the Marys, 
 
 With its convex roof to heaven turned. 
 
 In this last are the relics : sacred 
 
 Legacies whence grace descends like rain. 
 Four keys the cypress-reliquaries lock. 
 Once every century they're opened, when 
 Thrice happy he who then can see and touch them ! 
 Weather fair and lucky star his bark 
 Shall have ; the tender branches of his trees 
 Shall basketsful of fruit bear.
 
 250 XII. DEATH. 
 
 And his soul, believing, 
 Everlasting blessings share. 
 A handsome oak-door richly carved, 
 Presented by the Beaucaire people, 
 This domain of sanctity jtrotects. 
 But what especially protects it 
 Certainly is not the door that closes, 
 
 Nor the rampart that surrounds it, but 
 
 The grace by azure-space imparted. 
 
 Up the little turning stair, the sick-one 
 
 To the chapel is conveyed. The priest, 
 
 In surplice white, the door wide opens. Then, 
 
 As when a squall of wind shakes suddenly 
 
 A barley-field with heavy ears. 
 
 All on the dusty pavement fall and cry, 
 
 O handsome Saints ! full of humanity. 
 
 Saints friendly. Saints of God ! this poor maid pity ! 
 
 Pity her ! exclaimed the mother. Pity her ! 
 
 And when she's well Til bring you my gold ring, 
 
 My cross with flowers carved on it, and go 
 
 And spread the miracle through towns and country. 
 
 Master Ramoun groaned out, his head shaking 
 More than usual, Saints, she is my plover, 
 Saints, she is my treasure! Saints! 
 Here stumbling in the gloom, Send me, 
 Send my old bones to dung the mallows. 
 But my tender innocent ! oh, spare her ! 
 "With closed eyes and speechless
 
 XII. DEATH. v51 
 
 Lay Mireio. It was growing late. 
 
 And that the land-breeze 
 
 Might revive the Tnos-maid, 
 
 They removed her to the tiled roof 
 
 Opposite the beach, on which the waves, 
 
 Weary of chasing one-another, 
 
 Fall, and moanfully expire. 
 
 The landscape to the view presents 
 
 A boundless plain, one vast savannah, 
 
 Over which there stretches one immense 
 
 lilno sky, with nothing to indent the horizon 
 
 But some tanuirisks that tremble 
 
 In the faintest breath of wind. Long fallows 
 
 Strewed with salicornes are seen, 
 
 And in the meres at their ablutions swans, 
 
 And oxen feeding on the sterile moor'* 
 
 Or swimming o'er the Vacares. 
 
 Some vague words in a feeble voice 
 
 Mireio now has uttered. 
 
 Two breatlis visit me, she said. 
 
 One from the sea, one from the land ; 
 
 The one is fresh as morning air, the other 
 
 Fraught with bitterness is sulfocating. 
 
 Ardent. Tiien was silent. All the Santen ^ 
 
 Turn tht^m tow'rds the sea, Ihoii tow'rds the i)laiu, 
 
 "When they perceive a young man 
 
 Raising clouds of dust at every step. 
 
 The tamarisks to llee and dwindle seemed
 
 252 XII. DEx\TH. 
 
 Behind liim. Vincen 'twas, the basket-weaver. 
 
 Master Ambroi had no sooner said, 
 
 My son, the pretty falabrego-sj)r3iY 
 
 Is not for your lips, than he started off 
 
 To see her once again from Valabrego, 
 
 Like a bandit. Ah ! poor lad 
 
 And worthy pity. He in Gran 's told 
 
 She's to Li Santo gone. Nor tiresome' Crau, 
 Nor Rhone, nor marshes, could arrest him 
 In his course. And when the church he enters 
 And beholds the crowd, he raises him 
 On tiptoe, deadly pale, and cries, Where is she ? 
 Show me where she is ! They answer : 
 Trembling in the agony of death 
 
 Upon the chapel's roof. Distractedly 
 
 The unhappy youth runs up, and when 
 
 He sees her, lifts his eyes and hands to heaven 
 
 And cries, 'Gainst God what have I done to draw down 
 
 On my head such malediction? 
 
 Her throat have I cut whose milk I sucked ? 
 
 Anathema ! have I been seen to light 
 
 My pipe at a church-lamp ? or Jew-like 
 Drag the crucifix through thistles? 
 Say, what crime have I committed 
 To be visited with all this wrath? 
 Malan de Dim ^ ! it was not enough 
 That they refused her me, but they must 
 Martyrise her ! Then he kissed her.
 
 XII. DEATH. 253 
 
 Seeing him take on at this rate, 
 
 All the pressing crowd his sorrow shared ; 
 
 They grieved at heart for him and wept. 
 
 The voices of the San ten, singing 
 
 The fine hymn they know, quaked like the hearts 
 
 Of shepherds when they hear the torrents 
 
 Rushing down the deep ravines. They sang: 
 
 I 
 
 Saints, fair mariners, who chose 
 
 Our marshes to erect 
 The battlements and tower on 
 
 Of your white church, how shall 
 The troubled mariner direct 
 
 His sea-tossed bark, 
 
 II 
 
 Unless you straightway send him wind 
 And weather fair ? What shall 
 
 The poor blind woman do ? Nor sage 
 Nor bugle in a case 
 
 So sad efficient is. Without 
 A word her time 
 
 III 
 
 She passes, gonig o'er and o'er 
 
 Her wretched life. To be 
 In darkness, darkness ayi% is worse 
 
 Than death. Her sight restor.', 
 O Queens of Paradise ! And e'en 
 
 y\s when the like 
 
 17
 
 254 XIT. DEATH. 
 
 IV 
 
 Of us poor fishers humbly pray, 
 
 You fill our nets with fish ; 
 So when heart-broken penitents 
 
 For peace sue at your doors, 
 white flowers of our briny moors, 
 
 Fill them with peace ! 
 
 With cries heart-rending the good Santen prayed. 
 The Saints meanwhile a little vigor waft 
 To the poor prostrate sick-one, whose white face 
 Grew cheerful, even bloomed, at sight of Vincen. 
 Mine, she said, whence are you ? 
 Say, don't you remember at the farm. 
 When we were 'neatli the trellis chatting, 
 
 You said to me, should misfortune 
 Overtake you, to the holy Marys run, 
 You'll surely get relief? Vincen dear, 
 What pity 'tis you can't see through my heart 
 As through a glass ! You'd see it 
 Overflowing with peace comfort happiness. 
 Lo, lou bon Dim 's angel-choristers ! 
 
 Mireio here pause.!, gazing into space. 
 
 She seemed to see beyond the azure air 
 
 Things marvellous. Again she spoke : 
 
 O happy souls, that flesh no longer 
 
 Weighs to earth ! When they ascended, Vincen, 
 
 Did you see th5 flakes of light they scattered? 
 
 What a precious book had been composed
 
 XII. DEATH. 255 
 
 Had all the words they said to me 
 Been written down ! To weep unable 
 Vincen here his sobbing ceased and cried. 
 Oh ! would to God I'd seen them, 
 Would to God I had ! 
 I'd like a tick have fastened to their robes 
 And cried to them, Queens of heaven ! 
 
 Sole asylum left us ! take from out 
 My head the eyes, my mouth the teeth, 
 From oif my hands the fingers ! but my pretty 
 Little fairy, leave her to me sound ! 
 She, struggling to release her person 
 From her mother's arms and beckoning 
 With her hand towards the sea. 
 
 Now interrupts him with, They're coming 
 
 In their shining raiment ! Instantly 
 
 All seaward turn, and sliading eyes with hands, 
 
 We nothing in the distance can discern, 
 
 Say they, except the line at which the sky 
 
 Encounters the salt-water. 
 
 No, there's nought in sight. There is ! there is ! 
 
 Lo, there on board the sailless bark ! 
 
 The waves before them, don't you see, lay down? 
 
 Oh ! it is they ! the air is clear. 
 
 And the breath balmy that impels them. 
 
 Yea, the very sea-birds do them homage 
 
 As they pass in flocks ! Tlie poor child 
 
 Is delirious : on the flushing sea
 
 556 XII. DEATH. 
 
 Is nolliing but the sun ;ibout to dip 
 
 Within it. Yea, it is they ! cried the dying child ; 
 
 Go to, mine eye is not at fault. 
 
 miracle of God ! their bark is hither 
 
 Coming ! To behold now she is 
 
 As a daisy the fierce sunbeams, 
 
 Ere 'twas fully blown, have burnt. 
 
 And Vincen horror-struck is crouching 
 
 By her side, and to the Saints, 
 
 To Nostra Damo^ to the Saints 
 
 Of Paradise, her soul commends. The tapers 
 
 Have been lit. Girt with the purple stole 
 
 The priest with angels' bread comes to refresh 
 
 The burning palate of the dying maiden. 
 
 Extreme unction he administers. 
 
 And with the holy chrism in seven parts 
 
 Anoints her body. Catholic custom followin 
 
 Now nought is heard upon the tiles 
 
 But the oremus of the priest. 
 
 Against the wall the setting sun 
 
 His horizontal last beams casts, 
 
 rr 
 
 And slowly come the sea's long waves 
 
 And dully break upon the beach. 
 
 Her tender lover, with her parents kneeling, 
 
 Hoarsely sobbed incessantly. 
 
 Again Mireio speaks : The time of parting 
 
 Is at hand; quick shake hands! lo, the glory 
 
 "Waxes on the Marys' brows ; alreadv
 
 XII. DEATH. 257 
 
 'Long the Rhone the rosy-hued Ilamingoes 
 
 Are assembling, and the tamarisks in bloom 
 
 Beginning to adore. blessed Saints ! 
 
 They beckon nie to go with them ; they whisper 
 
 I have nought lo fear, their bark 
 
 To Paradise will take us straight, and they 
 
 The constellations know ! 
 
 My little pet, if you should leave us. 
 
 Master Ramoun said, what will it serve us 
 
 To have rooted up so many dwarf-oaks ? 
 
 All the ardor that sustained mo came 
 
 Of you. The sun might burn, the heat 
 
 Reflected by the clods might parch me; 
 
 Rut the sight of you allayed botii heat and thirst. 
 
 Good father, shouldst thou see a moth at night 
 
 Fluttering round thy lamp, it will be I. 
 
 But now the Saints are standing on the prow 
 
 Awaiting me. A little moment wait ! 
 
 Yea, I am ailing, and move slowly ; 
 
 This, oh ! this is too much! burst the mother out ; 
 
 I will not let you die ! so stay with me 
 
 You must ! Then, my Mireio, wiien you're well again, 
 
 We'll go to aunt Aurano's with a basket 
 
 Of pomegranates: it's not far from Baux 
 
 To Maiano"; in one day we'll go and come. 
 
 Not far, good mother? No, it's not. 
 
 Believe me though, alone Ihou'lt ilo the journey. 
 
 Mother, give me my white raiment : 
 
 17-
 
 258 XII. DEATH. 
 
 See how splendid are the Mary's mantles ! 
 
 Dazzling as the snow upon the hill-sides. 
 
 Here the swarthy weaver cried, My all, 
 
 My pride, my Empress ! you who had your palace 
 
 Oped for me, and given me your love. 
 
 An alms in blossom ^ ! you who had my mire 
 
 Purified and brightened like a mirror, 
 
 And of ill-fame free hereafter 
 Rendered me ! Provence pearl, 
 
 sun of my young life, shall it be said 
 
 1 saw on you the beads of dissolution ! 
 
 great Saints, shall it be said that you 
 Within your sacred precincts saw her 
 In the pangs of death all vainly ! 
 
 My poor Vincen, faintly answered him 
 The maiden, what have you before your eyes 
 So frightful ? Death ? death is deceptive. 
 What is it ? A fog a knell dispels ; 
 A morning dream that wakens us. 
 But I'm not dying! Light of foot 
 Behold, I've stepped into the bark ! 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! we're in the offing ! 
 
 Now we're on the open sea ; the sea, 
 
 Vast agitated plain that reaches 
 
 The blue firmament all round and leads 
 
 To Paradise. /.' how the billows rock us! 
 
 Yonder 'mong the many stars 
 
 I'll find some friendly hearts, and we'll be free
 
 XII. DEATH. 259 
 
 To love each-other. Saints ! is that an organ 
 
 Playing? And the dying maiden sighed, 
 
 And laid her head as though to sleep. 
 
 One would have by the smile upon her face 
 
 Supposed her speaking still, had not tlie Santen 
 
 In a file approched the maiden 
 
 With a taper which they passed from hand to hand, 
 
 As each the cross' sign made over her. 
 
 The parents stupitied beheld them. 
 
 Livid ! Out upon it ! Luminous they see her. 
 
 Vainly too they feel she's cold : they will not, 
 
 Cannot, in the dreadful blow believe. 
 
 But Vincen when he saw the forehead 
 
 Lying back, the arms quite rigid. 
 
 And the sweet eyes veiled, exclaimed. 
 
 She's dead ! she's, don't you see, quite dead ? 
 
 Then with his sleeveless arms gesticulating, 
 
 And his clasped hands wTinging desperately, 
 
 Piteously he wails out, You'll be wept for ! 
 
 But you're not the only one : 
 
 With yours the trunk of my life too has fallen. 
 
 Dead ! she's dead ? impossible ! 
 
 Some demon must have whispered it. 
 
 Li God's name speak, good friends here present. 
 
 You have seen dead women : tell mo whether 
 
 Passing througli the gates they smile so? Almost 
 
 Merry verily lier features seem, 
 
 Now don't they ? But what mean they with their faces
 
 560 Xir. DEATH. 
 
 All averted? Sorrowing! Ah, tliis means, 
 
 I am never more to see her living ; 
 
 Never more to liear her voice, 
 
 Nor listen to her pretty prattle more ! 
 
 Here all hearts leapt and tears in showers fell, 
 
 And sobs heart-rending mingled 
 
 With the waves' sad moans. 
 
 Among a numerous herd of cattle 
 When a heifer dies, around her 
 Stretched-out carcase bulls and cows assemble 
 Nine eves following, all mournfully 
 To grieve for her, and make the plain, 
 The sea, the wdnd, resound for nine days 
 With their lamentable lowing. 
 
 Vincen went on : Poor old Master Ambroi ! 
 For thy son thou'lt weep, alas, alas ! 
 Good Santen, listen to my last wish : it is 
 That you take me with her to the grave ; 
 For a like mourning tears are not enough. 
 Dig in the oozy bay one crib for both ; 
 Around it raise a wall of stones, so that 
 
 The sea may never part us. Do, good Santen, 
 
 For me as I say; I trust to you. 
 
 Then where she dwelt, while they are 
 
 The floor batt 'ring with their foreheads for remorse, 
 
 We'll (she and I) in the calm azure lie. 
 
 Beneath the unrest of the upper water. 
 
 Yea, we'll lie, my oh, so pretty! side by side.
 
 XII. DEATH. 261 
 
 And you shall tell me over, over, over, 
 
 All about your Marys. 
 
 With your shells, sea-storms, cover us ! 
 
 The unhappy weaver here, his mind quite gone, 
 
 Himself upon Mireio's body cast, 
 
 And clasped it franticly. Manwhile the hymn 
 
 In the old church continued to be sung : 
 
 So when heart-broken penitents 
 For peace sue at your doors, 
 
 white flowers of our briny moors, 
 Fill them witli peace ! 
 
 THE END.
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO THE TWELFTH CANTO 
 
 1. — Argens, a river in the department of the Var. 
 
 2. — Li Santo. See note 21 to the 1" canto. 
 
 3. — The Bohemians, the Gipseys. — T. 
 
 4. ^ The sterile moor. See note 12 to the X canto. 
 
 5. — The Sanien {li Santen), the inhabitants of Li 
 Santo. 
 
 6. — Malan de Dieu, evil year of God. — T. 
 
 7. — Maiano (Maillane), a village in the arrondissement 
 of Aries, and the poet's birth-place. 
 
 8. — An alms in blossom, an alms that a poor man 
 has received, and which he gives to a poorer ; a poetical 
 locution, equivalent to a rare benefit.
 
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