Are like the golden palms of Paradise.
“On Mother Mary’s altar yesterday,”
Jano Mario said, “I went to lay
My finer sprays, by way of tithe. And so
I do each year; for you, my women, know
That, when the holy Mother will, ’tis she
Who sendeth up the worms abundantly.”
“Now, for my part,” said Zèu of Host Farm,
“Great fears have I my worms will come to harm.
You mind that ugly day the east wind blew—
I left my window open—if you knew
Ever such folly!—and to my affright
Upon my floor are twenty, now turned white.”28
To Zèu thus the crone Taven replied—
A witch, who from the cliffs of Baux had hied
To help at the cocooning: “Youth is bold,
The young think they know better than the old;
And age is torment, and we mourn the fate
Which bids us see and know—but all too late,
“Ye are such giddy women, every one,
That, if the hatching promise well, ye run
Straightway about the streets the tale to tell.
‘Come see my silkworms! ’Tis incredible
How fine they are!’ Envy can well dissemble:
She hastens to your room, her heart a-tremble
“With wrath. And ‘Well done, neighbour!’ she says cheerly:
‘This does one good! You’ve still your caul29 on, clearly!’
But when your head is turned, she casts upon ’em—
The envious one—a look so full of venom,
It knots and burns ’em up. And then you say
It was the east wind plastered ’em that way!”
“I don’t say that has naught to do with it,”
Quoth Zèu. “Still it had been quite as fit
For me to close the window.”—“Doubt you, then,
The harm the eye can do,” went on Taven,
“When in the head it glistens balefully?”
And Zèu scanned, herself with piercing eye.
“Ye are such fools, ye seem to think,” she said,
“That scraping with a scalpel on the dead
Would win its honey-secret from the bee!
But may not a fierce look, now answer me,
The unborn babe for evermore deform,
And dry the cow’s milk in her udders warm?
“An owl may fascinate a little bird;
A serpent, flying geese, as I have heard,
How high soe’er they mount. And if one keep
A fixed gaze upon silkworms, will they sleep?
Moreover, is there, neighbours, in the land
So wise a virgin that she can withstand
“The fiery eyes of passionate youth?” Here stopped
The hag, and damsels four their cocoons dropped;
“In June as in October,” murmuring,
“Her tongue hath evermore a barbèd sting,
The ancient viper! What the lads, say you?
Let them come, then! We’ll see what they can do?”
But other merry ones retorted, “No!
We want them not! Do we, Mirèio?”
“Not we! Nor is it always cocooning,
So I’ll a bottle from the cellar bring
That you will find delicious.” And she fled
Toward the house because her cheeks grew red.
“Now, friends,” said haughty Lauro, with decision,
“This is my mind, though poor be my condition:
I’ll smile on no one, even though my lover
As king of fairy-land his realm should offer.
A pleasure were it, could I see him lying,
And seven long years before my footstool sighing.”
“Ah!” said Clemenço, “should a king me woo,
And say he loved me, without much ado
I’d grant the royal suit! And chiefly thus
Were he a young king and a glorious.
A king of men, in beauty, I’d let come
And freely lead me to his palace home!
“But see! If I were once enthronèd there,
A sovereign and an empress, in a fair
Mantle bedecked, of golden-flowered brocade,
With pearls and emeralds dazzling round my head,
Then would my heart for my poor country yearn;
And I, the queen, would unto Baux return.
“And I would make my capital at Baux,
And on the rock where lie its ruins low
I would rebuild our ancient castle, and
A white tower on the top thereof should stand
Whose head should touch the stars. Thither retiring,
If rest or solace were the queen desiring,
“We’d climb the turret-stair, my prince and I,
And gladly throw the crown and mantle by.
And would it not be blissful with my love,
Aloft, alone to sit, the world above?
Or, leaned upon the parapet by his side,
To search the lovely landscape far and wide,
“Our own glad kingdom of Provence descrying,
Like some great orange-grove beneath us lying
All fair? And, ever stretching dreamily
Beyond the hills and plains, the sapphire sea;
While noble ships, tricked out with streamers gay,
Just graze the Château d’If, and pass away?
“Or we would turn to lightning-scathed Ventour,30
Who, while the lesser heights before him cower,
His hoary head against the heaven raises,
As I have seen, in solitary places
Of beech and pine, with staff in agèd hand,
Some shepherd-chief, his flock o’erlooking, stand.
“Again, we’d follow the great Rhône awhile,
Adown whose banks the cities brave defile,
And dip their lips and drink, with dance and song.
Stately is the Rhône’s march, and very strong;
But even he must bend at Avignon
His haughty head to Notre Dame des Doms.31
“Or watch the ever-varying Durance,
Now like some fierce and ravenous goat advance
Devouring banks and bridges; now demure
As maid from rustic well who bears her ewer,
Spilling her scanty water as she dallies,
And every youth along her pathway rallies.’
So spake her sweet Provençal majesty,
And rose with brimful apron, and put by
Her gathered treasure. Two more maids were there,
Twin sisters, the one dark, the other fair—
Azaläis, Viòulano. The stronghold
Of Estoublon sheltered their parents old.
And oft these two to Lotus Farmstead came;
While that mischievous lad, Cupid by name,
Who loves to sport with generous hearts and tender,
Had made the sisters both their love surrender
To the same youth. So Azaläis said—
The dark one—lifting up her raven head:
“Now, damsels, play awhile that I were queen.
The Marseilles ships, the Beaucaire meadows green.
Smiling La Ciotat, and fair Salon,
With all her almond trees, to me belong.
Then the young maids I’d summon by decree,
From Arles, Baux, Barbentano, unto me.
“ ‘Come, fly like birds!’ the order should be given;
And I, of these, would choose the fairest seven,
And royal charge upon the same would lay,
The false love and the true in scales to weigh.
And then would merry counsel holden be;
For sure it is a great calamity
“That half of those who love, with love most meet,
Can never marry, and their joy complete.
But when I, Azaläis, hold the helm,
I proclamation make, that in my realm
True lovers wounded in their cruel sport
Shall aye find mercy
