“And if one sell her robe of honour white,
Whether it be for gold or jewel bright,
And if one offer insult, or betray
A fond heart, unto such as these alway
The high court of the seven maids shall prove
The stern avenger of offended love.
“And if two lovers the same maid desire,
Or if two maids to the same lad aspire,
My council’s duty it shall be to choose
Which loves the better, which the better sues,
And which is worthier of a happy fate.
Moreover, on my maidens there shall wait
“Seven sweet poets, who from time to time
Shall write the laws of love in lovely rhyme
Upon wild vine-leaves or the bark of trees;
And sometimes, in a stately chorus, these
Will sing the same, and then their couplets all
Like honey from the honey-comb will fall.”
So, long ago, the whispering pines among,
Faneto de Gautèume32 may have sung,
When she the glory of her star-crowned head
On Roumanin and on the Alpines shed;
Or Countess Dio,33 of the passionate lays,
Who held her courts of love in the old days.
But now Mirèio, to the room returning,
With face as radiant as an Easter morning,
A flagon bore; and, for their spirits’ sake,
Besought them all her beverage to partake:
“For this will make us work with heartier will;
So come, good women, and your goblets fill!”
Then, pouring from the wicker-covered flask
A generous drink for whosoe’er might ask,
(A string of gold the falling liquor made),
“I mixed this cordial mine own self,” she said:
“One leaves it in a window forty days,
That it may mellow in the sun’s hot rays.
“Herein are mountain herbs, in number three.
The liquor keeps their odour perfectly:
It strengthens one.” Here brake in other voices:
“Listen, Mirèio! Tell us what your choice is;
For these have told what they would do, if they
Were queens, or came to great estate one day.
“In such a case, Mirèio, what would you?”
“Who, I? How can I tell what I would do?
I am so happy in our own La Crau
With my dear parents, wherefore should I go?”
“Ah, ha!” outspake another maiden bold:
“Little care you for silver or for gold.
“But on a certain morn, I mind it well—
Forgive me, dear, that I the tale should tell!—
’Twas Tuesday: I had gathered sticks that day,
And, fagot on my hip, had won my way
Almost to La Crous-Blanco, when I ’spied
You in a tree, with some one by your side
“Who chatted gayly. A lithe form he had”—
“Whence did he come?” they cried. “Who was the lad?”
Said Noro, “To tell that were not so easy,
Because among the thick-leaved mulberry-trees he
Was hidden half; yet think I ’twas the clever
Vincen, the Valabregan basket-weaver!”
“Oh!” cried the damsels all, with peals of laughter,
“See you not what the little cheat was after?
A pretty basket she would fain receive,
And made this poor boy in her love believe!
The fairest maiden the whole country over
Has chosen the barefoot Vincen for her lover!”
So mocked they, till o’er each young countenance
In turn there fell a dark and sidelong glance—
Taven’s—who cried, “A thousand curses fall
Upon you, and the vampire34 seize you all!
If the good Lord from heaven this way came,
You girls, I think, would giggle all the same.
“ ’Tis brave to laugh at this poor lad of osiers;
But mark! the future may make strange disclosures,
Poor though he be. Now hear the oracle!
God in his house once wrought a miracle;
And I can show the truth of what I say,
For, lasses, it all happened in my day.
“Once, in the wild woods of the Luberon,35
A shepherd kept his flock. His days were long;
But when at last the same were well-nigh spent,
And toward the grave his iron frame was bent,
He sought the hermit of Saint Ouquèri,
To make his last confession piously.
“Alone, in the Vaumasco36 valley lost,
His foot had never sacred threshold crost,
Since he partook his first communion.
Even his prayers were from his memory gone;
But now he rose and left his cottage lowly,
And came and bowed before the hermit holy.
“ ‘With what sin chargest thou thyself, my brother?’
The solitary said. Replied the other,
The aged man, ‘Once, long ago, I slew
A little bird about my flock that flew—
A cruel stone I flung its life to end:
It was a wagtail, and the shepherds’ friend.’
“ ‘Is this a simple soul,’ the hermit thought,
‘Or is it an impostor?’ And he sought
Right curiously to read the old man’s face
Until, to solve the riddle, ‘Go,’ he says,
‘And hang thy shepherd’s cloak yon beam upon,
And afterward I will absolve my son.’
“A single sunbeam through the chapel strayed;
And there it was the priest the suppliant bade
To hang his cloak! But the good soul arose,
And drew it off with mien of all repose,
And threw it upward. And it hung in sight
Suspended on the slender shaft of light!
“Then fell the hermit prostrate on the floor,
‘Oh, man of God!’ he cried, and he wept sore,
‘Let but the blessed hand these tears bedew,
Fulfil the sacred office for us two!
No sins of thine can I absolve, ’tis clear:
Thou art the saint, and I the sinner here!’ ”
Her story ended, the crone said no more;
But all the laughter of the maids was o’er.
Only Laureto dared one little joke:
“This tells us ne’er to laugh at any cloak!
Good may the beast be, although rough the hide;
But, girls, methought young mistress I espied
“Grow crimson as an autumn grape, because
Vincen’s dear name so lightly uttered was.
There’s mystery here! Mirèio, we are jealous!
Lasted the picking long that day? Pray, tell us!
When two friends meet, the hour is winged with pleasure;
And, for a lover, one has always leisure!”
“Oh, fie!” Mirèio said. “Enough of joking!
Mind your work now, and be not so provoking!
You would make swear the very saints! But I
Promise you one and all, most faithfully,
I’ll seek a convent while my years are tender,
Sooner than e’er my maiden heart surrender!”
Then brake the damsels into merry chorus:
“Have we not pretty Magali before us?
Who love and lovers held in such disdain
That, to escape their torment, she was fain
To Saint Blasi’s in Arles away to hie,
And bury her sweet self from every eye.”
“Come, Noro, you, whose voice is ever thrilling,
Who charm us all, sing now, if you are
