Had lain the poor lad through the night now gone,
With but the stars to watch. But the dim ray
Of early dawn, as ebbed his life away,
Falling upon his lids had oped them wide.
Straightway the good Samaritans turned aside
From their home-path, stooped, and a hammock made
Of their three cloaks, thereon the victim laid,
Then bare him tenderly upon their arms
Unto the nearest door—the Lotus-Farm’s. …
O friends—Provençal poets brave and dear,
Who love my songs of other days to hear!
You, Roumanille, who blend with songs you sing
Tears, girlish laughter, and the breath of spring;
And you, proud Aubanel, who stray where quiver
The changing lights and shades of wood and river,
To soothe a heart oppressed by love’s fond dream;
You, Crousillat, who your belovèd stream,
The bright Touloubro, make more truly famous
Than did the grim star-gazer Nostradamus;61
And you, Anselme, who see, half-sad, half-smiling,
Fair girls under the trellised arbours whiling
Their hours away; and you, my Paul, the witty,
And peasant Tavan, who attune your ditty
Unto the crickets’ chirrup, while you peer
Wistful at your poor pickaxe; and most dear,
Adolphe Dumas, who when Durance is deep
With his spring flood, come back your thoughts to steep,
And warm the Frenchman at Provençal suns,
’Twas you who met my own Mirèio once
At your great Paris—met her tenderly,
Where she had flown, impetuous, daring, shy;
And last Garcin, brave son of a brave sire,
Whose soul mounts upward on a wind of fire;—
Upbear me with your holy breath as now
I climb for the fair fruit on that high bough! …
The swineherds paused at Master Ramoun’s door,
Crying, “Good-morrow! Yonder, on the moor,
We found this poor lad wounded in the breast.
’Twere well that his sore hurt were quickly drest.”
So laid their burden on the broad, flat stone.
They tell Mirèio, to the garden gone
To gather fruit, who, basket on her side,
Fled wildly to the spot. Thither, too, hied
The labourers all; but she, her basket falling,
Stretched forth her hands on Mother Mary calling.
“Vincen is bleeding! Ah, what have they done?”
Then, lovingly, the head of the dear one
She lifted, turned, and long and mutely gazed
As though with horror and with grief amazed,
Her large tears dropping fast. And well he knows
That tender touch to be Mirèio’s,
And faintly breathes, “Pity, and pray for me,
Because I need the good God’s company!”
“Your parched throat moisten with this cordial.62 Strive
To drink,” old Ramoun said: “you will revive.”
The maiden seized the cup, and drop by drop
She made him drink, and spake to him of hope
Till his pain lulled. “May God keep you alway
From such distress, and your sweet care repay!”
Said Vincen; and the brave boy would not tell
It was for her sake that he fought and fell;
But “Splitting osier on my breast,” he said,
“The sharp knife slipped, and pierced me.” Therewith strayed
His thought back to his love as bee to flower.
“The anguish on thy face, dear, in this hour
Is far more bitter than my wound to me.
The pretty basket that in company
We once began will be unfinished now.
Would I had seen it full to overflow,
“Dear, with thy love! Oh, stay! Life’s in thine eyes.
Ah, if thou couldst do something,” the lad cries,
“For him—the poor old basket-weaver there—
My father, worn with toil!” In her despair,
Mirèio bathes the wound, while some bring lint,
And some run to the hills for healing mint.
Then the maid’s mother spake: “Let four men rally,
And to the Fairies’ Cavern,63 in the valley
They call Enfer, bear up this wounded man.
The deadlier the hurt, the sooner can
The old witch heal. Scale first the cliffs of Baux,
And circling vultures the cave’s mouth will show.”
A hole flush with the rocks, by lizards haunted,
And veiled by tufts of rosemary thereby planted.
For ever, since the holy Angelus swells,
In Mary’s honour from the minster-bells,
The antique fairies have been forced to hide
From sunlight, and in this deep cavern bide.
Strange, airy things, they used to flit about
Dimly, ’twixt form and substance, in and out:
Half-earthly made, to be the visible
Spirit of Nature; female made as well,
To tame the savagery of primal men.
But these were fair in fairies’ eyes, and then
They loved: and so, infatuate, lifted not
Mortals unto their own celestial lot;
But, lusting, fell into our low estate,
As birds fall, whom a snake doth fascinate,
From their high places. But, while thus I write,
The bearers have borne Vincen up the height.
A dim, straight passage led the cavern toward,
A rocky funnel where they gently lowered
The sufferer; and he did not go alone—
Yet was Mirèio’s self the only one
Who dared to follow down that awesome road,
Commending, as she went, his soul to God.
The bottom gained, they found a grotto cold
And vast; midway whereof a beldam old,
The witch Taven, sat silent, crouching lowly
As lost in thought and utter melancholy,
Holding a sprig of brome, and muttering,
“Some call thee devil’s wheat, poor little thing,
“Yet art thou one of God’s own signs for good!”
Therewith Mirèio, trembling where she stood,
Was fain to tell why they had sought her thus.
“I knew it!” cried the witch, impervious,
The brome addressing still, with bended head.
“Thou poor field-flower! The trampling flock,” she said,
“Browse on thy leaves and stems the whole year long;
But all the more thou spreadest and art strong,
And north and south with verdure deckest yet.”
She ceased. A dim light, in a snail-shell set,
Danced o’er the dank rock-wall in lurid search:
Here hung a sieve; there, on a forkèd perch,
Roosted a raven, a white hen beside.
Suddenly, as if drunken, rose and cried
The witch, “And what care I whoe’er you be?
Faith walketh blindfold, so doth Charity,
Nor from her even tenor wandereth.
Say, Valabregan weaver, have you faith?”
“I have.” Then wildly, their pursuit inviting,
Like a she-wolf her flanks with her tail smiting,
Darted the hag into a deeper shaft,
While the fowl cackled and the raven laughed
Before her footsteps; and the boy and maid
Followed her through the darkness, sore afraid.
“Stay not!” she cried. “The time is now to find
The mystic mandrake.” And, with hands entwined,
Obedient to the voice the two crept on,
Through the infernal passage, till they won
A grotto larger than the rest. “Lo! now,
Lord Nostradamus’ plant, the golden bough,
“The staff of Joseph and the rod of Moses!”
Thus crying, Taven a slender shrub discloses,
And,
