From all the pulsing fire to shelter her,
Each one the viol of his tiny wings
Imploring played with plaintive murmurings—
“Get thee up quickly, quickly, damsel fair!
For aye malignant is this burning air,”
And stung the drooping head; and sea-spray flew,
Sprinkling the fevered face with bitter dew:
Until at last Mirèio rose again,
And, with a feeble moan of mortal pain,
“My head! my head!” she dragged her way forlorn
And slow from salicorne to salicorne—
Poor little one!—until her heavy feet
Arrived before the seaside Saints’ retreat.
There, her sad eyes with tears all brimming o’er,
Upon the cold flags of the chapel-floor,
Wet with the infiltration of the sea,
She sank, and clasped her brow in agony;
And on the pinions of the waiting air
Was borne aloft Mirèio’s faltering prayer:—
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!“And when you see my cruel care
And misery,
Then look in mercy down the air,
And side with me!“I am so young, dear Saints above,
And there’s a youth—
My handsome Vincen—whom I love
With utter truth!“I love him as the wayward stream
Its wanderings;
As loves the new-fledged bird, I deem,
To try its wings.“And now they tell me I must quench
This fire eternal;
Must from the blossoming almond wrench
Its flowers vernal.“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!“Now am I come, dear Saints, from far,
To sue for peace:
Nor mother-prayer my way could bar,
Nor wilderness;“The sun, that cruel archer, shot
Into my brain—
Thorns, as it were, and nails red-hot—
Sharp is the pain;“Yet give me but my Vincen dear:
Then will we duly,
We two, with glad hearts worship here—
Oh, I say truly!“Then the dire pain will rend no more
These brows of mine,
And the face bathed in tears before
Will smile and shine.“My sire mislikes our love; is cold
And cruel often:
’Twere naught to you, fair Saints of gold,
His heart to soften.“Howe’er so hard the olive grow,
’Tis mollified
By all the winds that alway blow
At Advent-tide.“The medlar and the service-plum,
So sharp to taste
When gathered, strewn on straw become
A pleasant feast.“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
“Oh, what can mean this dazzling light?
The church is riven
O’erhead; the vault with stars is bright.
Can this be heaven?“Oh, who so happy now as I?
The Saints, my God—
The shining Saints—toward me fly,
Down yon bright road!“O blessed patrons, are you there
To help, to stay me?
Yet hide the dazzling crowns you wear,
Or these will slay me.“Veil in a cloud the light appalling!
My eyes are heavy.
Where is the chapel? Are you calling?
O Saints, receive me!”
So, in a trance and past all earthly feeling,
The stricken girl upon the pavement kneeling,
With pleading hands, and head thrown backward, cried.
Her large and lovely eyes were opened wide,
As she beyond the veil of flesh discerned
St. Peter’s gates, and for the glory yearned.
Mute were her lips now; but her face yet shone,
And wrapped in glorious contemplation
She seemed. So, when the gold-red rays of dawn
Early alight the poplar-tips upon,
The flickering night-lamp turneth pale and wan
In the dim chamber of a dying man.
And, as at daybreak, also, flocks arouse
From slumber and disperse, the sacred house
Appeared to open, all its vaulted roof
To part, and pillars tall to stand aloof,
Before the three fair women—heavenly fair—
Who on a starry path came down the air.
White in the ether pure, and luminous,
Came the three Maries out of heaven thus.
One of them clasped an alabaster vase
Close to her breast, and her celestial face
In splendour had that star alone for peer
That beams on shepherds when the nights are clear.
The next came with a palm in her hand holden,
And the wind lifting her long hair and golden.
The third was young, and wound a mantle white
About her sweet brown visage; and the light
Of her dark eyes, under their falling lashes,
Was greater than a diamond’s when it flashes.
So, nearer to the mourner drew these three,
And leaned above, and spake consolingly.
And bright and tender were the smiles that wreathed
Their lips, and soft the message that they breathed.
They made the thorns of cruel martyrdom,
That pierced Mirèio, into flowers bloom.
“Be of good cheer, thou poor Mirèio;
For we are they men call the Saints of Baux—
The Maries of Judaea: and we three—
Be of good cheer!—we watch the stormy sea,
Whereby we succour many a craft distresst;
For the wild waves are still at our behest.
“Look up along St. James’s path in air!
A moment since we stood together there,
At the celestial end thereof, remote,
And, gazing through the clustered stars, took note
How faithful souls to Campoustello94 throng
To seek the dear Saint’s tomb, and worship long.
“And, with the tune of falling fountains blending,
We heard the solemn litanies ascending
From pilgrims gathered in the fields at even,
And pealing of church-bells, and glory given
Unto our son and nephew, by his names
Of Spain’s apostle and the greater James.
“Then were we glad of all the pious vows
Paid to his memory; and, on the brows
Of those poor pilgrims, dews of peace shed we,
And their souls flooded with serenity;
When, suddenly, thy warm petition came,
And seemed to smite us like a jet of flame.
“Dear child, thy faith is great; yet thy request
Our pitying hearts right sorely hath opprest.
For thou wouldst drink the waters of pure love,
Or ever to its source thee Death remove,
The bliss we have in God himself to share.
Hast thou, then, seen contentment anywhere
“On earth? Is the rich blest, who softly lies,
And in his haughty heart his God denies,
And cares not for his fellow-man at all?
Thou knowest the leech when it is gorged will fall,
And he before the judgment-seat must pass
Of One who meekly rode upon an ass.
“Is the young mother happy to impart
Unto her baby, with a swelling heart,
The first warm jet of milk? One bitter drop,
Mingled therewith, may poison all her hope.
Now see her lean, distraught, the cradle over,
And a fair little corse with kisses cover.
“And hath she happiness, the promised bride,
Wandering churchward by her lover’s side?
Ah, no! The path under those lingering feet
Thornier shall prove, to those who travel it,
Than
