The angels hush their very heart-throbs now,
As, gazing through a crevice, they espy
A pearly tear fall from the lifted eye,
And haste the precious gem to gather up,
And keep for ever in a golden cup.
“Enough, O Magdalene! Thirty years ago,
The wind that in the forest whispers low
Bare thee the pardon of the Man divine!
The tears that the rock weeps are tears of thine.
These, like a snowfall softly sprinkled o’er,
Shall whiten woman’s love for ever more!
“But naught can stay the mourner’s gnawing grief.
Even the little birds bring not relief,
That flock around her, building many a nest
On Saint Pilon; nor spirits of the blest,
Who lift and rock her in their arms of love,
And soar, seven times a day, the vales above.
“O Lord, be thine the glory! And may we
In thy full brightness and reality
Behold thee ever! Poor and fugitive,
We women did of thy great grace receive.
We, even we, touched by thy love supernal,
Shed some faint reflex of the light eternal.
“Ye, Alpine peaks and all blue hills of Baux,
Unto the latest hour of time will show
The traces of our teaching carved in stone!99
And so Death found us on the marshes lone,
Deep in Camargue, encircled by the sea,
And from our day’s long labour set us free.
“And as, on earth, haste all things to decay,
Faded the memory of our tombs away.
While sang Provence her songs, and time rolled on,
Till, as Durance is blended with the Rhône,
Ended the merry kingdom of Provence,
And fell asleep upon the breast of France.
“ ‘France, take thy sister by the hand!’ So saith
Our land’s last king, he drawing near to death.
‘On the great work the future hath in store,
Together counsel take! Thou art the more
Strong; she, the more fair: and rebel night
Before your wedded glory shall take flight.’
“This did Renè. Therefore we sought the king,
As on his feathers he lay slumbering,
And showed the spot where long our bones had lain;
And he, with bishops twelve and courtly train,
Came down into this waste of sand and waves,
And found, among the salicornes, our graves.
“Adieu, dear Mirèio! The hour flies;
And, like a taper’s flame before it dies,
We see life’s light within thy body flicker.
Yet, ere the soul is loosed—come quick, oh quicker,
My sisters!—we the hills of heaven must scale
Or ever she arrive within the veil.
“Roses and a white robe we must prepare!
She is love’s martyr and a virgin fair
Who dies to-day! With sweetest flowers blow,
Celestial paths! and on Mirèio
Shine saintly splendours of the heavenly host!
Glory to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!”
Canto XII
Death
As, when in orange-lands God’s day is ending,
The maids let fly the leafy boughs, and, lending
A helpful hand, the laden baskets lift
On head or hip, and fishing-boats adrift
Are drawn ashore, and, following the sun,
The golden clouds evanish, one by one;
As the full harmonies of eventide,
Swelling from hill and plain and riverside
Along the sinuous Argens—airy notes
Of pastoral pipe, love-songs, and bleat of goats—
Grow fainter, and then wholly fade away,
And sombre night falls on the mountains gray;
Or as the last sigh of an anthem soft,
Or dying organ-peal, is borne aloft
O’er some old church, and on the wandering wind
Passes afar—so passed the music twined
Of the three Maries’ voices, heavenward carried.
For her, she seemed asleep; for yet she tarried
Kneeling: and was more fair than ever now,
So strange a freak of sunlight crowned her brow.
And here they who had sought her through the wild,
The aged parents, came, and found their child;
Yet stayed their faltering steps the portal under,
To gaze on her entranced with awe and wonder;
Then crossed their foreheads with the holy water,
And, hasting o’er the sounding flags, besought her
To wake. But, as a frighted vireo
Who spies the huntsman, shrieked Mirèio,
“O God, what is it? Father, mother, tell!
Where will you go?” And therewith swooned and fell.
The weeping mother lifts her head, and yearns
Over her. “My sweet, your forehead burns!
What means it?” And again, “No dream is this.
My own sweet child—my very own it is—
Low lying at my feet!” And then she wept
And laughed together; and old Ramoun crept
Beside them. “Little darling, it is I,
Your father, has your hand!” Then suddenly
His anguish choked him, and he could but hold
And chafe and strive to warm those fingers cold.
Meanwhile the wind the mournful tidings bore
Abroad, and all Li Santo thronged the door,
And anxiously. “Bear the sick child,” they say,
“Into the upper chapel, nor delay;
And let her touch the dear Saints’ relics thus
Within their reliquaries marvellous;
Or kiss, at least, with dying lips!” And there
Two women raised, and bore her up the stair.
In this fair church, altars and chapels three,
Built one upon the other, you may see,
Of solid stone. In that beneath the ground
The dusky gypsies kneel, with awe profound,
Before Saint Sarah. One is over it
That hath God’s altar. And one higher yet,
On pillars borne—last of the sanctuaries—
The small, funereal chapel of the Maries,
With heavenward vault. And here long years have lain
Rich legacy—whence falleth grace like rain!—
The ever-blessed relics. Four great keys
Enlock the cypress chests that shelter these.
Once are they opened in each hundred years;
And happy, happy shall he be who nears
And sees and touches them! Upon the wave
Bright star and weather fair his bark shall have,
His trees be with abundant fruitage graced,
His faithful soul eternal blessing taste!
An oaken door, with carvings rich and rare,
Gift of the pious people of Beaucaire,
Closes the holy precinct. And yet surely
That which defends is not the portal purely—
Is not the circling rampart; but the grace
Descending from the azure depths of space.
So to the chapel bare they the sick child,
While up the winding stair the folk defiled;
And, as a white-robed priest threw wide the door,
They, entering, fell on the dusty floor,
As falls full-bearded barley when a squall
Hath smitten it, and worshipped one and all.
“O lovely Saints! O friendly Saints!” they said,
“O Saints of God, pity this poor young maid!”
“Pity her!” sobbed the mother. “I will bring,
When she is well, so fair an offering!
My flower-carved cross, my golden ring!” she cried,
“And tell the tale through town and country-side!”
“O Saints,” groaned Ramoun, stumbling in the gloom
While shook his aged head, “be kind, and come!
Look on this little one! She is my treasure!
She
