And good and meet for life! Send my old bones
To dung the mallows, but save her!” he moans.
And all the while Mirèio lay in swoon,
Till a breeze, with declining afternoon,
Blew from the tamarisks. Then, hoping still
To call her back to life, they raised with skill,
The flower of Lotus Farm, and tenderly
Laid on the tiles that overlook the sea.
There, from the doorway leading on the tiles—
The chapel’s eye—one’s vision roams for miles,
Even to the pallid limit of the brine,
The blending and the separating line
Between the clouds and waters to explore,
And the great waves that roll for evermore.
Insensate and unceasing and untiring,
They follow one another on; expiring,
With sullen roar, amid the drifted sand:
While vast savannas, on the other hand,
Stretch till they meet a heaven without a stain,
Unfathomed blue over unmeasured plain.
Only a light-green tamarisk, here and there,
Quivering in the faintest breath of air,
Or a long belt of salicornes, appears,
With swans that dip them in the desert meres,
With oxen roaming the waste moor at large;
Or swimming Vacarès from marge to marge.
At last the maiden murmured, but how weak
The voice! how vague the words! “On either cheek
I seem to feel a breeze—one from the sea,
One from the land: and this refreshes me
Like morning airs; but that doth sore oppress
And burn me, and is full of bitterness.”
So ceased. The people of Li Santo turn
Blankly from plain to ocean: then discern
A lad who nears them, at so fleet a pace
The dust in clouds is raised; and, in the race
Outstripped, the tamarisks are growing small,
And far behind the runner seem to fall.
Vincen it was. Ah, poor unhappy youth!
When Master Ambroi spake that sorry truth,
“My son, the pretty little lotus-spray
Is not for you!” he turned, and fled away;
From Valabrègo like a bandit fled,
To see her once again. And when they said
In Crau, “She in Li Santo must be sought,”
Rhône, marshes, weary Crau, withheld him not;
Nor stayed he ever in his frantic search
Till, seeing that great throng inside the church,
He rose on tiptoe deadly pale, and crying,
“Where is she?” And they answered, “She is dying
“Above there in the chapel.” In despair
And all distraught, he hurried up the stair;
But, when his eye fell on the prostrate one,
Threw his hands wildly up. “What have I done—
What have I done against my God and hers
To call down on me such a heavy curse
“From Heaven? Have I cut the throat of her
Who gave me birth? or at a church taper
Lighted my pipe? or dared I, like the Jews,
The holy crucifix ’mong thistles bruise?
What is it, thou accursèd year of God—
Why must I bear so terrible a load?
“ ’Twas not enough my darling they denied
To me! They’ve hunted her to death!” he cried;
And then he knelt, and kissed her passionately;
And all the people, when they saw how greatly
His heart was wrung, felt theirs too swell with pain,
And wept aloud above the stricken twain.
Then, as the sound of many waters, falling
Far down a rocky valley, rises calling
Unto the shepherd high the hills among,
Rose from the church a sound of full-choired song,
And all the temple trembled with the swell
Of that sweet psalm the Santen sing so well:—
“Saints of God, ere now sea-faring
On these briny plains of ours,
Who have set a temple bearing
Massy walls and snowy towers,“Watch the wave-tossed seaman kindly;
Lend him aid the bark to guide;
Send him fair winds, lest he blindly
Perish on the pathless tide!“See the woman poor and sightless:
Ne’er a word she uttereth;
Dark her days are and delightless—
Darkness aye is worse than death.“Vain the spells they have told o’er her,
Blank is all her memory.
Queens of Paradise, restore her!
Touch those eyes that they may see!“We who are but fishers lowly,
Lift our hearts ere forth we go;
Ye, the helpful saints and holy,
Fill our nets to overflow.“So, when penitents heart-broken,
Sue for pardon at your door,
Flood their souls with peace unspoken,
White flowers of our briny moor!”
So prayed the Santen, with tears and strong crying.
Then came the patrons to the maid low-lying,
And breathed a little life into her frame;
So that her wan eyes brightened, and there came
A tender flush of joy her visage over,
At the sweet sight of Vincen bent over her.
“Why love, whence came you? Do you mind, I pray,
A word you said down at the Farm one day,
Walking under the trellis, by my side?
You said, ‘If ever any harm betide,
Hie thee right quickly to the holy Saints,
Who cure all ills and hearken all complaints.’
“Dearest, I would you saw my heart this minute,
As in a glass, and all the comfort in it!
Comfort and peace like a full fountain welling
Through all my happy spirit! There’s no telling—
A grace beyond my uttermost desires!
Look, Vincen: see you not God’s angel-choirs?”
Pausing, she gazed into the deep blue air.
It was as if she could discern up there
Wonderful things hidden from mortal men.
But soon her dreamy speech began again:
“Ah, they are happy, happy souls that soar
Aloft, tethered by flesh to earth no more!
“Did you mark, Vincen dear, the flakes of light
That fell when they began their heavenward flight?
If all their words to me had written been,
They would have made a precious book, I ween.”
Here Vincen, who had striven his tears to stay,
Brake forth in sobs, and gave his anguish way.
“Would to God I had seen them ere they went!
Ah, would to God! Then to their white raiment,
Like a tick fastening, I would have cried,
‘O queens of heaven! Sole ark where we may bide,
In this late hour, do what you will with me!
Maimed, sightless, toothless, I would gladly be;
“ ‘But leave my pretty little fairy sane
And sound!’ ” Here brake Mirèio in again:
“There are they, in their linen robes of grace!
They come!” and from her mother’s fond embrace
Began to struggle wildly to be free,
And waved her hand afar toward the sea.
Then all the folk turned also to the main,
And under shading hands their eyes ’gan strain;
Yet, save the pallid limit of the brine,
The blending and the separating line
’Twixt wave and vault, they nothing could descry.
“Naught cometh,” said they. But the child, “Oh, ay!
“Look closer! There’s a bark, without a sail,
Wafted
