And they are on it! And the swell subsides
Before them, and the bark so softly glides!
Clear is the air and all the sea like glass,
And the sea-birds do homage as they pass!”
“Poor child! she wanders,” murmured they; “for we
See only the red sunset on the sea!”
“Yet it is they! Mine eyes have told me true,”
The sick one panted—“ ’Tis the boat in view!
Now low, now lifted, it is drawing near,
Oh, miracle of God!—the boat is here!”
Now was she paling, as a marguerite
Half-blown and smitten by a tropic heat,
While crouching Vincen, horror in his heart,
Or ere his well-belovèd quite depart
Hath her in charge unto our Lady given,
To the Saints of the chapel and of heaven.
Lit are the tapers, and, in violet stole
Begirt, the priest, to stay the passing soul,
Lays angel’s bread to those dry lips of hers,
And the last unction so administers;
Then of her body the seven parts anoints
With holy oil, as holy church appoints.
The hour was calm. Upon the tiles no word
Save the oremus of the priest was heard.
The last red shaft of the declining day
Struck on the wall and passed, and heaven turned gray.
The sea’s long waves came slowly up the shore,
Brake with a murmur soft, and were no more.
Beside the maid knelt father, mother, lover,
And hoarsely sobbed at intervals above her;
Till once again her lips moved, and she spake;
“Now is the parting close at hand! So take
My hand, and press it quickly, dears. Lo, now
The glory grows on either Mary’s brow!
“The pink flamingoes flock from the Rhône shore,
The tamarisks in blossom all adore.
The dear Saints beckon me to them,” she said.
“They tell me I need never be afraid:
They know the constellations of the skies;
Their bark will take us quick to Paradise!”
“My little pet,” said Ramoun, quite undone,
“You will not go, and leave the home so lone!
Why have I felled my oaks with such ado?
The zeal that nerved me only came of you.
If the hot sun on sultry glebe o’ertook me,
I thought of you, and heat and thirst forsook me.”
“Dear father, if a moth shall sometime fly
About your lamp at night, that will be I.
But see! the Saints are standing on the prow!
They wait. I’m coming in a moment now!
Slowly I move, good Saints, for I am ailing.”
“It is too much!” the mother brake out, wailing.
“Oh, stay with me! I cannot let you die.
And, when you’re well, Mirèio, by and by
We’ll go some day to Aunt Aurano’s, dear,
And carry pomegranates. Do you hear?
Maiano is not distant from our home;
And, in one day, one may both go and come.”
“Not very distant, mother—that I know;
But all alone thou wilt the journey go!
Now give me my white raiment, mother mine.
Oh, how the mantles of the Maries shine!
Sawest thou ever such a dazzling sight?
The snow upon the hillsides is less white!”
“O thou,” cried the dark weaver, “who didst ope
The palace of thy love to me, my hope,
My queen, my all! A blossoming alms thou gavest;
The mire of my low life in thine thou lavest,
Till it shines like a mirror, and dost place
Me in eternal honour by thy grace.
“Pearl of Provence! of my young days the sun!
Shall it be ever said of such an one,
I saw upon her forehead the death-dew?
Shall it be said, puissant Saints, of you,
You looked unmoved upon her mortal pain,
Letting her clasp your sacred sill in vain?”
Slowly the maiden answered, “My poor friend,
What is it doth affright you, and offend?
Believe me, dear, the thing that we call death
Is a delusion. Lo! it vanisheth,
As a fog when the bells begin their pealing;
As dreams with daylight through the window stealing.
“I am not dying! See, I mount the boat
With a light foot! And now we are afloat!
Good-by! good-by! We are drifting out to sea.
The waves encompass us, and needs must be
The very avenue to Paradise,
For all around they touch the azure skies!
“Gently they rock us now. And overhead
So many stars are shining! Ah,” she said,
“Among those worlds one surely may be found
Where two may love in peace! Hark, Saints, that sound!
Is it an organ played across the deep?”
Then sighed, and fell, as it had been, asleep.
And, by her smiling lips, you might have guessed
That yet she spake. Only the Santen pressed
About the sleeper in a mournful band,
And, with a taper passed from hand to hand,
Signed the cross o’er her. While, as turned to stone,
The parents gazed on what themselves had done.
To them her form is all enrayed with light.
Vainly they feel her cold, they see her white:
The awful stroke they comprehend not now.
But, soon as Vincen marked the level brow,
The rigid arms, the sweet eyes wholly veiled,
“See you not she is dead?” he loudly wailed.
“Quite dead?” And therewith fiercely wrung his hands,
As he of old had wrung the osier-strands,
And threw his naked arms abroad. “My own!”
He cried, “they will not weep for you alone:
With yours, the trunk of my life too they fell.
‘Dead’ was I saying? ’Tis impossible:
“A demon whispered me the word, no doubt!
Tell me, in God’s name, ye who stand about—
Ye who have seen dead women ere to-day—
If, passing through the gates, they smile that way.
Her look is well-nigh merry, do you see?
Why do they turn their heads away from me,
“And weep? This means, I think, that all is o’er.
Her pretty prattle I shall hear no more:
Still is the voice I loved!” All hearts were thrilled;
Tears rushed like rain, and sobs would not be stilled.
One sound went up of weeping and lament,
Till the waves on the beach returned the plaint.
So when in some great herd a heifer dies,
About the carcass where it starkly lies
Nine following eves the beasts take up their station,
And seem to mourn after their speechless fashion;
The sea, the plain, the winds, thereover blowing,
Echo nine days with melancholy lowing—
“Poor Master Ambroi!” Vincen wandered on,
“Thou wilt weep heavy tears over thy son!
And now, good Santen, one last wish is mine—
Bury me with my love, below the brine;
Scoop in the oozy sand a crib for two:
Tears for so great a mourning will not do.
“And a stone wall about the basin set,
So the sea flow not
