Sideways upon their yokèd cattle rode
The labourers slowly home, each with his goad
Erect. Night darkened on the distant moor;
’Twas supper-time, the day of toil was o’er.
“And here we are!” the boy cried. “I can see
The straw-heaped threshing-floor, so hasten we!”
“But stay!” the other. “Now, as I’m alive,
The Lotus Farm’s the place for sheep to thrive—
The pine-woods all the summer, and the sweep
Of the great plain in winter. Lucky sheep!
“And look at the great trees that shade the dwelling,
And look at that delicious stream forth welling
Inside the vivary! And mark the bees!
Autumn makes havoc in their colonies;
But every year, when comes the bright May weather,
Yon lotus-grove a hundred swarms will gather.”
“And one thing more!” cried Vincen, eagerly,
“The very best of all, it seems to me—
I mean the maiden, father, who dwells here.
Thou canst not have forgotten how, last year,
She bade us bring her olive-baskets two,
And fit her little one with handles new.”
So saying, they drew the farm-house door anigh,
And, in the dewy twilight, saw thereby
The maid herself. Distaff in hand she stood,
Watching her silkworms at their leafy food.
Then master Ambroi let his osiers fall,
And sang out cheerily, “Good-even, all!”
“Father, the same to you!” the damsel said.
“I had come out my distaff-point to thread,
It grows so dark. Whence come you now, I pray?
From Valabrègo?”7 Ambroi answered, “Yea.
I said, when the fast-coming dark I saw,
‘We’ll sleep at Lotus Farm upon the straw.’ ”
Whereat, with no more words, father and son
Hard by upon a roller sat them down,
And fell to their own work right busily.
A half-made cradle chanced the same to be.
Fast through the nimble fingers of the two
The supple osier bent and crossed and flew.
Certes, our Vincen was a comely lad.
A bright face and a manly form he had,
Albeit that summer he was bare sixteen.
Swart were his cheeks; but the dark soil, I ween,
Bears the fine wheat, and black grapes make the wine
That sets our feet a-dance, our eyes a-shine.
Full well he knew the osier to prepare,
And deftly wrought: but ofttimes to his share
Fell coarser work; for he the panniers made
Wherewith the farmers use their beasts to lade,
And divers kinds of baskets, huge and rough,
Handy and light. Ay, he had skill enough!
And likewise brooms of millet-grass, and such—
And baskets of split-cane. And still his touch
Was sure and swift; and all his wares were strong,
And found a ready sale the farms among.
But now, from fallow field and moorland vast,
The labourers were trooping home at last.
Then hasted sweet Mirèio to prepare,
With her own hands and in the open air,
Their evening meal. There was a broad flat stone
Served for a table, and she set thereon
One mighty dish, where each man plunged his ladle.
Our weavers wrought meanwhile upon their cradle.
Until Ramoun, the master of the farm,
Cried, “How is this?”—brusque was his tone and warm.
“Come to your supper, Ambroi: no declining!
Put up the crib, my man: the stars are shining.
And thou, Mirèio, run and fetch a bowl:
The travellers must be weary, on my soul!”
Wherefore the basket-weaver, well-content,
Rose with his son and to the table went,
And sat him down and cut the bread for both;
While bright Mirèio hasted, nothing loth,
Seasoned a dish of beans with olive oil,
And came and sat before them with a smile.
Not quite fifteen was this same fair Mirèio.
Ah, me! the purple coast of Font Vièio,8
The hills of Baux, the desolate Crau plain,
A shape like hers will hardly see again.
Child of the merry sun, her dimpled face
Bloomed into laughter with ingenious grace.
Eyes had she limpid as the drops of dew;
And, when she fixed their tender gaze on you,
Sorrow was not. Stars in a summer night
Are not more softly, innocently bright:
And beauteous hair, all waves and rings of jet;
And breasts, a double peach, scarce ripened yet.
Shy, yet a joyous little sprite she was;
And, finding all her sweetness in a glass,
You would have drained it at a single breath.
But to our tale, which somewhat lingereth.
When every man his day’s toil had rehearsed
(So, at my father’s farm, I heard them first)—
“Now, Ambroi, for a song!” they all began:
“Let us not sleep above our supper, man!”
But he, “Peace! peace! My friends, do ye not know
On every jester, God, they say, doth blow
And sets him spinning like a top along?
Sing yourselves, lads—you who are young and strong.”
“No jest, good father, none!” they answered him.
“But, since the wine o’erflows your goblet’s brim,
Drink with us, Ambroi, and then to your song!”
“Ay, ay, when I was young—but that was long
Ago—I’d sing to any man’s desire;
But now my voice is but a broken lyre.”
“But, Master Ambroi,” urged Mirèio,
“Sing one song, please, because ’twill cheer us so.”
“My pretty one,” the weaver said again,
“Only the husks of my old voice remain;
But if these please you, I cannot say nay,”
And drained his goblet, and began straightway:—
I
Our Captain was Bailly Suffren;
We had sailed from Toulon,
Five hundred sea-faring Provençaux,
Stout-hearted and strong:
’Twas the sweet hope of meeting the English that made our hearts burn,
And till we had thrashed them we vowed we would never return.II
But all the first month of our cruise
We saw never a thing
From the shrouds, save hundreds and hundreds
Of gulls on the wing;
And in the next dolorous month, we’d a tempest to fight,
And had to be bailing out water by day and by night.III
By the third, we were driven to madness
At meeting no foe
For our thundering cannon to sweep
From the ocean. When lo!
“Hands aloft!” Captain cried. At the maintop one heard the command,
And the long Arab coast on the lee-bow intently he scanned.IV
Till, “God’s thunder!” he cried. “Three big vessels
Bear down on us strong;
Run the guns to the ports! Blaze away!”
Shouted Bailly Suffren.
“Sharp’s the word, gallant lads! Our figs of Antibes they shall test,
And see how they like those,” Captain said, “ere we offer the rest!”V
A crash fit to deafen! Before
The words left his lips
We had sent forty balls through the hulls
Of the Englishers’ ships!
One was done for already. And
