Mirèio

I sing the love of a Provençal maid; How through the wheat-fields of La Crau she strayed, Following the fate that drew her to the sea. Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she; And I, who tell the rustic tale of her, Would fain be Homer’s humble follower.

What though youth’s aureóle was her only crown? And never gold she wore nor damask gown? I’ll build her up a throne out of my song, And hail her queen in our despisèd tongue. Mine be the simple speech that ye all know, Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.

God of my country, who didst have Thy birth Among poor shepherds when Thou wast on earth, Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, my God, How, when the lusty summer is abroad, And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he⁠— Brute, greedy man⁠—and quite despoils the tree.

Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft Some little branch inviolate aloft, Tender and airy up against the blue, Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto: Only the birds shall come and banquet there, When, at St. Magdalene’s, the fruit is fair.

Methinks I see yon airy little bough: It mocks me with its freshness even now; The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high Fruitage and foliage that cannot die. Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech, To soar until the birds’ own home I reach!

Once, then, beside the poplar-bordered Rhône, There lived a basket-weaver and his son, In a poor hut set round with willow-trees (For all

It chanced one morn⁠—it was May’s loveliest⁠— Mirèio gathered leaves among the rest. It chanced, moreover, on that same May morning, The little gypsy, for her own adorning, Had cherries in her ears, for rings, suspended, Just as our Vincen’s footsteps thither tended.

Like Latin seaside people everywhere, He wore a red cap on his raven hair, With a cock’s feather gayly set therein; And, prancing onward, with a stick made spin The flints from wayside stone-heaps, and set flying The lazy adders in his pathway lying.

When suddenly, from the straight, leafy alley, “Whither so fast?” a voice comes musically. Mirèio’s. Vincen darts beneath the trees, Looks up, and soon the merry maiden sees. Perched on a mulberry-tree, she eyed the lad Like some gray-crested lark, and he was glad.

“How then, Mirèio, comes the picking on? Little by little, all will soon be done! May I not help thee?”⁠—“That were very meet,” She said, and laughed upon her airy seat. Sprang Vincen like a squirrel from the clover, Ran nimbly up the tree, and said, moreover⁠—

“Now since old Master Ramoun hath but thee, Come down, I pray, and strip the lower tree! I’ll to the top!” As busily the maiden Wrought on, she murmured, “How the soul doth gladden To have good company! There’s little joy In lonely work!”⁠—“Ay is there!” said the boy:

“For when in our old hut we sit alone, Father and I, and only hear the Rhône Rush headlong o’er the shingle, ’tis most drear! Not in the pleasant season of the year, For then upon our travels we are bound, And trudge from farm to farm the country round.

“Shame on thee, thou perfidious mulberry! A devil’s tree! A Friday-planted tree! Blight seize and wood-louse eat thee! May thy master Hold thee in horror for this day’s disaster! Tell me thou art not hurt, Mirèio!” Trembling from head to foot, she answered, “No:

“I am not hurt; but as a baby weeps And knows not why⁠—there’s something here that keeps Perpetual tumult in my heart. A pain Blinds me and deafens me, and fills my brain, So that my blood in a tumultuous riot Courses my body through, and won’t be quiet.”

“May it not be,” the simple boy replied, “Thou fearest to have thy mother come and chide Thy tardy picking⁠—as when I come back Late from the blackberry-field with face all black, And tattered clothes?” Mirèio sighed again, “Ah, no! This is another kind of pain!”

“Or possibly a sun-stroke may have lighted Upon thee!” And the eager Vincen cited An ancient crone among the hills of Baux, Taven by name, “who on the forehead⁠—so⁠— A glass of water sets: the ray malign The dazed brain for the crystal will resign.”

“Nay, nay!” impetuously the maiden cried, “Floods of May sunshine never terrified The girls of Crau. Why should I hold you waiting? Vincen, in vain my heart is palpitating! My secret cannot bide a home so small: I love you, Vincen, love you!⁠—That is all!”

It chanced the little maid was all alone. She had, that morning, to the fountain gone; And here, with sleeves and petticoats uprolled And small feet dabbling in the water cold, She was her cheese-forms cleaning with shave-grass; And, lady saints! how beautiful she was!

“Good-morrow, pretty maid!” began the wooer, “Thy forms will shine like mirrors, to be sure! Will it offend thee, if I lead my mare To drink out of thy limpid streamlet there?” “Pray give her all thou wilt, at the dam head: We’ve water here to spare!” the maiden said.

“Fair one!” spake the wild youth, “if e’er thou come As pilgrim or as bride to make thy home At Sylvarèal by the noisy wave, No life of toil like this down here thou’lt have! Our fierce black cows are never milked, but these Roam all at large, and women sit at ease.”

“Young man, in cattle-land, I’ve heard them say, Maids die of languor.”⁠—“Pretty maiden, nay: There is no languor where two are together!” “But brows are blistered in that burning weather, And bitter waters drunk.”⁠—“When the sun shines, My lady, thou shalt sit beneath the pines!”

“Ah! but they say, young man, those pines are laden With coils of emerald serpents.”⁠—“Fairest maiden, We’ve herons also, and flamingoes red That chase them down the Rhône with wings outspread Like rosy scarfs.”⁠—“Then, I would have thee know Lotus and pine too far asunder grow!”

Mirèio lay upon her little bed, Clasping in both her hands her burning head. Dim was the chamber; for the stars alone Saw the maid weep, and heard her piteous moan⁠— “Help, Mother Mary, in my sore distress! Oh, cruel fate! Oh, father pitiless,

“Who tread me underfoot! Could you but see My heart’s mad tumult, you would pity me! You used to call me darling long ago, And now you bend me to the yoke as though I were a vicious colt that you were fain To break. Why does the sea not flood this plain?

“I would the wealthy lands that make me weep Were hid for evermore in the great deep! Ah, had I in a serpent’s hole been born, Of some poor vagrant, I were less forlorn! For then if any lad, my Vincen even, Had asked my hand, mayhap it had been given.

“O Vincen, who so handsome are and true! If only they would let me go to you, I’d cling as clings the tender ivy-vine Unto the oak: I would not ever pine For food, but life in your caresses find, And drink at wayside pools with happy mind.”

So on her pallet the sweet maid lay sobbing, Fire in her heart and every vein a-throbbing, And all the happy time remembering⁠— Oh, calm and happy!⁠—of her love’s fair spring, Until a word in Vincen’s very tone Comes to her memory. “ ’Twas you, my own⁠—

“ ’Twas you,” she cried, “came one day to the farm, And said, ‘If ever thou dost come to harm⁠— If any lizard, wolf, or poisonous snake, Ever should wound thee with its fang⁠—betake Thyself forthwith to the most holy Saints, Who cure all ills and hearken all complaints.’

“And sure I am in trouble now,” she said: “Therefore we’ll go, and come back comforted.”