Mirèio, a Provençal Poem. Frédéric Mistral

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,

       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.

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