Frédéric Mistral

“ You are poor!"
"Plague on my poverty!" poor Vincen cried,
Tearing his hair. "Is God who hath denied
All that could make life worthy,—is He just?
And wherefore are we poor? And wherefore must
We still the refuse of the vineyard gather,
While others pluck the purple clusters rather?"
Lifting his hands, the old man sternly said,
"Weave on, and drive this folly from your head!
Shall the corn-ears rebuke the reaper, pray?
Or Billy worm to God the Father say,
'Why am I not a star in heaven to shine?'
Or shall the ox to be a drover pine,
"So to eat corn instead of straw? ”

“ 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 Rhone,
There lived a basket-weaver and his son,
In a poor hut set round with willow-trees
(For all their humble wares were made from these) ;
And sometimes they from farm to farm would wend,
And horses' cribs and broken baskets mend. ”

“ Quit ploughs and scythes, the harvesters let fall
Their sickles, and the shepherds hastily
Forsake their flocks, and hither come to me!'"
Then the stout runner, fleeter than the goats,
Dashed through the pieces waving with wild-oats,
Fosses o'erleaped with meadow-flowers bright,
And in great yellow wheat-fields passed from sight,
Where reapers forty, sickle each in hand,
Like a devouring fire fall on the land,
And strip her mantle rich and odorous
From off her breast, and, ever gaining thus
As wolves gain on their prey, rob, hour by hour,
Earth of her gold, and summer of her flower ”

“ But Ourrias the brander left the spring,
The insult he had suffered pondering.
So moved to wrath was he, so stung with shame,
The blood into his very forehead came;
And, muttering deadly spite beneath his teeth,
He drave at headlong gallop o'er the heath.
Ah damsons in a bush, the stones of Crau
Are plentiful; and Ourrias, fuming so,
Would gladly with the senseless flints have striven,
Or through the sun itself his lance have driven. ”

“ And keep for ever in a golden cup.
"Enough, O Magdalene! Thirty years ago,
The wind that in the foreat whispers low
Bare thee the pardon of the Man divine!
The tears that the rock weeps are tears of thine.
These, like a snowfall softly sprinkled o'er,
Shall whiten woman's love for ever more!
"But naught can stay the mourner's gnawing grief.
Even the little birds bring not relief,
That flock around her, building many a nest
On Saint Pilon; nor spirits of the blest,
Who lift and rock her in their arms of love,
And soar, seven times a day, the vales above. ”

“ 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. ”

“ THE WITCH.
THE merry birds, until the white dawn showeth
Clear in the east, are silent every one.
Silent the odorous Earth until she knoweth
In her warm heart the coining of the Sun,
As maiden in her fairest robes bedight
Breathless awaits her lover and her flight.
Across La Crau three swineherds held their way
From St. Chamas the wealthy, whither they
Had to the market gone. Their herds were sold,
And o'er their shoulders pouches full of gold
Were hung, and by their hanging cloaks concealed:
So, chatting idly, they attained the field
Of the late strife. ”

“ And how wealth gains, and poverty grows poor
In this hard world. In vain! He would but call,
'Cost what it may, tell thou her parents all,—
"'Tell them to look for virtue, not for gain!
Tell them that I can plough a stony plain,
Or harrow, or prune vines with any man!
Tell them their six yoke, with my guiding, can
Plough double! Tell them I revere the old;
And, if they put us for the sake of gold,
"'We shall both die, and need but burial.'
Now, Master Ramoun, I have told thee all. ”

“ And the good wine pours from the brimful presses,
And the ruddy foam in the vats increases;
When under the leaves of the Spanish broom
The clear silk-worms are helden,
An artist each, in a tiny loom,
Weaving a web all golden,—
Fine, frail cells out of sunlight spun,
Where they creep and sleep by the million,—
Glad is Provence on a day like that,
'Tis the time of jest and laughter:
The Ferigoulet2 and the Baume Muscat3
They quaff and they sing thereafter.
And lads and lasses, their toils between,
Dance to the tinkling tambourine.
"Methinks, good neighbors, I am Fortune's pet. ”

“ Quoth Ourrias, "I am ready,
My gypsy-suitor to a cupboard! Steady!"
Therewith alights. They fling their coats away,
Fists fly, and pebbles roll before the fray.
They fall upon each other in the manner
Of two young bulls who, in the vast savannah,
Where the great sun glares in the tropic sky,
The sleek sides of a dark young heifer spy
In the tall grasses, lowing amorous. ”

“ And under shading hands their eyes 'gan strain;
Yet, save the pallid limit of the brine,
The blending and the separating line
'Twixt sea and heaven, naught might they descry.
"Naught cometh," said they. But the child, "Oh, ay!
"Look closer! There 's a bark, without a sail,
Wafted toward us by a gentle gale,
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!" ”

“ Comes down the chimney-flue at dead of night,
"And stealthy climbs upon the sleeper's breast,
Who, as with weight of a tall tower opprest,
Hath horrid dreams. Hi! What a hideous racket!
My dears, 'tis the foul-weather fiends who make it!
That sound of rusty hinges, groaning doors,
Is they who beat up fog upon the moors,
"And ride the winds that homestead-roofs uptear
And bear afar. Ha, Moon! What ails you there?
What dire indignity hath made you scowl
So red and large o'er Baux? 'Ware the dog's howl!
Yon dog can snap you like a cake, be sure! ”

“ Amid the crowd. The cattle start again,
All saving five young bulls, and scour the plain;
But these, with flaming eyes and horns defying
Heaven itself, are through the arena flying.
And he pursues them. As a mighty wind
Drives on the clouds, he goads them from behind,
And presently outstrips them in the race;
Then thumps them with the cruel goad he sways,
Dances before them as infuriate,
And lets them feel his own fists' heavy weight.
The people clap and shout, while Ourrias
White with Olympic dust encountered has
One bull, and seized him by the horns at length ”

“ And seemed to smite us like a jet of flame.
"Dear child, thy faith is great; yet thy request
Our pitying hearts right sorely hath opprest.
For thou wouldst drink the waters of pure love,
Or ever to its source thee Death remove,
The bliss we have in God himself to share.
Hast thou, then, seen contentment anywhere
"On earth? Is the rich blest, who softly lies,
And in his haughty heart his God denies,
And cares not for his fellow-man at all?
Thou knowest the leech when it is gorged will fall,
And he before the judgment-seat must pass
Of One who meekly rode upon an ass. ”

“ Our Provençal tongue has been for centuries dishonored by low singers, tavern catches, vulgar squibs, uncouth and licentious rhymes. Such is the groundwork of our popular literature! Well, then, since our mothers do not comprehend enough of French to understand the songs which filial tenderness has inspired, let us sing in the language of our mothers! Since we have no popular literature save that of the ale-house, let us create one for the hearths of our sires and grand-sires.' The boy of Saint-Rémy had written French verses without the slightest literary pretension. ”

“ The high and noble art of husbandry,
The rule of men, none better knew than he,
Or how to make a golden harvest grow
From dark sods moistened by the toiler's brow.
A grave and simple master of the soil,
Whose frame was bending now with years and toil;
Yet oft, of old, when floors were full of wheat,
Glowing with pride he had performed the feat,
Before his youthful corps, upright to stand
Bearing two pecks upon each horny hand.
He could the influence of the moon rehearse;
Tell when her look is friendly, when edverse;
When she will raise the sap, and when depress ”

“ To her replied Taven, the ancient crone,
Who from the heights of Baux had wandered down
To help at the cocooning: "Youth is bold,
The young think they know better than the old;
And age is torment, and we mourn the fate
Which bids us see and know,—but all too late,
"Ye are such giddy women, every one,
That, if the hatching promise well, ye run
Straightway about the streets the tale to tell.
'Come see my silk-worms! 'Tis incredible
How fine they are!' Envy can well dissemble:
She hastens to your room, her heart a-tremble
"With wrath. ”

“ And love, peace, joy, beam from his countenance.
The soft air swells his loose, unbuttoned shirt:
His firm, bare feet are by the stones unhurt,
And light as lizard slips he o'er the way.
Oh! many a time, when eve was cool and gray,
And all the land in shadow lay concealed,
He used to roam about the darkling field,
Where the chill airs had shut the tender clover ”

“ 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 ”

“ Where men have stoned the very saints of God.
"And if, Mirèio, thou couldst see before thee,
As we from empyrean heights of glory,
This world; and what a sad and foolish thing
Is all its passion for the perishing,
Its churchyard terrors,—then, O lambkin sweet,
Mayhap thou wouldst for death and pardon bleat!
"But, ere the wheat-ear hath its feathery birth,
Ferments the grain within the darksome earth,—
Such ever is the law; and even we,
Before we wore our crowns of majesty,
Drank bitter draughts. Therefore, thy soul to stay,
We 'll tell the pains and perils of our way." ”

“ That the poor, weary wanderer is fain
To loose and lift her folded neckerchief,
So from the burning heat to find relief.
Yet grows the torment ever more and more;
The sun ascending higher than hefore,
Until it rides in the unshaded zenith,
And thence a very flood of fire raineth,—
As a starved lion with his eye devours
The Abyssinian desert in his course.
Now were it sweet beneath a beech to slumber!
Now, like a swarm of hornets without number,—
An angry swarm, fierce darting high and low,—
Or like the hot sparks from a grindstone, grow
The pitiless rays ”

“ 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 away so fast?" a voice comes gayly,
Mirèio's. ”

“ A drover, who a patient mule bestrode.
Its wattled panniers bare a motley load:
Food for the shepherd-folk, and flasks of wine,
And the still bleeding hides of slaughtered kine;
And folded garments whereon oft there lay
Some weakly lamb, a-weary of the way.
Next came abreast—the captains of the host—
Five fiery bucks, their fearsome heads uptost:
With bells load jingling and with sidelong glances,
And backward curving horns, each one advances.
The sober mothers follow close behind,
Striving their lawless little kids to mind. ”

“ We should be drenched ere we had gained the farm."
"Nay, nay!" the old man said, "no rain to-night!
'Tis the sea-breeze that shakes the trees. All right!
A western gale were different." Vincen mused:
"Are many ploughs at Lotus farmstead used?"
"Six ploughs!" the basket-weaver answered slow:
"It is the finest freehold in La Crau.
"Look! There 's their olive-orchard, intermixt
With rows of vines and almond-trees betwixt.
The beauty of it is, that vineyard hath
For every day in all the year a path!
There 's ne'er another such the beauty is;
And in each path are just so many trees." ”

“ How thrilled your vales with joy, when, his cross bearing,
The bishop Maximin was through them faring.
"Seest thou one with while arms on her breast,
Who kneels and prays in yonder grotto, dressed
In the bright garment of her floating hair?
Poor sufferer! Her tender knees are bare,
And cruelly by the sharp flints are torn.
The moon, with pale torch, watches the forlorn
"And sad recluse. The woods in silence bow. ”

“ Couched is the trident and the caution flouted;
With perspiration streaming, bosom bare,
Ourrias the spotted bull charged then and there!
He meets his enemy, a blow delivers
Full in the face; but ah! the trident shivers.
The beast becomes a demon with the wound:
The brander grasps his horns, is whirled around,—
They start together, and are borne amain,
Crushing the salicornes along the plain.
The mounted herdsmen, on their long goads leaning,
Regard the mortal fray; for each is meaning
Dire vengeance now. The man the brute would crush,
The brute bears off the man with furious rush ”

“ My council's duty it shall be to choose
Which loves the better, which the better sues,
And which is worthier of a happy fate.
Moreover, on my maidens there shall wait
"Seven sweet poets, who from time to time
Shall write the laws of love in lovely rhyme
Upon wild vine-leaves or the bark of trees;
And sometimes, in a stately chorus, these
Will sing the same, and then their couplets all
Like honey from the honey-comb will fall." ”

“ Fell straightway to their work with twofold zest;
And as, when one cicala doth begin
Its high midsummer note, the rest fall in
And swell the chorus, so the damsels here
Sang the refrain with voices loud and clear:—
I.13
"Magali, queen of my soul,
The dawn is near!
Hark to my tambourine,
Hide not thy bower within,
Open and hear!
II.
"The sky is full of stars,
And the wind soft;
But, when thine eyes they see
The stars, O Magali,
Will pale aloft!" ”

“ This new Provençal poetry, which has created a certain sensation of late, had a very simple and touching origin. The son of a gardener of Saint-Rémy, educated in our French schools, wrote verses at the age of twenty, as one fresh from college is apt to do,—simple, unpretending verses, by no means poésie du diable, as a witty critic calls the over-hold attempts of youth, but rather poésie de famille, which was destined never to trangress the limits of the fireside. ”

“ The sweetest flower in all the land lies low.
When, in a valley by the river-side,
Young turtle-doves a huntsman hath espied,
Some innocently drinking, others cooing,
He, through the copse-wood with his gun pursuing,
At the most fair takes aiway his first aim,—
The cruel sun had only done the same. ”

“ The glory grows on either Mary's brow!
"The pink flamingoes flock from the Rhone 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!" ”