Miserere

“ They may mingle with living people, and not be remarked. The Miserere is heard in all the cities. As the people pass dressed in black, bells are rung on street corners to remind them to pray for the souls of the dead. ”

“ Miserere, miz-e-rē′re, n. the name by which in Catholic usage the penitential 50th Psalm of the Vulgate (51st in A.V.) is commonly known, from its commencement, 'Miserere mei, Domine:' a musical composition adapted to this psalm: a hinged folding-seat in a church stall, which, when turned up, shows a bracket on which a person who is standing can lean. [L., 2d pers. sing, imperf. of miserēri, to have mercy, to pity—miser, wretched.] ”

“ The singing of the Miserere seems to be particularly appropriated, among Catholics, to regulate both the duration of religious flagellations, and the time to which they are to be performed, as we may conclude from the above passage of our Author; and also from a passage of M. de Voltaire in his Candide, in which he says, that, when Candide was flagellated at Lisbon, by order of the Inquisition, he was all the while entertained with a Miserere en faux bourdon; which is a kind of Church Music. ”

“ The Miserere forms part of the Service called Tenebræ; which is sung, late in the afternoon, on three days, only, in the year—the Wednesday in Holy Week, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday. [See Tenebræ.] The Office is an exceedingly long one: consisting, besides the Miserere itself, of sixteen Psalms and a Canticle from the Old Testament, (sung, with their proper Antiphons, in fourteen divisions) ”

“ Was borne aloft Mirèio’s faltering prayer:—
“O holy Maries, who can cheer
The sorrow-laden,
Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear
To one poor maiden!
“And when you see my cruel care
And misery,
Then look in mercy down the air,
And side with me!
“I am so young, dear Saints above,
And there’s a youth—
My handsome Vincen—whom I love
With utter truth!
“I love him as the wayward stream
Its wanderings;
As loves the new-fledged bird, I deem,
To try its wings. ”

“ Inside her waist, obeying Vincen's will;
While he, "Hold out thy hands! there are more still!"
"Oh, sweet! The little eyes in each blue head
Are sharp as needles," as Mirèio said
Softly, three more of the wee brood she pressed
Into their smooth, white prison with the rest,
Who, when bestowed within that refuge warm,
Thought they were in their nest and safe from harm.
"Are there more, Vincen?"—"Ay!" he answered her.
"Then, Holy Virgin! you're a sorcerer!"
"Thou simple maid! About St. George's day,
Ten, twelve, and fourteen eggs, these tomtits lay,
Ay, often. ”

“ Vincen's dear name so lightly uttered was.
There 's mystery here! Mirèio, we are jealous!
Lasted the picking long that day? Pray, tell us!
When two friends meet, the hour is winged with pleasure;
And, for a lover, one has always leisure!"
"Oh, fie!" Mirèio said. "Enough of joking!
Mind your work now, and be not so provoking!
You would make swear the very saints! But I
Promise you one and all, most faithfully,
I'll seek a convent while my years are tender,
Sooner than e'er my maiden heart surrender!"
Then brake the damsels into merry chorus:
"Have we not pretty Magali before us? ”

“ Oh, stay! Life’s in thine eyes.
Ah, if thou couldst do something,” the lad cries,
“For him,—the poor old basket-weaver there,—
My father, worn with toil!” In her despair,
Mirèio bathes the wound, while some bring lint,
And some run to the hills for healing mint.
Then the maid’s mother spake: “Let four men rally,
And to the Fairies’ Cavern, in the valley
They call Enfer, bear up this wounded man.
The deadlier the hurt, the sooner can
The old witch heal. Scale first the cliffs of Baux,
And circling vultures the cave’s mouth will show.” ”

“ 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." ”

“ And “Have you seen Mirèio?” is their cry.
While Ramoun and his wife by the fireside
Are sitting, lost in grief, and swollen-eyed,
And at their hearts the bitterness of death.
“Doubtless,” they said, “her reason wandereth.
Oh, what a mad and wretched maid it is!
Oh, what a heavy, cruel downfall this!
“Oh, dire disgrace! Our beauty and our hope
So with the last of trampers to elope!
Fled with a gypsy! And who shall discover
The secret hole of this kidnapping lover,
Where he the shameless one concealèd hath?”
And, as they spake, they knit their brows in wrath. ”

“ I love you, Vincen, love you!—That is all!”
The river-banks, the close-pruned willows hoary,
Green grass and ambient air, hearing this story,
Were full of glee. But the poor basket-weaver,
“Princess, that thou who art so fair and clever,
Shouldst have a tongue given to wicked lying!
Why, it confounds me! It is stupefying!
“What! thou in love with me? Mirèio,
My poor life is yet happy. Do not go
And make a jest thereof! I might believe
Just for one moment, and thereafter grieve
My soul to death. Ah, no! my pretty maid,
Laugh no more at me in this wise!” he said. ”

“ The witch Taven, sat silent, cronching lowly
As lost in thought and utter melancholy,
Holding a sprig of brome, and muttering,
"Some call thee devil's wheat, poor little thing,
"Yet art thou one of God's own signs for good!"
Therewith Mirèio, trembling where she stood,
Was fain to tell why they had sought her thus.
"I knew it!" cried the witch, impervious,
The brome addressing still, with bended head.
"Thou poor field-flower! The trampling flock," she said,
"Browse on thy leaves and stems the whole year long ”

“ He blessed the generations there assembled.
“Moreover, he who is a father truly
Will have his child yield him obedience duly:
The flock that drives the shepherd, soon or late,
Will meet a wolf and a disastrous fate.
When we were young, had any son withstood
His father, he, belike, had shed his blood!”
“Thou wilt kill me then, father! It is I
Whom Vincen worships thus despairingly;
And before God and our most holy Mother,
I give my soul to him, and to no other!”
A deathlike hush followed Mirèio’s word.
The wife of Ramoun was the first who stirred. ”

“ Waved o'er them waiting, and, from time to time,
Humming some fragment of the weaver's rhyme.
Mirèio tarried, but not quite alone.
A social spirit had the little one,
And she and Vincen chatted happily.
'Twas a fair sight, the two young heads to see
Meeting and parting, coming still and going
Like aster-flowers10 when merry winds are blowing.
"Now tell me, Vincen," thus Mirèio,
"If oftentimes as you and Ambroi go
Bearing your burdens the wild country over,
Some haunted castle you do not discover,
Or joyous fête, or shining palace meet,
While we in the home-nest for ever sit?" ”

“ Upspringing with clasped hands and utterance wild,
"Your speech is an atrocious insult, child!
Your love 's a thorn that long hath stung us deep.
Alari, the owner of a thousand sheep,
You sent away; and keeper Veran too,
Disgusted with your scorn, his suit withdrew;
"Also the wealthy herdsman, Ourrias,
You treated as a dog and a scapegrace!
Tramp through the country with your beggar, then!
Herd with strange women and with outcast men! ”

“ Until the mulberry-tree is bare of leaves,
And these the ready sack at once receives,
At whose distended mouth—ah, youth is sweet!—
Mirèio's pretty taper hand will meet
In strange entanglement that somehow lingers
That Vincen's, with its brown and burning fingers.
Both started. In their cheeks the flush rose higher:
They felt the heat of some mysterious fire.
They dropped the mulberry-leaves as if afraid,
And, tremulous with passion, the boy said,—
"What aileth thee, my lady? answer me! ”

“ WHEN violets are blue in the blue shadows
Of the o’erhanging trees,
The youth who stray in pairs about the meadows
Are glad to gather these.
When peace descends upon the troubled Ocean,
And he his wrath forgets,
Flock from Martigue the boats with wing-like motion,
The fishes fill their nets.
And when the girls of Crau bloom into beauty
(And fairer earth knows not) ,
Aye are there suitors ready for their duty
In castle and in cot.
Thus to Mirèio’s home came seeking her
A trio notable,—a horse-tamer,
A herdsman, and a shepherd. ”

“ And, as a white-robed priest threw wide the door,
They, entering, fell on the dusty floor,
As falls full-bearded barley when a squall
Hath smitten it, and worshipped one and all.
"O lovely Saints! O friendly Saints!" they said,
"O Saints of God, pity this poor young maid!"
"Pity her!" sobbed the mother. "I will bring,
When she is well, so fair an offering! ”

“ The Miser's a Fool, and the Lover's an Ass,
And be only’s Wise, who adores the full Glass.
⁠Let the Miser then hug up his ill gotten Pelf,
And to feed empty bags, he may starve his ownself,
Let the Lover still languish ’twixt hope & despair,
And doat on a face as inconstant as fair
But still may his bliss be as great as his soul,
Who pays no devoir but to Wine and the Bowl. ”

“ Thy pines are from my lotus-trees too far!"
"But priests and maidens, fair one, never know,
The proverb saith, the land where they may go
And eat their bread."—"Let mine but eaten be
With him I love: that were enough," said she,
"To lure me from the home-nest to remove."
"If that be so, sweet one, give me thy love!"
"Thy suit," Mirèio said, "mayhap I 'll grant!
But first, young man, yon water-lily plant
Will bear a cluster of columbine14 grapes.
Yon hills will melt from all their solid shapes,
That goad will flower, and all the world will go
In boats unto the citadel of Baux!" ”

“ Upon its udders, but doth only lick
Moss from the base of the precipitous peak
Of Baux,—I’d perish in the quarries there,
Or bring thee down the goat with golden hair!
“So much, that, if thou saidst, ‘I want a star,’
There is no stream so wild, no sea so far,
But I would cross; no headsman, steel or fire,
That could withhold me. Yea, I would climb higher
Than peaks that kiss the sky, that star to wrest;
And Sunday thou shouldst wear it on thy breast!
“O my Mirèio! Ever as I gaze,
Thy beauty fills me with a deep amaze. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Mirèio hasted no less anxiously
Than Magalouno in the days gone by,
Who searched the wood with sad, inquiring glance
For her lost lover, Pèire of Provence,
When cruel waves divorced him from her side,
And left her lone and wretched. Soon espied
The maid, upon the boundary of the lea,
Folds where her sire’s own shepherds could she see
Already milking. Some the sheep compelled,
Against the pen-side by the muzzle held,
To suckle quietly their tawny lambs.
Always arose the bleat of certain dams;
While other childless ones the shepherds guide
Toward the milker. ”

“ Good God! the blows of Vincen fall like hail.
Yet ah! what club-like hits the herdsman deals!
And, as their crushing weight the weaver feels,
He whirls as whirls a sling about his foe,
And backward bends to deal his fiercest blow.
"Look your last, villain!" Ere the word said he,
The mighty herdsman seized him bodily,
And flung him o'er his shoulder far away,
As a Provençal shovels wheat. He lay
A moment on his side, not sorely hurt.
"Pick up, O worm!" cried Ourrias,—"pick the dirt
"You have displaced, and eat it, if you will!" ”

“ Imagine, my dear fellow—I had hit upon a plan for a nocturnal visit to my divine lady. Everything was arranged—Lélette, my little laundress, lent us a hand. I entered the garden at eleven o’clock, and by the trellis of the rosetree which creeps to her window, I climbed up. You may imagine how my heart beat! For she, my sovereign lady, had promised to stretch out her dainty hand that I might press thereon my kisses. Heavens!—the shutters opened softly—and a hand, my Frédéric, a hand I quickly recognised was not that of my adored, shook down on my upturned nose—the cinders of a pipe! ”

“ So in the stillness doth Mirèio dash
Along the hurdles, like a lightning flash,{128}
Lifting a wailing cry that never varies,—
“Will none go with me to the holy Maries,
Of all the shepherds?” They and the sheep hear it,
And see the maiden flitting like a spirit,
And huddle up, and bow their heads, as though
Smit by a sudden gale. The farm-dogs know
Her voice, but never stir her flight to stay.
And now is she already far away,
Threads the dwarf-oaks, and like a partridge rushes
Over the holly and the camphyre bushes,
Her feet scarce touching earth. ”