A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Orso—A Pastoral (Émile Augier)
'This wild thrilling song, and this voice once again,
My dear, ’tis Orso who comes back to the plain!
Yes, Orso, who sees me as day follows day:
Descending the last slope by the side of the springs,
He leads lusty his herd, while his voice cheerful rings,
'Mid the tramp heavy of cattle athirst on their way.
'When he comes home at evening the fair peasant maid
Who winnows the grain, sitting calm in the shade,
Better to see him—for his like there is none—
On the steps at the door loves on tiptoe to stand,
And whispers he'll match any lord in the land,
With his gold hair imprisoning the rays of the sun.
'If he wished it, he might to the loveliest pretend,
For the girls leave their sickles, and the reaping suspend
When the mother commences his marvellous tale,—
What goblets he won at the jousts year by year,
'What rencontres he had by the wood, and how dear
He made nobles pay, who dared him to assail.
'But the herdsman possesses a heart that looks high,
He inquires not who loves him, what seamstresses sigh,
Or what harvest-gatherers blush red at his name!
In vain those make eyes, and strive hard these to shield
Their complexions amid the rough work of the field,
To secure his affections and kindle a flame.
'Orso regards not, and he takes the long road
Some two miles longer, just to pass our abode
And see my veil float at my casement,—but there
Ends all his love's boldness; and I to console
This tenderness mute, which he cannot control,
Hang out the love-banner that he may not despair.'
Thus spake proud Stella of the race of Sienne,
High-born and lovely, she looks down on all men;
But the herdsman cares little for her, or her birth,
He loves a sweet girl in the village hard by,
Her figure is graceful, and dark is her eye,
And her heart is the tenderest of any on earth.