CANTO XII.
DEATH.
AS, when in orange-lands God's day is ending,
The maids let fly the leafy boughs, and, lending
A helpful hand, the laden baskets lift
On head or hip, and fishing-boats adrift
Are drawn ashore, and, following the sun,
The golden clouds evanish, one by one;
As the full harmonies of eventide,
Swelling from hill and plain and river-side
Along the sinuous Argens,—airy notes
Of pastoral pipe, love-songs, and bleat of goats,—
Grow fainter, and then wholly fade away,
And sombre night falls on the mountains gray;
Or as the last sigh of an anthem soft,
Or dying organ-peal, is borne aloft
O'er some old church, and on the wandering wind
Passes afar,—so passed the music twined
Of the three Maries' voices, heavenward carried.
For her, she seemed asleep; for yet she tarried
Kneeling: and was more fair than ever now,
So strange a freak of suntight crowned her brow.
And here they who had sought her through the wild,
The aged parents, came, and found their child;
Yet stayed their faltering steps the portal under,
To gaze on her entranced with awe and wonder;
Then crossed their foreheads with the holy water,
And, hasting o'er the sounding flags, besought her
To wake. But, as a flighted vireo
Who spies the huntsman, shrieked Mirèio,
"O God, what is it? Father, mother, tell!
Where will you go?" And therewith swooned and fell.
The weeping mother lifts her head, and yearns
Over her. "My sweet, your forehead burns!
What means it?" And again, "No dream is this.
My own sweet child,—my very own it is,—
Low lying at my feet!" And then she wept
And laughed together; and old Ramoun crept
Beside them. "Little darling, it is I,
Your father, has your hand!" Then suddenly
His anguish choked him, and he could but hold
And chafe and strive to warm those fingers cold.
Meanwhile the wind the mournful tidings bore
Abroad, and all Li Santo thronged the door,
And anxiously. "Bear the sick child," they say,
"Into the upper chapel, nor delay;
And let her touch the dear Saints' relics thus
Within their reliquaries marvellous;
Or kiss, at least, with dying lips!" And there
Two women raised, and bore her up the stair.
In this fair church, altars and chapels three,
Built one upon the other, you may see,
Of solid stone. In that beneath the ground
The dusky gypsies kneel, with awe profound,
Before Saint Sarah. One is over it
That hath God's altar. And one higher yet,
On pillars borne,—last of the sanctuaries,—
The small, funereal chapel of the Maries,
With heavenward vault. And here long years have lain
Rich legacy,—whence falleth grace like rain!—
The ever-blessed relics. Four great keys
Enlock the cypress chests that shelter these.
Once are they opened in each hundred years;
And happy, happy shall he be who nears
And sees and touches them! Upon the wave
Bright star and weather fair his bark shall have,
His trees be with abundant fruitage graced,
His faithful soul eternal blessing taste!
An oaken door, with carvings rich and rare,
Gift of the pious people of Beaucaire,
Closes the holy precinct. And yet surely
That which defends is not the portal purely,—
Is not the circling rampart; but the grace
Descending from the azure depths of apace.
So to the chapel bare they the sick child,
While up the winding stair the folk defiled;
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!
My flower-carved cross, my golden ring!" she cried,
"And tell the tale through town and country-side!"
"O Saints," groaned Ramoun, stumbling in the gloom,
While shook his aged head, "be kind, and come!
Look on this little one! She is my treasure!
She is my plover! Pretty beyond measure,
And good and meet for life! Send my old bones
To dung the mallows, but save her!" he moans.
And all the while Mirèio lay in swoon,
Till a breeze, with declining afternoon,
Blew from the tamarisks. Then, in the hope
To call her back to life, they lifted up
The flower of Lotus Farm, and tenderly
Laid on the tiles that overlook the sea.
There, from the doorway leading on the roof,—
The chapel's eye,—one may look far, far off,
Even to the pallid limit of the brine,
The blending and the separating line
'Twixt vaulted sky and weary sea explore,
And the great waves that roll for evermore.
Insensate and unceasing and untiring,
They follow one another on; expiring,
With sullen roar, amid the drifted sand:
While vast savannas, on the other hand,
Stretch till they meet a heaven without a stain,
Unfathomed blue over unmeasured plain.
Only a light-green tamarisk, here and there,
Quivering in the faintest breath of air,
Or a long belt of salicornes, appears,
With swans that dip them in the desert meres,
With oxen roaming the waste moor at large,
Or swimming Vacares from marge to marge.
At last the maiden murmured, but how weak
The voice! how vague the words! "On either cheek
I seem to feel a breeze,—one from the sea,
One from the land: and this refreshes me
Like morning airs; but that doth sore oppress
And burn me, and is full of bitterness."
So ceased. The people of Li Santo turn
Blankly from plain to ocean: then discern
A lad who nears them, at so fleet a pace
The dust in clouds is raised; and, in the race
Outstripped, the tamarisks are growing small,
And far behind the runner seem to fall.
Vincen it was. Ah, poor unhappy youth!
When Master Ambroi spake that sorry truth,
"My son, the pretty little lotus-spray
Is not for you!" he turned, and fled away;
From Valabrègo like a bandit fled,
To see her once again. And when they said
In Crau, "She in Li Santo must be sought,"
Rhone, marshes, weary Crau, withheld him not;
Nor stayed he ever in his frantic search
Till, seeing that great throng inside the church,
He rose on tiptoe deadly pale, and crying,
"Where is she!" And they answered, "She is dying
"Above there in the chapel." In despair
And all distraught, he hurried up the stair;
But, when his eye fell on the prostrate one,
Threw his hands wildly up. "What have I done —
What have I done against my God and hers
To call down on me such a heavy curse
"From Heaven? Have I cut the throat of her
Who gave me birth? or at a church taper
Lighted my pipe? or dared I, like the Jews,
The holy crucifix 'mong thistles bruise?
What is it, thou accursèd year of God,—
Why must I bear so terrible a load?
"'Twas not enough my darling they denied
To me! They 've hunted her to death!" he cried;
And then he knelt, and kissed her passionately;
And all the people, when they saw how greatly
His heart was wrung, felt theirs too swell with pain,
And wept aloud above the stricken twain.
Then, as the sound of many waters, falling
Far down a rocky valley, rises calling
Unto the shepherd high the hills among,
Rose from the church a sound of full-choired song,
And all the temple trembled with the swell
Of that sweet psalm the Santen sing so well:—
"Saints of God, ere now sea-faring
On these briny plains of ours,
Who have set a temple bearing
Massy walls and snowy towers,
"Watch the wave-tossed seaman kindly;
Lend him aid the bark to guide;
Send him fair winds, lest he blindly
Perish on the pathless tide!
"See the woman poor and sightless:
Ne'er a word she uttereth;
Dark her days are and delightless,—
Darkness aye is worse than death.
"Vain the spells they have told o'er her,
Blank is all her memory.
Queens of Paradise, restore her!
Touch those eyes that they may see!
"We who are but fishers lowly,
Lift our hearts ere forth we go;
Ye, the helpful saints and holy,
Fill our nets to overflow.
"So, when penitents heart-broken
Sue for pardon at your door,
Flood their souls with peace unspoken,
White flowers of our briny moor!"
So prayed the Santen, with tears and strong crying.
Then came the patrons to the maid low-lying,
And breathed a little life into her frame;
So that her wan eyes brightened, and there came
A tender flush of joy her visage over,
At the sweet sight of Vincen bent above her.
"Why love, whence came you? Do you mind, I pray,
A word you said down at the Farm one day,
Walking under the trellis, by my side?
You said, 'If ever any harm betide,
Hie thee right quickly to the holy Saints,
Who cure all ills and hearken all complaints.'
"Dearest, I would you saw my heart this minute,
As in a glass, and all the comfort in it!
Comfort and peace like a full fountain welling
Through all my happy spirit! There's no telling—
A grace beyond my uttermost desires!
Look, Vincen: see you not God's angel-choirs?"
Pausing, she gazed into the deep blue air.
It was as if she could discern up there
Wonderful things hidden from mortal men.
But soon her dreamy speech began again:
"Ah, they are happy, happy souls that soar
Aloft, tethered by flesh to earth no more!
"Did you mark, Vincen dear, the flakes of light
That fell when they began their heavenward flight?
If all their words to me bad written been,
They would have made a precious book, I ween."
Here Vincen, who had striven his tears to stay,
Brake forth in sobs, and gave his anguish way.
"Would to God I had seen them ere they went!
Ah, would to God! Then to their white raiment,
Like a tick fastening, I would have cried,
'O queens of heaven! Sole ark where we may bide,
In this late hour, do what you will with me!
Maimed, sightless, toothless, I would gladly be;
"'But leave my pretty little fairy sane
And sound!'" Here brake Mirèio in again:
"There are they, in their linen robes of grace!
They come!" and from her mother's fond embrace
Began to struggle wildly to be free,
And waved her hand afar toward the sea.
Then all the folk turned also to the main,
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!"
"Yet it is they! Mine eyes deceive me not,"
The sick one answered eagerly. "The boat—
Now low, now lifted—I see drawing near.
Oh, miracle of God!—the boat is here!"
Now was she paling, as a marguerite
Half-blown and smitten by a tropic heat,
While crouching Vincen, horror in his heart,
Or ere his well-beloved quite depart
Hath her in charge unto our Lady given,
To the Saints of the chapel and of heaven.
Lit are the tapers, and, in violet stole
Begirt, the priest, to stay the passing soul.
Lays angel's bread to those dry lips of hers,
And the last unction so administers;
Then of her body the seven parts anoints
With holy oil, as holy church appoints.
The hour was calm. Upon the tiles no word
Save the oremus of the priest was heard.
The last red shaft of the declining day
Struck on the wall and passed, and heaven turned gray.
The sea's long waves came slowly up the shore,
Brake with a murmur soft, and were no more.
Beside the maid knelt father, mother, lover,
And hoarsely sobbed at intervals above her;
Till once again her lips moved, and she spake:
"Now is the parting close at hand! So take
My hand, and press it quickly, dears. Lo, now
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!"
"My little pet," said Ramoun, quite undone,
"You will not go, and leave the home so lone!
Why have I felled my oaks with such ado?
The zeal that nerved me only came of you.
If the hot sun on sultry glebe o'ertook me,
I thought of you, and heat and thirst forsook me."
"Dear father, if a moth shall sometime fly
About your lamp at night, that will be I.
But see! the Saints are standing on the prow!
They wait. I 'm coming in a moment now!
Slowly I move, good Saints, for I am ailing."
"It is too much!" the mother brake out, wailing.
"Oh, stay with me! I cannot let you die.
And, when you 're well, Mirèio, by and by
We 'll go some day to Aunt Aurano's, dear,
And carry pomegranates. Do you hear?
Maiano is not distant from our home;
And, in one day, one may both go and come."
"Not very distant, mother,—that I know;
But all alone thou wilt the journey go!
Now give me my white raiment, mother mine.
Oh, how the mantles of the Maries shine!
Sawest thou ever such a dazzling sight?
The snow upon the hillsides is less white!"
"O thou," cried the dark weaver, "who didst ope
The palace of thy love to me, my hope,
My queen, my all! A blossoming alms thou gavest;
The mire of my low life in thine thou lavest,
Till it shines like a mirror, and dost place
Me in eternal honor by thy grace.
"Pearl of Provence! of my young days the sun!
Shall it be ever said of such an one,
I saw upon her forehead the death-dew?
Shall it be said, puissant Saints, of you,
You looked unmoved upon her mortal pain,
Letting her clasp your sacred sill in vain?"
Slowly the maiden answered, "My poor friend,
What is it doth affright you, and offend?
Believe me, dear, the thing that we call death
Is a delusion. Lo! it vanisheth,
As a fog when the bells begin their pealing;
As dreams with daylight through the window stealing.
"I am not dying! See, I mount the boat
With a light foot! And now we are afloat!
Good-by! good-by! We are drifting out to sea.
The waves encompass us, and needs must be
The very avenue to Paradise,
For all around they touch the azure skies!
"Gently they rock us now. And overhead
So many stars are shining! Ah," she said,
"Among those worlds one surely may be found
Where two may love in peace! Hark, Saints, that sound!
Is it an organ played across the deep?"
Then sighed, and fell, as it had been, asleep.
And, by her smiling lips, you might have guessed
That yet she spake. Only the Santen pressed
About the sleeper in a mournful band,
And, with a taper passed from hand to hand,
Signed the cross o'er her. While, as turned to stone,
The parents gazed on what themselves had done.
To them her form is all enrayed with light.
Vainly they feel her cold, they see her white:
The awful stroke they comprehend not now.
But, soon as Vincen marked the level brow,
The rigid arms, the sweet eyes wholly veiled,
"See you not she is dead?" he loudly wailed.
"Quite dead?" And therewith fiercely wrung his hands,
As he of old had wrung the osier-strands,
And threw his naked arms abroad. "My own!"
He cried, "they will not weep for you alone:
With yours, the trunk of my life too they fell.
'Dead' was I saying? 'Tis impossible:
"A demon whispered me the word, no doubt!
Tell me, in God's same, ye who stand about,—
Ye who have seen dead women ere to-day,—
If, passing through the gates, they smile that way.
Her look is well-nigh merry, do you see?
Why do they turn their heads away from me,
"And weep? This means, I think, that all is o'er.
Her pretty prattle I shall hear no more:
Still is the voice I loved!" All hearts were thrilled;
Tears rushed like rain, and sobs would not be stilled.
One sound went up of weeping and lament,
Till the waves on the beach returned the plaint.
So when in some great herd a heifer dies,
About the carcass where it starkly lies
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.
"And a stone wall about the basin set,
So the sea flow not in, and part us yet!
Santen, I trust you! Then, while they are beating
Their brows, and with remorse her name repeating,
There at the farm where her home used to be,
Far from the unrest of the upper sea,
"Down in the peaceful blue we will abide,
My oh so pretty, alway side by side;
And you shall tell me of your Maries over,
Over, until with shells the great sterms cover."
Here the crazed weaver on the corse him threw,
And from the church arose the psalm anew.
······
"So, when penitents heart-broken
Sue for pardon at your door,
Flood their souls with peace unspoken,
White flowers of our briny moor!"