Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/131

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"The lamprey and the perch they made their game,
And now are they become food for the same.
But what is this? Another piteous band,
Travelling in a line along the sand?
Ah, yes! the poor deserted maids," quoth he,
"Who asked the Rhone for hospitality,

"And sought to hide their grief in the great river.
Alas! alas! They seem to moan for ever.
And, oh, how painfully, fond hearts, ill fated,
Labor the bosoms by the dank weeds weighted!
Is it the water dripping that one hears
From their long veils of hair, or is it tears?"

He ceased. The wending souls bare each a light,
Intently following in the silent night
The river-shore. And those two listening
Might even have heard the whirr of a moth's wing.
"Are they not, pilot," asked the awe-struck brander,
"Seeking somewhat in the gloom where they wander?"

"Ah, yes, poor things!" the master-boatman said.
"See how from side to side is turned each head.
'Tis their good works they seek,—their acts of faith
Sown upon earth ere their untimely death.
And when they spy the same, 'tis said moreover,
They haste thereto, as haste the sheep to clover,