A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/La Chanteuse (Eugène Manuel)
LA CHANTEUSE.
Along the green sward of the Bois, the child
Begged. She had veritable tears in her eyes,
Humble her air, a face modest and mild,
And hands clasped tight, to wake men's sympathies.
A sun-browned brow by dark, dark hair o'erhung,
Tangled and long, feet gray with dust, for dress
Around her figure an old garment hung,
That barely served to hide her nakedness.
She followed every traveller to declare
The same unvaried, melancholy tale;
Our consciences would have too much to bear,
Were we to credit all such stories stale.
She begged a farthing and a bit of bread,
She had, I know not in what wretched street,
One parent out of work, one sick in bed,
Brothers in cradles—they had nought to eat.
Heard or repelled, she passed, where trees embower,
On moss-spread turf to rest awhile, poor thing!
Played with an insect, stripped of leaves a flower,
Or broke the new shoots summoned forth by spring.
And sang! The sun seemed to smile in her song!
Some scrap it was of popular melody;
Thus sings the linnet clear and loud and long,
Until its notes mount straight up to the sky.
O breath of lovely days! Mysterious strength
Of sunbeam warm, or blossom newly blown!
O joy to hear, to see, to feel at length
The charm divine by God on all things thrown!
In spring can any child a long time sob?
The blade of grass attracts it, or the leaf;
The human pulse keeps time to nature's throb;
How little need the poor to cheat their grief.
I heard her, and I saw; no, not one tear!
As a load-carrier sometimes flings his load,
Her heart she lightened when she saw none near,
And fairy colours on her brown face glowed.
Then wakening up, as to neglected task,
To every passer she went begging round,
Her visage donned its sad and sombre mask,
And took her voice its low pathetic sound.
But when she came to me and stretched her hand,
With moistened eye, sad look, and tangled tress,
'Be off!' I cried, 'thy tricks I understand,
I followed thee; thy part needs more address.
'Thy parents taught thee, and these tears are lies,
I heard thee sing, this woe is stratagem!'
The girl said simply, lifting up her eyes,
'I sing for myself, my tears are for them.'