Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/136

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Arrested by so piteous a moan
It rent the very heart. And every one
Cried, "Holy Jesus! Here has been foul play!"
Then crossed themselves, and gently took their way
Toward the sound. Ah, what a sight there was!
Vincen, supine upon the stony grass,—

The grass blood-stained, the trampled earth besprent
With willow rods. His shirt to ribbons rent,
Stabbed in the breast, left on the moor alone,
Had lain the poor lad through the night now gone,
With but the stars to watch. But the dim ray
Of early dawn, as ebbed his life away,

Falling upon his lids had oped them wide.
Straightway the good Samaritans turned aside
From their home-path, stooped, and a hammock made
Of their three cloaks, thereon the victim laid,
Then bare him tenderly upon their arms
Unto the nearest door,—the Lotus-Farm's…

O friends,—Provençal poets brave and dear,
Who love my songs of other days to hear!
You, Roumanille, who blend with songs you sing
Tears, girlish laughter, and the breath of spring;
And you, proud Aubanel, who stray where quiver
The changing lights and shades of wood and river,