LITMIR.BIZ

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it seemed to me, only a rhythmic form to render it worthy of the essentially musical original.

      A second English translation, by H. Crichton, with which I became acquainted subsequently, had been published by Macmillan and Co., London, in 1868. This version was a metrical one, and fairly close, but it failed, I think, in catching, not the music merely, but the rural freshness and fragrance, the genuinely bucolic spirit of the Provençal. It is because, I venture to hope, that my version, with all its faults, does reflect something of all this, that a new edition of it is offered to the public after so long a time.

      HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.

      Brussels,

       April, 1890.

CANTO I.

       Lotus Farm.

       Table of Contents

      I SING the love of a Provençal maid;

       How through the wheat-fields of La Crau she strayed,

       Following the fate that drew her to the sea.

       Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she;

       And I, who tell the rustic tale of her,

       Would fain be Homer’s humble follower.

      What though youth’s aureóle was her only crown?

       And never gold she wore nor damask gown?

       I’ll build her up a throne out of my song,

       And hail her queen in our despisèd tongue.

       Mine be the simple speech that ye all know,

       Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.

      God of my country, who didst have Thy birth

       Among poor shepherds when Thou wast on earth,

       Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, my God,

       How, when the lusty summer is abroad,

       And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he—

       Brute, greedy man—and quite despoils the tree.

      Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft

       Some little branch inviolate aloft,

       Tender and airy up against the blue,

       Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto:

       Only the birds shall come and banquet there,

       When, at St. Magdalene’s, the fruit is fair.

      Methinks I see yon airy little bough:

       It mocks me with its freshness even now;

       The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high

       Fruitage and foliage that cannot die.

       Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech,

       To soar until the birds’ own home I reach!

      Once, then, beside the poplar-bordered Rhone,

       There lived a basket-weaver and his son,

       In a poor hut set round with willow-trees

       (For all their humble wares were made from these);

       And sometimes they from farm to farm would wend,

       And horses’ cribs and broken baskets mend.

      And so one evening, as they trudged their round

       With osier bundles on their shoulders bound,

       “Father,” young Vincen said, “the clouds look wild

       About old Magalouno’s tower up-piled.

       If that gray rampart fell, ’twould do us harm:

       We should be drenched ere we had gained the farm.”

      “Nay, nay!” the old man said, “no rain to-night!

       ’Tis the sea-breeze that shakes the trees. All right!

       A western gale were different.” Vincen mused:

       “Are many ploughs at Lotus farmstead used?”

       “Six ploughs!” the basket-weaver answered slow:

       “It is the finest freehold in La Crau.

      “Look! There’s their olive-orchard, intermixt

       With rows of vines and almond-trees betwixt.

       The beauty of it is, that vineyard hath

       For every day in all the year a path!

       There’s ne’er another such the beauty is;

       And in each path are just so many trees.”

      “O heavens! How many hands at harvest-tide

       So many trees must need!” young Vincen cried.

       “Nay: for ’tis almost Hallowmas, you know,

       When all the girls come flocking in from Baux,

       And, singing, heap with olives green and dun

       The sheets and sacks, and call it only fun.”

      The sun was sinking, as old Ambroi said;

       On high were little clouds a-flush with red;

       Sideways upon their yokèd cattle rode

       The labourers slowly home, each with his goad

       Erect. Night darkened on the distant moor;

       ’Twas supper-time, the day of toil was o’er.

      “And here we are!” the boy cried. “I can see

       The straw-heaped threshing-floor, so hasten we!”

       “But stay!” the other. “Now, as I’m alive,

       The Lotus Farm’s the place for sheep to thrive—

       The pine-woods all the summer, and the sweep

       Of the great plain in winter. Lucky sheep!

      “And look at the great trees that shade the dwelling,

       And look at that delicious stream forth welling

       Inside the vivary! And mark the bees!

       Autumn makes havoc in their colonies;

       But every year, when comes the bright May weather,

       Yon lotus-grove a hundred swarms will gather.”

      “And one thing more” cried Vincen, eagerly,

       “The very best of all, it seems to me—

       I mean the maiden, father, who dwells here.

       Thou canst not have forgotten how, last year,

       She bade us bring her olive-baskets two,

       And fit her little one with handles new.”

      So saying, they drew the farm-house door a-nigh,

       And, in the dewy twilight, saw thereby

       The maid herself. Distaff in hand she stood,

       Watching her silk-worms at their leafy food.

       Then master Ambroi let his osiers fall,

       And sang out cheerily, “Good-even, all!”

      “Father, the same to you!” the damsel said.

       “I had come out my distaff-point to thread,

       It grows so dark. Whence come you now, I pray?

       From Valabrègo?” Ambroi answered, “Yea.

       I said, when the fast-coming dark I saw,

       ‘We’ll sleep at Lotus Farm upon the straw.’”

      Whereat,

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