Whereon the men, somewhat as in a dream, From table rose, and to the running stream They led their patient mules, six yoke in all. The long vine-branches from a trellised wall Waved o’er them waiting, and, from time to time, Humming some fragment of the weaver’s rhyme. Mirèio tarried, but not quite alone. A social spirit had the little one, And she and Vincen chatted happily. Twas a fair sight, the two young heads to see Meeting and parting, coming still and going Like aster-flowers when merry winds are blowing. “Now tell me, Vincen,” thus Mirèio, “If oftentimes as you and Ambroi go Bearing your burdens the wild country over, Some haunted castle you do not discover, Or joyous fête, or shining palace meet, While the home-nest is evermore our seat.” “’Tis even so, my lady, as you think. Why, currants quench the thirst as well as drink! What though we brave all weathers in our toil? Sure, we have joys that rain-drops cannot spoil The sun of noon beats fiercely on the head, But there are wayside trees unnumberèd. “And whenso’er return the summer hours, And olive-trees are all bedecked with flowers, We hunt the whitening orchards curiously, Still following the scent, till we descry In the hot noontide, by its emerald flash, The tiny cantharis upon the ash. “The shops will buy the same. Or off we tramp And gather red-oak apples in the swamp, Or beat the pond for leeches. Ah, that’s grand! You need nor bait nor hook, but only stand And strike the water, and then one by one They come and seize your legs, and all is done. “And thou wert never at Li Santo even! Dear heart! The singing there must be like heaven. ’Tis there they bring the sick from all about For healing; and the church is small, no doubt: But, ah, what cries they lift! what vows they pay To the great saints! We saw it one fête-day. “It was the year of the great miracle. My God, that was a sight! I mind it well. A feeble boy, beautiful as Saint John, Lay on the pavement, sadly calling on The saints to give sight to his poor blind eyes, And promising his pet lamb in sacrifice. “‘My little lamb, with budding horns!’ he said, ‘Dear saints!’ How we all wept! Then from o’erhead The blessed reliquaries came down slowly, Above the throngèd people bending lowly, And crying, ‘Come, great saints, mighty and good! Come, save!’ The church was like a wind-swept wood. “Then the godmother held the child aloft, Who spread abroad his fingers pale and soft, And passionately grasped the reliquaries That held the bones of the three blessed Maries; Just as a drowning man, who cannot swim, Will clutch a plank the sea upheaves to him.