And could but weep: “Ah, they are scratching me! They sting! Come quickly, Vincent, up the tree!” For on the last arrival had ensued Wondrous commotion in the hidden brood; The fledglings latest taken from the nest Had sore disorder wrought among the rest. Because within so very small a valley All could not lie at ease, so must they gayly Scramble with claw and wing down either slope, And up the gentle hills, thus to find scope: A thousand tiny somersets they turn, A thousand pretty rolls they seem to learn. And “Ah, come quick!” is still the maiden’s cry, Trembling like vine-spray when the wind is high, Or like a heifer stung with cattle-flies. And, as she bends and writhes in piteous wise, Leaps Vincen upward till he plants his feet Once more beside her on her airy seat. Sing, magnarello, heap your leaves, While sunny is the weather! He comes to aid her when she grieves: The two are now together. “‘Thou likest not this tickling?” kindly said he. “What if thou wert like me, my gentle lady, And hadst to wander barefoot through the nettles?” So proffering his red sea-cap, there he settles Fast as she draws them from her neckerchief The birdies, to Mirèio’s vast relief. Yet ah, poor dear, the downcast eyes of her! She dares not look at her deliverer For a brief space. But soon a smile ensues, And the tears vanish, as the morning dews That drench the flowers and grass at break of day Roll into little pearls and pass away. And then there came a fresh catastrophe: The branch whereon they sat ensconced in glee Snapped, broke asunder, and with ringing shriek Mirèio flung her arms round Vincen’s neck, And he clasped hers, and they whirled suddenly Down through the leaves upon the supple rye. Listen, wind of the Greek, wind of the sea, And shake no more the verdant canopy! Hush for one moment, O thou childish breeze! Breathe soft and whisper low, beholding these! Give them a little time to dream of bliss,-- To dream at least, in such a world as this! Thou too, swift streamlet of the prattling voice, Peace, prithee! In this hour, make little noise Among the vocal pebbles of thy bed! Ay, little noise! Because two souls have sped To one bright region. Leave them there, to roam Over the starry heights,--their proper home! A moment, and she struggled to be free From his embrace. The flower of the quince-tree Is not so pale. Then backward the two sank, And gazed at one another on the bank, Until the weaver’s son the silence brake, And thus in seeming wrath arose and spake: