“And if one sell her robe of honour white, Whether it be for gold or jewel bright, And if one offer insult, or betray A fond heart, unto such as these alway The high court of the seven maids shall prove The stern avenger of offended love. “And if two lovers the same maid desire, Or if two maids to the same lad aspire, My council’s duty it shall be to choose Which loves the better, which the better sues, And which is worthier of a happy fate. Moreover, on my maidens there shall wait “Seven sweet poets, who from time to time Shall write the laws of love in lovely rhyme Upon wild vine-leaves or the bark of trees; And sometimes, in a stately chorus, these Will sing the same, and then their couplets all Like honey from the honey-comb will fall.” So, long ago, the whispering pines among, Faneto de Gautèume may have sung, When she the glory of her star-crowned head On Roumanin and on the Alpines shed; Or Countess Dio, of the passionate lays, Who held her courts of love in the old days. But now Mirèio, to the room returning, With face as radiant as an Easter morning, A flagon bore; and, for their spirits’ sake, Besought them all her beverage to partake: “For this will make us work with heartier will; So come, good women, and your goblets fill!” Then, pouring from the wicker-covered flask A generous drink for whosoe’er might ask, (A string of gold the falling liquor made), “I mixed this cordial mine own self,” she said: “One leaves it in a window forty days, That it may mellow in the sun’s hot rays. “Herein are mountain herbs, in number three. The liquor keeps their odour perfectly: It strengthens one.” Here brake in other voices: “Listen, Mirèio! Tell us what your choice is; For these have told what they would do, if they Were queens, or came to great estate one day. “In such a case, Mirèio, what would you?” “Who, I? How can I tell what I would do? I am so happy in our own La Crau With my dear parents, wherefore should I go?” “Ah, ha!” outspake another maiden bold: “Little care you for silver or for gold. “But on a certain morn, I mind it well,-- Forgive me, dear, that I the tale should tell!-- ’Twas Tuesday: I had gathered sticks that day, And, fagot on my hip, had won my way Almost to La Crous-Blanco, when I ’spied You in a tree, with some one by your side “Who chatted gayly. A lithe form he had”-- “Whence did he come?” they cried. “Who was the lad?” Said Noro, “To tell that were not so easy, Because among the thick-leaved mulberry-trees he Was hidden half; yet think I ’twas the clever Vincen, the Valabregan basket-weaver!”