Thrice with a ribbon blue encircling them,-- The fair young brow’s Arlesian diadem. Lastly, she adds an apron to the rest, And folds a muslin kerchief o’er her breast. In her dire haste, alone, the child forgat The shallow-crowned, broad-brimmed Provençal hat, That might have screened her from the mortal heat. But, so arrayed, crept forth on soundless feet Adown the wooden staircase, in her hand Her shoes, undid the heavy door-bar, and Her soul unto the watchful saints commended, As away like a wind of night she wended. It was the hour when constellations keep Their friendly watch o’er followers of the deep. The eye of St. John’s eagle flashed afar, As it alighted on a burning star, One of the three where the evangelist Hath his alternate dwelling. Cloud nor mist Defaced the dark serene of star-lit sky; But the great chariot of souls went by On wingèd wheels along the heavenly road, Bearing away from earth its blessed load. Far up the shining steeps of Paradise, The circling hills behold it as it flies. Mirèio hasted no less anxiously Than Magalouno in the days gone by, Who searched the wood with sad, inquiring glance For her lost lover, Pèire of Provence, When cruel waves divorced him from her side, And left her lone and wretched. Soon espied The maid, upon the boundary of the lea, Folds where her sire’s own shepherds could she see Already milking. Some the sheep compelled, Against the pen-side by the muzzle held, To suckle quietly their tawny lambs. Always arose the bleat of certain dams; While other childless ones the shepherds guide Toward the milker. On a stone astride, Mute as the very night, sits he, and dim; While, pressed from swollen udders, a long stream Of warm fine milk into the pail goes leaping, The white froth high about its border creeping. The sheep-dogs all in tranquil slumber lay. The fine, large dogs--as white as lilies they-- Stretched round the enclosure, muzzles deep in thyme. And peace was everywhere, and summer clime; And o’er the balmy country, far and near, Brooded a heaven full of stars, and clear. So in the stillness doth Mirèio dash Along the hurdles, like a lightning flash, Lifting a wailing cry that never varies,-- “Will none go with me to the holy Maries, Of all the shepherds?” They and the sheep hear it, And see the maiden flitting like a spirit, And huddle up, and bow their heads, as though Smit by a sudden gale. The farm-dogs know Her voice, but never stir her flight to stay. And now is she already far away, Threads the dwarf-oaks, and like a partridge rushes Over the holly and the camphyre bushes,