Is left Mirèio: yet her way she keeps, Toiling over the burning, yielding heaps Of sand; over the salt-encrusted waste-- Seamed, swollen, dazzling to the eye--doth haste. On through the tall marsh-grasses and the reeds And rushes, haunted by the gnat, she speeds, With Vincen ever in her thought. And soon, Skirting the lonesome Vacarès lagune, She sees it loom at last in distance dim,-- She sees it grow on the horizon’s rim,-- The Saints’ white tower, across the billowy plain, Like vessel homeward bound upon the main. And, even at that blessèd moment, one Of the hot shafts of the unpitying sun The ill-starred maiden’s forehead pierced, and she Staggered, death-smitten, by the glassy sea, And dropped upon the sand. Weep, sons of Crau, The sweetest flower in all the land lies low. When, in a valley by the river-side, Young turtle-doves a huntsman bath espied, Some innocently drinking, others cooing, He, through the copse-wood with his gun pursuing, At the most fair takes alway his first aim,-- The cruel sun had only done the same. Now, as she lay in swoon upon the shore, A swarm of busy gnats came hovering o’er, Who seeing the white breast and fluttering breath, And the poor maiden fainting to her death, With ne’er a friendly spray of juniper From all the pulsing fire to shelter her, Each one the viol of his tiny wings Imploring played with plaintive murmurings,-- “Get thee up quickly, quickly, damsel fair! For aye malignant is this burning air,” And stung the drooping head; and sea-spray flew, Sprinkling the fevered face with bitter dew: Until at last Mirèio rose again, And, with a feeble moan of mortal pain, “My head! my head!” she dragged her way forlorn And slow from salicorne to salicorne,-- Poor little one!--until her heavy feet Arrived before the seaside Saints’ retreat. There, her sad eyes with tears all brimming o’er, Upon the cold flags of the chapel-floor, Wet with the infiltration of the sea, She sank, and clasped her brow in agony; And on the pinions of the waiting air Was borne aloft Mirèio’s faltering prayer:-- “O holy Maries, who can cheer The sorrow-laden, Lend, I beseech, a pitying ear To one poor maiden! “And when you see my cruel care And misery, Then look in mercy down the air, And side with me! “I am so young, dear Saints above, And there’s a youth-- My handsome Vincen--whom I love With utter truth! “I love him as the wayward stream Its wanderings; As loves the new-fledged bird, I deem, To try its wings. “And now they tell me I must quench This fire eternal; Must from the blossoming almond wrench Its flowers vernal.