The next came with a palm in her hand holden, And the wind lifting her long hair and golden. The third was young, and wound a mantle white About her sweet brown visage; and the light Of her dark eyes, under their falling lashes, Was greater than a diamond’s when it flashes. So, nearer to the mourner drew these three, And leaned above, and spake consolingly. And bright and tender were the smiles that wreathed Their lips, and soft the message that they breathed. They made the thorns of cruel martyrdom, That pierced Mirèio, into flowers bloom. ✠ “Be of good cheer, thou poor Mirèio; For we are they men call the Saints of Baux,-- The Maries of Judæa: and we three-- Be of good cheer!--we watch the stormy sea, Whereby we succour many a craft distresst; For the wild waves are still at our behest. “Look up along St. James’s path in air! A moment since we stood together there, At the celestial end thereof, remote, And, gazing through the clustered stars, took note How faithful souls to Campoustello throng To seek the dear Saint’s tomb, and worship long. “And, with the tune of falling fountains blending, We heard the solemn litanies ascending From pilgrims gathered in the fields at even, And pealing of church-bells, and glory given Unto our son and nephew, by his names Of Spain’s apostle and the greater James. “Then were we glad of all the pious vows Paid to his memory; and, on the brows Of those poor pilgrims, dews of peace shed we, And their souls flooded with serenity; When, suddenly, thy warm petition came, And seemed to smite us like a jet of flame. “Dear child, thy faith is great; yet thy request Our pitying hearts right sorely hath opprest. For thou wouldst drink the waters of pure love, Or ever to its source thee Death remove, The bliss we have in God himself to share. Hast thou, then, seen contentment anywhere “On earth? Is the rich blest, who softly lies, And in his haughty heart his God denies, And cares not for his fellow-man at all? Thou knowest the leech when it is gorged will fall, And he before the judgment-seat must pass Of One who meekly rode upon an ass. “Is the young mother happy to impart Unto her baby, with a swelling heart, The first warm jet of milk? One bitter drop, Mingled therewith, may poison all her hope. Now see her lean, distraught, the cradle over, And a fair little corse with kisses cover. “And hath she happiness, the promised bride, Wandering churchward by her lover’s side? Ah, no! The path under those lingering feet Thornier shall prove, to those who travel it, Than sloe-bush of the moorland. Here below Are only trial sharp and weary woe.