Beside them. “Little darling, it is I, Your father, has your hand!” Then suddenly His anguish choked him, and he could but hold And chafe and strive to warm those fingers cold. Meanwhile the wind the mournful tidings bore Abroad, and all Li Santo thronged the door, And anxiously. “Bear the sick child,” they say, “Into the upper chapel, nor delay; And let her touch the dear Saints’ relics thus Within their reliquaries marvellous; Or kiss, at least, with dying lips!” And there Two women raised, and bore her up the stair. In this fair church, altars and chapels three, Built one upon the other, you may see, Of solid stone. In that beneath the ground The dusky gypsies kneel, with awe profound, Before Saint Sarah. One is over it That hath God’s altar. And one higher yet, On pillars borne,--last of the sanctuaries,-- The small, funereal chapel of the Maries, With heavenward vault. And here long years have lain Rich legacy,--whence falleth grace like rain!-- The ever-blessed relics. Four great keys Enlock the cypress chests that shelter these. Once are they opened in each hundred years; And happy, happy shall he be who nears And sees and touches them! Upon the wave Bright star and weather fair his bark shall have, His trees be with abundant fruitage graced, His faithful soul eternal blessing taste! An oaken door, with carvings rich and rare, Gift of the pious people of Beaucaire, Closes the holy precinct. And yet surely That which defends is not the portal purely,-- Is not the circling rampart; but the grace Descending from the azure depths of space. So to the chapel bare they the sick child, While up the winding stair the folk defiled; And, as a white-robed priest threw wide the door, They, entering, fell on the dusty floor, As falls full-bearded barley when a squall Hath smitten it, and worshipped one and all. “O lovely Saints! O friendly Saints!” they said, “O Saints of God, pity this poor young maid!” “Pity her!” sobbed the mother. “I will bring, When she is well, so fair an offering! My flower-carved cross, my golden ring!” she cried, “And tell the tale through town and country-side!” “O Saints,” groaned Ramoun, stumbling in the gloom While shook his aged head, “be kind, and come! Look on this little one! She is my treasure! She is my plover! Pretty beyond measure, And good and meet for life! Send my old bones To dung the mallows, but save her!” he moans. And all the while Mirèio lay in swoon, Till a breeze, with declining afternoon, Blew from the tamarisks. Then, hoping still To call her back to life, they raised with skill, The flower of Lotus Farm, and tenderly Laid on the tiles that overlook the sea.