Te consecre Mirèio: es moun cor e moun amo, Es la flour de mis an. Es un raisin de crau qu’emé touto sa ramo, Te porge un païsan. I offer thee Mirèio: it is my heart and spirit, The blossom of my year...

Thirty odd years have come and gone since the curious litterateurs of Paris were excited and charmed by the apparition of Frédéric Mistral’s Mirèio. A pastoral poem in twelve cantos, composed in the d...

I sing the love of a Provençal maid; How through the wheat-fields of La Crau3 she strayed, Following the fate that drew her to the sea. Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she; And I, who tell the rusti...

Sing, magnarello,17 merrily, As the green leaves you gather! In their third sleep18 the silkworms lie, And lovely is the weather Like brown bees that in open glades From rosemary gather honey, The mul...

When the crop is fair in the olive-yard, And the earthen jars are ready For the golden oil from the barrels poured, And the big cart rocks unsteady With its tower of gathered sheaves, and strains And ...

When violets are blue in the blue shadows Of the o’erhanging trees, The youth who stray in pairs about the meadows Are glad to gather these. When peace descends upon the troubled Ocean, And he his wra...

Cool with the coming eve the wind was blowing, The shadows of the poplars longer growing; Yet still the westering sun was two hours high, As the tired ploughman noted wistfully⁠— Two hours of toil ere...

The merry birds, until the white dawn showeth Clear in the east, are silent every one. Silent the odorous Earth until she knoweth In her warm heart the coming of the Sun, As maiden in her fairest robe...

Fixing a troubled eye on the old man, Vincen to Master Ambroi thus began, The while a mighty wind,71 the poplars bending, Its howl unto the poor lad’s voice was lending: “I am mad, father, as I oft of...

The rage of the mighty lioness Who shall restrain? She came to her den, and she found it bare: A Moorish huntsman had entered there. The huntsman came, and the whelp is gone. Away through the canebrak...

All sorrowfully droop the lotus-trees; And heart-sick to their hives withdraw the bees, Forgetful of the heath with savoury sweet, And with milk-thistle. Water-lilies greet Kingfishers blue that to th...

Listen to me, good people of Provence, Countrymen one and all, from Arles to Vence, From Vanensolo even to Marseilles, And, if the heat oppress you, come, I pray, To Durancolo89 banks, and, lying low,...

“The cross was looming yet, Mirèio, Aloft on the Judaean mount of woe, Wet with the blood of God; and all the time Seemed crying to the city of the crime, ‘What hast thou done, thou lost and slumberin...

As, when in orange-lands God’s day is ending, The maids let fly the leafy boughs, and, lending A helpful hand, the laden baskets lift On head or hip, and fishing-boats adrift Are drawn ashore, and, fo...

Boston, U.S.A., Roberts Bros., 1872. ↩ Lotus Farm, or Falabrego Mas. The word mas, meaning a farm or homestead, is used in the arrondissement of Arles and in Languedoc. Every mas has a distinctive nam...