Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/221

] Now am I come, dear Saints, from far, To sue for peace: Nor mother-prayer my way could bar, Nor wilderness;

The sun, that cruel archer, shot Into my brain,— Thorns, as it were, and nails red-hot,— Sharp is the pain;

Yet give me but my Vincen dear: Then will we duly, We two, with glad hearts worship here,— Oh, I say truly!

Then the dire pain will rend no more These brows of mine, And the face bathed in tears before Will smile and shine.

My sire mislikes our love; is cold And cruel often: 'Twere naught to you, fair Saints of gold, His heart to soften.

Howe'er so hard the olive grow, 'Tis mollified By all the winds that alway blow At Advent-tide.