e Dardanelles,
With the ships I glide away,
Whose long masts pierce the sky;
Towards my loved one do I go,
Yonder far, towards the Dardanelles.

"With the great white clouds sailing on,
Driven by the wind, their master-shepherd,
The great clouds which before the stars
Pass onwards like white flocks,
With the clouds I go sailing on.

"With the swallows I take my flight,
The swallows returning to the sun;
Towards fair days do they go, quick, quick;
And I, quick, quick, towards my love,
With the swallows take my flight.

"Oh, I am very sick for home,
Sick for the home that my love haunts!
Far from that foreign country,
As the bird far from its nest,
I am very sick for home.

"From wave to wave, o'er the bitter waters,
Like a corse thrown to the seas,
In dreams am I borne onward
To the feet of her that's dear,
From wave to wave, o'er the bitter waters.

"On the shores I am there, dead!
My love in her arms supports me;
Speechless she gazes and weeps,
Lays her hand upon my heart,
And suddenly I live again!

"Then I clasp her, then I fold her
In my arms: 'I have suffered enough!
Stay, stay! I _will_ not die!'
And as a drowning one I seize her,
And fold her in my arms.

"Far away, beyond the seas,
In my hours of reverie,
Oftentimes I make a voyage,
I often make a bitter voyage,
Far away, beyond the seas."

As may easily be seen, Aubanel writes not, like Roumanille, for his
own people alone. His Muse is more ambitious, and seeks to interest by
appealing to the sentiments in a language polished with all the art
of its sister, the French. There are innumerable exquisite passages
scattered through the work, which make us ready to believe in the
figurative comparison of the prefacer, when he tells us that "the
coral-grains of the 'Opened Pomegranate' will become in Provence the
chaplet of lovers."

If Roumanille and Aubanel contented themselves with the publication of
poems of no very ambitious length, the author of "Mireio" aimed directly
at enriching his language at the outset with an epic. He has given us in
twelve cantos the song of Provence. He makes us see and feel the life of
Languedoc,--traverse the Crau, that Arabia Petrasa of France,--see
the Rhone, and the fair daughters of Arles, in their picturesque
costumes,--see the wild bulls of the Camargo, the Pampas of the
Mediterranean. We are among the growers of the silk-wor