he
intensity, the passion, the deep undertone of any of the three great
Romanticists. _La Fin dou Meissounie_ is a beautiful, pathetic, and
touching tale, that easily brings a tear, and _Lou Saume de la
Penitenci_ is without doubt one of the noblest poems inspired in the
heart of any Frenchman by the disaster of 1870. But these poems, though
among the best according to the feeling for poetry of a reader from
northern lands, are not characteristic of the volume in general. The
dominant strain is energy, a clarion-call of life and light, an appeal
to his fellow-countrymen to be strong and independent; the sun of
Provence, the language of Provence, the ideals of Provence, the memories
of Provence, these are his themes. His poetry is not personal, but
social. Of his own joys and sorrows scarce a word, unless we say what is
doubtless the truth, that his joys and sorrows, his regrets and hopes,
are identical with those of his native land, and that he has blended his
being completely with the life about him. The volume contains a great
number of pieces written for special occasions, for the gatherings of
the Felibres, for their weddings. Many of them are addressed to persons
in France and out, who have been in various ways connected with the
Felibrige. Of these the greeting to Lamartine is especially felicitous
in expression, and the following stanza from it forms the dedication of
_Mireio_:--

"Te counsacre Mireio: eo moun cor e moun amo,
Es la flour de mis an;
Es un rasin de Crau qu' eme touto sa ramo
Te porge un paisan."

The entire poem, literally translated, is as follows:--

If I have the good fortune to see my bark early upon the waves,
Without fear of winter,
Blessings upon thee, O divine Lamartine,
Who hast taken the helm!

If my prow bears a bouquet of blooming laurel,
It is thou hast made it for me;
If my sail swelleth, it is the breath of thy glory
That bloweth it.

Therefore, like a pilot who of a fair church
Climbeth the hill
And upon the altar of the saint that hath saved him at sea
Hangeth a miniature ship.

I consecrate Mireio to thee; 'tis my heart and my soul,
'Tis the flower of my years;
'Tis a cluster of grapes from the Crau that with all its leaves
A peasant offers thee.

Generous as a king, when thou broughtest me fame