“‘Drummer, raise thy head!’ calls out a passer-by!  ’The one up there, hast thou seen him?’ Toward the temple that stood superb the old man raised his bewildered eyes.  Just then the joyous sun shook his golden locks above enchanted Paris....

“When the soldier saw the dome of the Pantheon rising toward heaven, and with his drum hanging at his side, beating the charge, as if it were real, he recognized himself, the boy of Arcole, away up there, right at the side of the great Napoleon, intoxicated with his former fury, seeing himself, so high, in full relief, above the years, the clouds, the storms, in glory, azure, sunshine, he felt a gentle swelling in his heart, and fell dead upon the pavement.”

Lou Prego-Dieu is a sweet poem embodying a popular belief.  Prego-dieu is the name of a little insect, so called from the peculiar arrangement of its legs and antennse that makes it appear to be in an attitude of prayer.  Mistral’s poetic ideas have been largely suggested to him by popular beliefs and the stories he heard at his fireside when a boy.  This poem is one of the best of the kind he has produced, and, being eminently, characteristic, will find juster treatment in a literal translation than in a commentary.  The first half was written during the time he was at work upon Mireio in 1856, the second in 1874.  We quote the first stanza in the original, for the sake of showing its rhythm.

“Ero un tantost d’aquel estieu
Que ni vihave ni dourmieu: 
Fasieu miejour, tau que me plaise,
Lou cahessou
Toucant lou son
A l’aise.”

I

It was one afternoon this summer, while I was neither awake nor asleep.  I was taking a noon siesta, as is my pleasure, my head at ease upon the ground.

And greenish among the stubble, upon a spear of blond barley, with a double row of seeds, I saw a prego-dieu.

“Beautiful insect,” said I, “I have heard that, as a reward for thy ceaseless praying, God hath given thee the gift of divination.

“Tell me now, good friend, if she I love hath slept well; tell what she is thinking at this hour, and what she is doing; tell me if she is laughing or weeping.”

The insect, that was kneeling, stirred upon the tube of the tiny, leaning ear, and unfolded and waved his little wings.

And his speech, softer than the softest breath of a zephyr wafted in a wood, sweet and mysterious, reached my ear.

“I see a maiden,” said he, “in the cool shade beneath a cherry tree; the waving branches touch her; the boughs hang thick with cherries.

“The cherries are fully ripe, fragrant, solid, red, and, amid the smooth leaves, make one hungry, and, hanging, tempt one.

“But the cherry tree offers in vain the sweetness and the pleasing color of its bright, firm fruit, red as coral.

“She sighs, trying to see if she can jump high enough to pluck them.  Would that my lover might come!  He would climb up, and throw them down into my apron.”