The early lambkins all the rest outstripping
And merrily about the lamb-herd leaping,
The bell-decked asses with their foals beside,
Or following after them. These had for guide
A drover, who a patient mule bestrode.
Its wattled panniers bare a motley load:
Food for the shepherd-folk, and flasks of wine,
And the still bleeding hides of slaughtered kine;
And folded garments whereon oft there lay
Some weakly lamb, a-weary of the way.
Next came abreast—the captains of the host—
Five fiery bucks, their fearsome heads uptost:
With bells loud jingling and with sidelong glances,
And backward curving horns, each one advances.
The sober mothers follow close behind,
Striving their lawless little kids to mind.
A rude troop and a ravenous they are,
And these the goat-herd hath in anxious care.
And after them there follow presently
The great ram-chiefs, with muzzles lifted high:
You know them by the heavy horn that lies
Thrice curved about the ear in curious wise.
Their ribs and backs with tufts of wool are decked,
That they may have their meed of due respect
As the flock’s grandsires. Plain to all beholders,
With sheepskin cloak folded about his shoulders,
Strides the chief-shepherd next, with lordly swing;
The main corps of his army following.
Tumbling through clouds of dust, the great ewe-dams
Call with loud bleatings to their bleating lambs.
The little hornèd ones are gayly drest,
With tiny tufts of scarlet on the breast
And o’er the neck. While, filling the next place,
The woolly sheep advance at solemn pace.
Amid the tumult now and then the cries
Of shepherd-boy to shepherd-dog arise.
For now the pitch-marked herd innumerable
Press forward: yearlings, two-year-olds as well,
Those who have lost their lambs, and those who bear
Twin lambs unborn—and wearily they fare.
A ragamuffin troop brings up the rear.
The barren and past-breeding ewes are here,
The lame, the toothless, and the remnant sorry
Of many a mighty ram, lean now and hoary,
Who from his earthly labours long hath rested,
Of honour and of horns alike divested.
All these who fill the road and mountain-passes—
Old, young, good, bad, and neither; sheep, goats, asses—
Are Alari’s, every one. He stands the while
And watches them, a hundred in a file,
Pass on before him; and the man’s eyes laugh.
His wand of office is a maple staff.
And when to pasture with his dogs hies he,
And leathern gaiters buttoned to the knee,
His forehead to an ample wisdom grown
And air serene might be King David’s own,
When in his youth he led, as the tale tells,
The flocks at eve beside his father’s wells.
This was the chief toward Lotus Farm who drew,
And presently Mirèio’s self who knew
Flitting about the doorway. His heart bounded.
“Good Heaven!” he cried, “her praises they have sounded
Nowise too loudly! Ne’er saw I such grace
Or high or low, in life or pictured face!”
Only that face to see, his flock forsaking,
Alari had come. Yet now his heart was quaking
When, standing in the presence of the maid,
“Would you so gracious be, fair one,” he said,
“As to point out the way these hills to cross?
For else find I myself at utter loss.”
“Oh, yes!” replied the girl, ingenuously,
“Thou takest the straight road, and comest thereby
Into Pèiro-malo desert. Then
Follow the winding path till thou attain
A portico38 with an old tomb anear:
Two statues of great generals it doth bear.
Antiquities they call them hereabout.”
“Thanks, many!” said the youth. “I had come out
A thousand of my woolly tribe, or so,
To lead into the mountains from La Crau.
We leave to-morrow. I their way direct,
And sleeping-spots and feeding-ground select.
“They bear my mark, and are of fine breed, all;
And for my shepherdess, when one I call
My own, the nightingales will ever sing.
And dared I hope you’d take my offering,
Mirèio dear, no gems I’d tender you,
But a carved box-wood cup—mine own work too!”
Therewith he brought to light a goblet fair,
Wrapped like some sacred relic with all care,
And carven of box-wood green. It was his pleasure
Such things to fashion in his hours of leisure;
And, sitting rapt upon some wayside stone,
He wrought divinely with a knife alone.
He carved him castanets with fingers light,
So that his flock would follow him at night
Through the dark fields, obedient to their tones.
And on the ringing collars, and the bones
That served for bell-tongues, he would cut with skill
Faces and figures, flowers and birds, at will.
As for the goblet he was tendering,
You would have said that no such fairy thing
Was ever wrought by shepherd’s knife or wit:
A full-flowered poppy wreathed the rim of it;
And in among the languid flowers there
Two chamois browsed, and these the handles were.
A little lower down were maidens three,
And certes they were marvellous to see:
Near by, beneath a tree, a shepherd-lad
Slept, while on tiptoe stole the maidens glad,
And sought to seal his lips, ere he should waken,
With a grape-cluster from their basket taken.
Yet even now he smiles at their illusion,
So that the foremost maid is all confusion.
The odour of the goblet proved it new:
The giver had not drunk therefrom; and you
Had said, but for their woody colouring,
The carven shapes were each a living thing.
Mirèio scanned the fair cup curiously.
“A tempting offering thine, shepherd!” said she:
But suddenly, “A finer one than this
Hath my heart’s lord! Shepherd, his love it is!
Mine eyes close, his impassioned glances feeling:
I falter with the rapture o’er me stealing!”
So saying, she vanished like a tricksy sprite;
And Alari turned, and in the gray twilight
Ruefully, carefully, he folded up
And bore away again his carven cup,
Deeming it sad and strange this winsome elf
Her love should yield to any but himself.
Soon to the farm came suitor number two,
A keeper of wild horses from Sambu39—
Veran, by name. About his island bower
In the great prairies, where the asters flower,
He used to keep a hundred milk-white steeds,
Who nipped the heads of all the lofty reeds.
A hundred steeds! Their long manes flowing free
As the foam-crested billows of the sea!
Wavy and thick and all unshorn were they;
And when the horses on their headlong way
Plunged all together, their dishevelled hair
Seemed the white robes of creatures of the air.
I say it to the shame of human kind:
Camargan40 steeds were never known to mind
The cruel spur more than the coaxing hand.
Only a few or so, I understand,
By treachery seduced, have halter worn,
And from their own salt prairies been borne;
Yet the day
