Their riders throwing, suddenly they part,
And twenty leagues of land unresting scour,
Snuffing the wind, till Vacarès41 once more
They find, the salt air breathe, and joy to be
In freedom after ten years’ slavery.
For these wild steeds are with the sea at home:
Have they not still the colour of the foam?
Perchance they brake from old King Neptune’s car;
For when the sea turns dark and moans afar,
And the ships part their cables in the bay,
The stallions of Camargue rejoicing neigh,
Their sweeping tails like whipcord snapping loudly;
Or pawing the earth, all, fiercely and proudly,
As though their flanks were stung as with a rod
By the sharp trident of the angry god,
Who makes the rain a deluge, and the ocean
Stirs to its depths in uttermost commotion.
And these were all Veran’s. Therefore one day
The island-chieftain paused upon his way
Across La Crau beside Mirèio’s door;
For she was famed, and shall be evermore,
For beauty, all about the delta wide
Where the great Rhône meeteth the ocean tide.
Confident came Veran to tell his passion,
With paletot, in the Arlesian fashion,
Long, light, and backward from his shoulders flowing;
His gay-hued girdle like a lizard glowing,
The while his head an oil-skin cap protected,
Wherefrom the dazzling sun-rays were reflected.
And first the youth to Master Ramoun drew.
“Good-morrow to you, and good fortune too!”
He said. “I come from the Camargan Rhône,
As keeper Pèire’s grandson I am known.
Thou mindest him! For twenty years or more
My grandsire’s horses trod thy threshing-floor.
“Three dozen had the old man venerable,
As thou, beyond a doubt, rememberest well.
But would I, Master Ramoun, it were given
To thee to see the increase of that leaven!
Let ply the sickles! We the rest will do,
For now have we an hundred lacking two!”
“And long, my son,” the old man said, “pray I
That you may see them feed and multiply.
I knew your grandsire well for no brief time;
But now on him and me the hoary rime
Of age descends, and by the home lamp’s ray
We sit content, and no more visits pay.”
“But, Master Ramoun,” cried the youthful lover,
“All that I want thou dost not yet discover!
For down at Sambu, in my island home,
When the Crau folk for loads of litter come,
And we help cord them down, it happens so
We talk sometimes about the girls of Crau.
“And thy Mirèio they have all portrayed
So charmingly, that, if thou wilt,” he said,
“And if thou like me, I would gladly be
Thy son-in-law!” “God grant me this to see!”
Said Ramoun. “The brave scion of my friend
To me and mine can only honour lend.”
Then did he fold his hands and them upraise
In saint-like gratitude. “And yet,” he says,
“The child must like you too, O Veranet!42
The only one will alway be a pet!
Meanwhile, in earnest of the dower I’ll give her,
The blessing of the saints be yours for ever!”
Forthwith summoned Ramoun his little daughter,
And told her of the friend who thus had sought her.
Pale, trembling, and afraid, “O father dear!”
She said, “is not thy wisdom halting here?
For I am but a child: thou dost forget.
Surely thou wouldst not send me from thee yet!
“Slowly, so thou hast often said to me,
Folk learn to love and live in harmony.
For one must know, and also must be known;
And even then, my father, all’s not done!”
Here the dark shadow on her brow was lit
By some bright thought that e’en transfigured it.
So the drenched flowers, when morning rains are o’er,
Lift up their heavy heads, and smile once more.
Mirèio’s mother held her daughter’s view.
Then blandly rose the keeper, “Adieu,
Master,” he said: “who in Camargue hath dwelt
Knows the mosquito-sting as soon as felt.”
Also that summer came to Lotus Place
One from Petite Camargue,43 named Ourrias.
Breaker and brander of wild cattle, he;
And black and furious all the cattle be
Over those briny pastures wild who run,
Maddened by flood and fog and scalding sun.
Alone this Ourrias had them all in charge
Summer and winter, where they roamed at large.
And so, among the cattle born and grown,
Their build, their cruel heart, became his own;
His the wild eye, dark colour, dogged look.
How often, throwing off his coat, he took
His cudgel—savage weaner!—never blenching,
And first the young calves from the udders wrenching,
Upon the wrathful mother fell so madly
That cudgel after cudgel brake he gladly,
Till she, by his brute fury masterèd,
Wild-eyed and lowing to the pine-copse fled!
Oft in the branding at Camargue had he
Oxen and heifers, two-year-olds and three,
Seized by the horns and stretched upon the ground.
His forehead bare the scar of an old wound
Fiery and forked like lightning. It was said
That once the green plain with his blood was red.
On a great branding-day befell this thing:
To aid the mighty herd in mustering,
Li Santo, Agui Morto, Albaron,
And Faraman44 a hundred horsemen strong
Had sent into the desert. And the herd
Roused from its briny lairs, and, forward spurred
By tridents of the branders close behind,
Fell on the land like a destroying wind.
Heifers and bulls in headlong gallop borne
Plunged, crushing centaury and salicorne;45
And at the branding-booth at last they mustered,
Just where a crowd three hundred strong had clustered.
A moment, as if scared, the beasts were still.
Then, when the cruel spur once more they feel,
They start afresh, into a run they break,
And thrice the circuit of the arena make;
As marterns fly a dog, or hawks afar
By eagles in the Luberon hunted are.
Then Ourrias—what ne’er was done before—
Leaped from his horse beside the circus-door
Amid the crowd. The cattle start again,
All saving five young bulls, and scour the plain;
But these, with flaming eyes and horns defying
Heaven itself, are through the arena flying.
And he pursues them. As a mighty wind
Drives on the clouds, he goads them from behind,
And presently outstrips them in the race;
Then thumps them with the cruel goad he sways,
Dances before them as infuriate,
And lets them feel his own fists’ heavy weight.
The people clap and shout, while Ourrias
White with Olympic dust encountered has
One bull, and seized him by the horns at length;
And now ’tis head to muzzle, strength for strength.
The monster strains his prisoned horns to free
Until he bleeds, and bellows horribly.
But vain his fury, useless all his trouble!
The neatherd had the
