I say it to the shame of human kind:
Camargan 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 comes when, with a vicious start,
Their riders throwing, suddenly they part,
And twenty leagues of land unresting scour,
Snuffing the wind, till Vacarès 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 Rhone 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 Rhone,
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.