“They say the Earth is generous. It is true! But, like a nut-tree, naught she gives to you Unless well-beaten. And if all were known, Each clod of landed ease thus hardly won, He who should number them would also know The sweat-drops that have fallen from my brow. “And must I, by Ste. Anne of Apt, be still? Like satyr toil, of siftings eat my fill, That all the homestead may grow wealthy, and Myself before the world with honour stand, Yet go and give my daughter to a tramp, A vagabond, a straw-loft-sleeping scamp? “God’s thunder strike you and your dog! Begone! But I,” the master said, “will keep my swan.” These were his last rough words; and steadily Ambroi arose, and his cloak lifted he, And only rested on his staff to say, “Adieu! Mayst thou not regret this day! “And may the good God and his angels guide The orange-laden bark across the tide!” Then, as he passed into the falling night, From the branch-heap arose a ruddy light, And one long tongue of flame the wanderer sees, Curled like a horn by the careering breeze; And round it reapers dancing blithesomely, With pulsing feet, and haughty heads and free Thrown back, and faces by the bonfire lit, Loud crackling as the night-wind fanneth it. The sound of coals that to the brazier fall Blends with the fife-notes fine but musical, And merry as the song of the hedge-sparrow. Ah, but it thrills the old Earth to her marrow When thou dost visit her, beloved St. John! The sparks went whirling upward, and hummed on The tabor gravely and incessantly, Like the low surging of a tranquil sea. Then did the dusky troop their sickle wave, And three great leaps athwart the flame they gave, And cloves of odorous garlic from a string Upon the glowing embers they did fling, And holy herb and John’s-wort bare anigh; And these were purified and blessed thereby. Then “Hail, St. John!” thrice rose a deafening shout; And hills and plain, illumined round about, Sparkled as though the dark were showering stars. And sure the Saint, above the heaven’s blue bars, The breath of all this incense doth inhale, Wafted aloft by the unconscious gale. CANTO VIII. _La Crau._ The rage of the mighty lioness Who shall restrain? She came to her den, and she found it bare: A Moorish huntsman had entered there. The huntsman came, and the whelp is gone. Away through the canebrake they have flown, Galloping far at a headlong pace. To follow--vain! She roars awhile in her deep despite, Then rises and courses, lank and light, Over the hills of Barbary. As a maid bereft of her love is she.