White gulls astray over the briny plains Of Agui-Morto. Utter sadness reigns In scattered sheep-cots of their tenants left, And overrun with salicorne. Bereft In the hot desert, seemed the maid to wake, And see nor spring nor pool her thirst to slake, And slightly shuddered. “Great St. Gent!” she cried, “O hermit of the Bausset mountain-side! O fair young labourer, who to thy plough Didst harness the fierce mountain-wolf ere now, And in the flinty rock, recluse divine, Didst open springs of water and of wine, “And so revive thy mother, perishing Of heat! like me, when they were slumbering, Thou didst forsake thy household, and didst fare Alone with God through mountain-passes, where Thy mother found thee! For me, too, dear Saint, Open a spring; for I am very faint, “And my feet by the hot stones blisterèd!” Then, in high heaven, heard what Mirèio said The good St. Gent: and soon she doth discover A well far off, with a bright stone laid over; And, like a marten through a shower of rain, Speeds through the flaming sun-rays, this to gain. The well was old, with ivy overrun-- A watering-place for flocks; and from the sun Scarce by it sheltered sat a little boy, With basket-full of small white snails for toy. With his brown hands, he one by one withdrew them, The tiny harvest-snails; and then sang to them,-- “Snaily, snaily, little nun, Come out of the cell, come into the sun! Show me your horns without delay, Or I’ll tear your convent-walls away.” Then the fair maid of Crau, when she had dipped Her burning lips into the pail, and sipped, Quickly upraised a lovely, rosy face, And, “Little one! what dost thou here?” she says. A pause. “Pick snailies from the stones and grass?” “Thou hast guessed right!” the urchin’s answer was. “Here in my basket have I--see, how many! Nuns, harvest-snails, and these, as good as any!” “And thou dost eat them”--“Nay, not I,” replied he; “But mother carries them to Arles on Friday, And sells them; and brings back nice, tender bread. Thou wilt have been to Arles?”--“Never!” she said. “What, never been to Arles! But I’ve been there! Ah, poor young lady! Couldst thou see how fair And large a city that same Arles is grown! She covers all the seven mouths of the Rhone. Upon the islands of the great salt-mere Her cattle graze: wild horses doth she rear. “And in one summer, corn enough doth grow, To feed her seven full years, if need were so. She’s fishermen who fish on every sea,-- Seamen who front the storms right valiantly Of distant waters.” Thus with pretty pride The boy his sunny country glorified,