“But a great cloud of ants, more venemous Than nettles, greedy, eager, furious, Them were o’erwhelming even then; and I, Leaning upon my scythe right pensively, Could hear, far off, the mother agonize Over their cruel fate, with piteous cries.” This tale of woe, following upon the other, Is a lance-thrust to father and to mother: The worst foreboding seemeth justified. Then, as a tempest in the hot June-tide, Gathering silently, ascends the air, The weather darkening ever, till the glare Of lightning shows in the north-east, and loud Peal follows peal, another left the crowd, One Lou Marran. It was a name renowned In all the farms when winter-eves came round, And labourers, chatting while the mules were stalled And pulling lucerne from the rack, recalled What things befell when first this man was hired, Until the lights for lack of oil expired. Seed-time it was, and every other man Was opening up his furrow save Marran; Who, hanging back, eyed coulter, tackle, share, As he the like had seen not anywhere. Till the chief-ploughman spake: “Here is a lout To plough for hire! Why, a hog with his snout I wager would work better!”--“I will take Thy bet,” said Lou Marran; “and be the stake Three golden louis! Either thou or I, Master, that sum will forfeit presently.” “Let blow the trumpet!” Then the ploughmen twain In two unswerving lines upturn the plain, Making for the chosen goal,--two poplars high. The sun-rays gild the ridges equally, And all the labourers call out, “Well done! Thy furrow, chieftain, is a noble one; “Yet, sooth to say, so straight the other is, One might an arrow shoot the length of this.” And Lou Marran was winner,--he who here Before the baffled council doth appear, All pale, his bitter evidence to bear: “Comrades, as I was whistling, at my share, “Not long ago, methought the land was rough, And we would stretch, the day to finish off; When, lo! my beasts with fear began to quake, Bristled their hairy sides, their ears lay back. They stopped; and, with dazed eyes, I saw all round The field-herbs fade, and wither to the ground. “I touch my pair. Baiardo sadly eyes His master, but stirs not. Falet applies His nostril to the furrow. Then I lash Their shins; and, all in terror, off they dash, So that the ash-wood beam--the beam, I say-- Is rent, and yoke and tackle borne away. “Then grew I pale, and all my breath was gone; And, seized as with a strong convulsion, I ground my jaws. A dreadful shudder grew Upon me,--and my hair upraised, I knew, As thistle-down is raised by the wind’s breath; But the wind sweeping over me was Death.”