Her tones were smothered by the cart’s rude shaking; And the farm-labourers, a last look taking To see if none were coming o’er the plain, Turned slowly, sadly, to their toil again; While swarms of gnats, the idle, happy things, Filled the green walks with sound of humming wings. CANTO X. _Camargue._ Listen to me, good people of Provence, Countrymen one and all, from Arles to Vence, From Vanensolo even to Marseilles, And, if the heat oppress you, come, I pray, To Durancolo banks, and, lying low, Hear the maid’s tale, and weep the lover’s woe! The little boat, in Andreloun’s control, Parted the water silent as a sole, The while the enamoured maiden whom I sing, Herself on the great Rhone adventuring, Beside the urchin sat, and scanned the wave Intently, with a dreamy eye and grave, Till the boy-boatman spake: “Now knewest thou ever, Young lady, how immense is the Rhone river? Betwixt Camargue and Crau might holden be Right noble jousts! That is Camargue!” said he; “That isle so vast it can discern, I deem, All the seven mouths of the Arlesian stream.” The rose-lights of the morn were beauteous Upon the river, as he chatted thus. And the tartanes, with snowy sails outswelled, Tranquilly glided up the stream, impelled By the light breeze that blew from off the deep, As by a shepherdess her milk-white sheep. And all along the shore was noble shade By feathery ash and silver poplar made, Whose hoary trunks the river did reflect, And giant limbs with wild vines all bedeckt With ancient vines and tortuous, that upbore Their knotty, clustered fruit the waters o’er. Majestically calm, but wearily And as he fain would sleep, the Rhone passed by Like some great veteran dying. He recalls Music and feasting in Avignon’s halls And castles, and profoundly sad is he To lose his name and waters in the sea. Meanwhile the enamoured maiden whom I sing Had leaped ashore; and the boy, tarrying Only to say, “The road that lies before Is thine! The Saints will guide thee to the door Of their great chapel,” took his oars in hand, And swiftly turned his shallop from the land. Under the pouring fire of the June sky, Like lightning doth Mirèio fly and fly. East, west, north, south, she seems to see extend One weary plain, savannas without end, With glimpses of the sea, and here and there Tamarisks lifting their light heads in air. Golden-herb, samphire, shave-grass, soda,--these Alone grow on the bitter prairies, Where the black bulls in savage liberty Rejoice, where the white horses all are free To roam abroad and breast the briny gale, Or air surcharged with sea-fog to inhale.