VII. _The Old Men_ 110 VIII. _La Crau_ 124 IX. _The Muster_ 136 X. _Camargue_ 147 XI. _The Saints_ 159 XII. _Death_ 174 CANTO I. _Lotus Farm._ I sing the love of a Provençal maid; How through the wheat-fields of La Crau she strayed, Following the fate that drew her to the sea. Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she; And I, who tell the rustic tale of her, Would fain be Homer’s humble follower. What though youth’s aureóle was her only crown? And never gold she wore nor damask gown? I’ll build her up a throne out of my song, And hail her queen in our despisèd tongue. Mine be the simple speech that ye all know, Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau. God of my country, who didst have Thy birth Among poor shepherds when Thou wast on earth, Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, my God, How, when the lusty summer is abroad, And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he,-- Brute, greedy man,--and quite despoils the tree. Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft Some little branch inviolate aloft, Tender and airy up against the blue, Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto: Only the birds shall come and banquet there, When, at St. Magdalene’s, the fruit is fair. Methinks I see yon airy little bough: It mocks me with its freshness even now; The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high Fruitage and foliage that cannot die. Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech, To soar until the birds’ own home I reach! Once, then, beside the poplar-bordered Rhone, There lived a basket-weaver and his son, In a poor hut set round with willow-trees (For all their humble wares were made from these); And sometimes they from farm to farm would wend, And horses’ cribs and broken baskets mend. And so one evening, as they trudged their round With osier bundles on their shoulders bound, “Father,” young Vincen said, “the clouds look wild About old Magalouno’s tower up-piled. If that gray rampart fell, ’twould do us harm: We should be drenched ere we had gained the farm.” “Nay, nay!” the old man said, “no rain to-night! ’Tis the sea-breeze that shakes the trees. All right! A western gale were different.” Vincen mused: “Are many ploughs at Lotus farmstead used?” “Six ploughs!” the basket-weaver answered slow: “It is the finest freehold in La Crau.