Poem: The Mares Of The Camargue

A hundred mares, all white! their manes

Like mace-reed of the marshy plains

Thick-tufted, wavy, free o’ the shears:

And when the fiery squadron rears

Bursting at speed, each mane appears

Even as the white scarf of a fay

Floating upon their necks along the heavens away.

O race of humankind, take shame!

For never yet a hand could tame,

Nor bitter spur that rips the flanks subdue

The mares of the Camargue. I have known,

By treason snared, some captives shown;

Expatriate from their native Rhone,

Led off, their saline pastures far from view:

And on a day, with prompt rebound,

They have flung their riders to the ground,

And at a single gallop, scouring free,

Wide-nostril'd to the wind, twice ten

Of long marsh-leagues devour'd, and then,

Back to the Vacares again,

After ten years of slavery just to breathe salt sea

For of this savage race unbent,

The ocean is the element.

Of old escaped from Neptune's car, full sure,

Still with the white foam fleck'd are they,

And when the sea puffs black from grey,

And ships part cables, loudly neigh

The stallions of Camargue, all joyful in the roar;

And keen as a whip they lash and crack

Their tails that drag the dust, and back

Scratch up the earth, and feel, entering their flesh, where he,

The God, drives deep his trident teeth,

Who in one horror, above, beneath,

Bids storm and watery deluge seethe,

And shatters to their depths the abysses of the sea.