Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/46

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"Lou Cri approached, and made a modest bow.
'Brother, let 's to the ale-house arbor now,
Behind the amphitheatre. Why borrow,
Upon this festive day, tears for the morrow?
The money left we 'll drink together thus:
There's sunshine yet enough for both of us.'

"Then trembling rose the runner of Marseilles,
And from his limbs made haste to tear away
The silken hose, the golden bells. 'Here, lad!'
Raising his pallid face, 'take them!' he said.
'I am grown old: youth decks thee like a swan;
So put the strong man's gear with honor on.'

"He turned, stricken like an ash the storm bereaves
In summer-time of all its tower of leaves.
The king of runners vanished from the place;
And never more ran he in any race,
Nor even leaped on the inflated hide,
In games at Saint John's or Saint Peter's tide,"

So Vincen told the story, waxing warm;
Of all he 'd seen, before the Lotus Farm.
His cheeks grew red, his eyes were full of light;
He waved his hand to point his speech aright,—
Abundant was the same as showers in May
That fall upon a field of new-mown hay.