CANTO VII.
THE OLD MEN.
FIXING a troubled eye on the old man,
Vincen to Master Ambroi thus began,
The while a mighty wind,1 the poplars bending,
Its howl unto the poor lad's voice was lending:
"I am mad, father, as I oft of late
Have said. Thinkest thou I 'm jesting when I say 't?"
Before his nut-shell cot the Rhone beside
Sat Ambroi on a fallen trunk, and plied
His trade. And, as he peeled the osier withe,
Vincen received it, and, with fingers lithe
And strong, bent the white rods to basket form,
Sitting upon the door-stone. With the storm
Of wind was the Rhone's bosom agitated,
The waves drove seaward like a herd belated;
But round about the hut an azure mere
Spread tranquilly. The billows brake not here:
A pleasant shelter gave the willow-trees,
And beavers gnawed their bitter bark in peace.
