So now the horses of Aiakides, off wide of the war-ground, Wept, since first they were ware of their charioteer overthrown there, Cast down low in the whirl of the dust under man-slaying Hector.  Sooth, meanwhile, then did Automedon, brave son of Diores, Oft, on the one hand, urge them with flicks of the swift whip, and oft, too, Coax entreatingly, hurriedly; whiles did he angrily threaten.  Vainly, for these would not to the ships, to the Hellespont spacious, Backward turn, nor be whipped to the battle among the Achaians.  Nay, as a pillar remains immovable, fixed on the tombstone, Haply, of some dead man or it may be a woman there-under; Even like hard stood they there attached to the glorious war-car, Earthward bowed with their heads; and of them so lamenting incessant Ran the hot teardrops downward on to the earth from their eyelids, Mourning their charioteer; all their lustrous manes dusty-clotted, Right side and left of the yoke-ring tossed, to the breadth of the yoke-bow.  Now when the issue of Kronos beheld that sorrow, his head shook Pitying them for their grief, these words then he spake in his bosom; “Why, ye hapless, gave we to Peleus you, to a mortal Master; ye that are ageless both, ye both of you deathless!  Was it that ye among men most wretched should come to have heart- grief?  ’Tis most true, than the race of these men is there wretcheder nowhere Aught over earth’s range found that is gifted with breath and has movement.”

     Poem:  The Mares Of The Camargue

     [From the Mireio of Mistral]

     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;