User: Can you continue this poem for me?
  with an introduction
and some Pen-and-Ink
sketches by
with some Pen-and-Ink
sketches by
Heine's "Atta Troll," by Dr.
FRONTISPIECE                    ii
TITLE-PAGE                     iii
ATTA TROLL                      iv
ATTA TROLL (Half-Title)
_The headings and tail-pieces to the Cantos are by Horace Taylor_
Germany. He was one who held in scorn the principles of State and
_Of course, the echo on the part of their audiences has not been
separation either, for a poet is--through his mother tongue--so
_The poem begins in a sprightly fashion full of airy mockery and
"_Aye, my friend, such strains arise_
_From the dream-time that is dead_
Though some modern trills may oft
Caper through the ancient theme.
"Spite of waywardness thou'lt find
Here and there a note of pain...."
_Let their ears seek to catch these painful notes. Let their eyes
endeavour to pierce through the romanticism on the surface to the
_Cursed arch-aristocrats,_
_Should with haughty insolence_
_Look upon the world of beasts."_
_"And its first great law shall be_
_For God's creatures one and all_
_Equal rights--no matter what_
_Be their faith, or hide, or smell,_
_"Strict equality! Each ass_
_May become Prime Minister,_
_On the other hand the lion_
_Shall bear corn unto the mill."_
government," the spirit of a soulless capitalism, requires it._
insecurity of the roads which has almost destroyed my pleasure in
_But those valiant champions of Light and Truth who accuse me of
"sea-surrounded Schleswig-Holstein" oysters._
genius--it discovered, in fact, the antithesis between Talent and
_"His eye grew moist; with hollow thunder_
_He beat the drum, till it sprang in sunder."_
_Out of the gleaming, shimmering tents of white_
_Steps the Prince of the Moors in his armour bright--_
_So out of the slumbering clouds of night,_
_The moon in its dark eclipse takes flight._
Ringed about by mountains dark,
Rising peak on sullen peak,
And by furious waterfalls
Lulled to slumber, like a dream
White within the valley lies
Cauterets. Each villa neat
Sports a balcony whereon
Lovely ladies stand and laugh.
Heartily they laugh and look
Down upon the crowded square
Where unto a bag-pipe's drone
He- and she-bear strut and dance.
Atta Troll is dancing there
With his Mumma, dusky mate,
While in wonderment the Basques
Shout aloud and clap their hands.
Stiff with pride and gravity
Dances noble Atta Troll,
Though his shaggy partner knows
Neither dignity nor shame.
I am even fain to think
She is verging on the can-can,
For her shameless wagging hints
Even he, the showman brave,
Holding her with loosened chain,
Marks the immorality
Of her most immodest dance.
So at times he lays the lash
Straight across her inky back,
Till the mountains wake and shout
Echoes to her frenzied howls.
On the showman's pointed hat
Six Madonnas made of lead
Shield him from the foeman's balls
Or invasions of the louse.
And a gaudy altar-cloth
From his shoulders hanging down,
Makes a proper sort of cloak,
Hiding pistol and a knife.
In his youth a monk was he,
Then became a robber chief;
Later, in Don Carlos' ranks,
He combined the other two.
When Don Carlos, forced to flee,
Bade his Table Round farewell,
All his Paladins resolved
Straight to learn an honest trade.
Herr Schnapphahnski turned a scribe,
And our staunch Crusader here
Just a showman, with his bears
Trudging up and down the land.
And in every market-place
For the people's pence they dance--
In the square at Cauterets
Atta Troll is dancing now!
He who ruled on mountain-heights,
Now to please the village mob,
Dances in his doleful chains.
Worse and worse! for money vile
He must dance who, clad in might,
Once in majesty of terror
Held the world a sorry thing!
When the memories of his youth
And his lost dominions green,
Smite the soul of Atta Troll,
Mournful sobs escape his breast.
And he scowls as scowled the black
Monarch famed of Freiligrath;
In his rage he dances badly,
As the darkey badly drummed.
Yet compassion none he wins,--
Only laughter! Juliet
From her balcony is laughing
At his wild, despairing bounds.
Juliet, you see, is French,
And was born without a soul--
Lives for mere externals--but
Her externals are so fair!
Like a net of tender gleams
Are the glances of her eye,
And our hearts like little fishes,
Fall and struggle in that net.
When the dusky Moorish Prince
Sung by poet Freiligrath
Beat upon his mighty drum
Till the drumskin crashed and broke--
Thrilling must that crash have been--
Likewise hard upon the ear--
But just fancy when a bear
Breaks away from captive chains!
Swift the laughter and the pipes
Cease. What yells of fear arise!
From the square the people rush
And the gentle dames grow pale.
Yea, from all his slavish bonds
Atta Troll has torn him free.
Suddenly! With mighty leaps
Through the narrow streets he runs.
Room enough is his, I trow!
Up the jagged cliffs he climbs,
Flings down one contemptuous look,
Then is lost within the hills.
Lone within the market-place
Mumma and her master stand--
Raging, now he grasps his hat,
Cursing, casts it on the earth,
Tramples on it, kicks and flouts
The Madonnas, tears the cloak
Off his foul and naked back,
Yells and blasphemes horribly
'Gainst the base ingratitude
Of the race of sable bears.
Had he not been kind to Troll?
Taught him dancing free of charge?
Everything this monster owed him,
Even life. For some had bid,
All in vain! three hundred marks
For the hide of Atta Troll.
Like some carven form of grief
There the poor black Mumma stands
On her hind feet, with her paws
Pleading with the raging clown.
But on her the raging clown
Looses now his twofold wrath;
Beats her; calls her Queen Christine,
Dame Munoz--Putana too....
All this happened on a fair
Sunny summer afternoon.
And the night which followed, ah!
Was superb and wonderful.
Of that night a part I spent
On a small white balcony;
Juliet was at my side
And we viewed the passing stars.
"Fairer far," she sighed, "the stars
Which in Paris I have seen,
When upon a winter's night
In the muddy streets they shine."
Dream of summer nights! How vain
Is my fond fantastic song.
Quite as vain as Love and Life,
Subject to his own sweet will,
Now in gallop, now in flight,
So my Pegasus, my darling,
Revels through the realms of myth.
Ah, no plodding cart-horse he!
Harnessed up for citizens,
Nor a ramping party-hack
Full of showy kicks and neighs.
For my little winged steed's
Hoofs are shod with solid gold
And his bridle, dragging free,
Is a rope of gleaming pearls.
Bear me wheresoe'er thou wouldst--
To some lofty mountain-trail
Where the torrents toss and shriek
Warnings over folly's gulf.
Bear me through the silent vales
Where the solemn oaks arise
From whose twisted roots there well
Ancient springs of fairy lore.
There, oh, let me drink--mine eyes
Let me lave--Oh, how I thirst
For that flashing wonder-spring,
Full of wisdom and of light.
All my blindness flees. My glance
Pierces to the dimmest cave,
To the lair of Atta Troll,
And his speech I understand!
Strange it is--this bearish speech
Hath a most familiar ring!
Once, methinks, I heard such tones
In my own dear native land.
Roncesvalles, thou noble vale!
When thy golden name I hear,
Then the lost blue flower blooms
Once again within my heart!
All the glittering world of dreams
Rises from its hoary gulf,
And with great and ghostly eyes
Stares upon me till I quake!
What a stir and clang! The Franks
Battle with the Saracens,
While a thin, despairing wail
Pours like blood from Roland's horn.
Close beside great Roland's Gap--
So 'twas named because the Knight
Once to clear himself a path.
Now this youngest was the pet
Of his mother. Once in play
Chewing off his tiny ear--
She devoured it for love.
A most genial youth is he,
Clever in gymnastic tricks,
Throwing somersaults as clever
As dear Massmann's somersaults.
Blossom of the pristine cult,
For the mother-tongue he raves,
Scorning all the senseless jargon
"Fresh and pious, gay and free,"
Hating all that smacks of soap
Or the modern craze for baths--
Verily like Massmann too!
Most inspired is this youth
When he clambers up the tree
Which from out the hollow gorge
Rears itself along the cliff,
Rears and lifts unto the crest
Where at night this jolly band
Squat and loll about their sire
In the twilight dim and cool.
Gladly there the father bear
Tells them stories of the world,
Of strange cities and their folk,
And of all he suffered too,
Suffered like Ulysses great--
Differing slightly from this brave
Since his black Penelope
Never parted from his side.
Loudly too prates Atta Troll
Of the mighty meed of praise
Which by practice of his art
He had wrung from humankind.
Young and old, so runs his tale,
Cheered in wonder and in joy,
When in market-squares he danced
To the bag-pipe's pleasant skirl.
And the ladies most of all--
Ah, what gentle connoisseurs!--
Rendered him their mad applause
And full many a tender glance.
Artists' vanity! Alas,
Pensively the dancing-bear
Thinks upon those happy hours
When his talents pleased the crowd.
Seized with rapture self-inspired,
He would prove his words by deeds,
Prove himself no boaster vain
But a master in the art.
Swiftly from the ground he springs,
Stands on hinder paws erect,
Dances then his favourite dance
As of old--the great Gavotte.
Gaze upon their father there
As he makes his wondrous leaps
In the moonshine to and fro.
In his cavern by his young,
Atta Troll in moody wise
Lies upon his back and sucks
Fiercely at his paws, and growls:
"Mumma, Mumma, dusky pearl
That from out the sea of life
I had gathered, in that sea
I have lost thee once again!
"Shall I never see thee more?
Shall it be beyond the grave
Where from earthly travail free
Thy bright spirit spreads its wings?
"Ah, if I might once again
Lick my darling Mumma's snout--
Lovely snout as dear to me
As if smeared with honey-dew.
"Might I only sniff once more
That aroma sweet and rare
Of my dear and dusky mate--
Scent as sweet as roses' breath!
"But, alas! my Mumma lies
In the bondage of that tribe
Which believes itself Creation's
Lords and bears the name of Man!
"Death! Damnation! that these men--
Cursed arch-aristocrats!
Should with haughty insolence
Look upon the world of beasts!
"They who steal our wives and young,
Chain us, beat us, slaughter us!--
Yea, they slaughter us and trade
In our corpses and our pelts!
"More, they deem these hideous deeds
Justified--particularly
Towards the noble race of bears--
This they call the Rights of Man!
Who bestowed these rights on you?
Surely 'twas not Mother Nature--
She is ne'er unnatural!
"Rights of Man! Who gave to you
All these privileges rare?
Ne'er unreasonable she!
"Is it, men, because you roast,
Stew or fry or boil your meat,
Whilst our own is eaten raw,
That you deem yourselves so grand?
"In the end 'tis all the same.
Food alone can ne'er impart
Any worth;--none noble is
Save who nobly acts and feels!
"Are you better, human things,
Just because success attends
All your arts and sciences?
No mere wooden-heads are we!
"Are there not most learned dogs!
Horses, too, that calculate
Quite as well as bankers?--Hares
Who have skill in beating drums?
"Are not beavers most adroit
In the craft of waterworks?
Were not clyster-pipes invented
Through the cleverness of storks?
"Do not asses write critiques?
Do not apes play comedy?
Could there be a greater actress
Than Batavia the ape?
"Do the nightingales not sing?
Is not Freiligrath a bard?
Who e'er sang the lion's praise
Better than his brother mule?
"In the art of dance have I
Gone as far as Raumer quite
In the art of letters--can he
Scribble better than I dance?
"Why should mortal men be placed
O'er us animals? Though high
You may lift your heads, yet low
In those heads your thoughts do crawl.
"Human wights, why better, pray,
Than ourselves? Is it because
Smooth and slippery is your skin?
Snakes have that advantage too!
"Human hordes! two-legged snakes!
Well indeed I understand
That those flapping pantaloons
Must conceal your serpent hides!
"Children, Oh, beware of these
Vile and hairless miscreants!
O my daughters, never trust
Monsters that wear pantaloons!"
But no further will I tell
How this bear with arrogant
Fallacies of equal rights
Raved against the human race
For I too am man, and never
As a man will I repeat
All this vile disparagement,
Bound to give most grave offence.
Yes, I too am man, am placed
O'er the other mammals all!
Shall I sell my birthright?--No!
Nor my interest betray.
Ever faithful unto man,
I will fight all other beasts.
I will battle for the high
Holy inborn rights of man!
Yet for man who forms the higher
Class of animals 'twere well
That betimes he should discover
What the lower thinks of him.
Verily within those drear
Strata of the world of brutes,
In those lower social layers
There is misery, pride and wrath.
Laws which Nature hath decreed,
Customs sanctioned long by Time,
And for centuries established,
They deny with pertest tongue.
Grumbling, there the old instil
Evil doctrines in the young,
Doctrines which endanger all
Human culture on the Earth.
"Children!" grunts our Atta Troll,
As he tosses to and fro
On his hard and stony couch,
"Future time we hold in fee!
"If each bear, each quadruped,
Held with me a like ideal,
With our whole united force
We the tyrant might engage.
"Compact then the boar should make
With the horse--the elephant
Curve his trunk in comradeship
Round the valiant ox's horns.
"Bear and wolf of every shade,
Goat and ape, the rabbit, too.
Let them for the common cause
Labour--and the world is ours!
"Union! union! is the need
Of our times! For singly we
Fall as slaves, but joined as one
We shall overcome our lords.
"Union! union! Victory!
We shall overthrow the reign
Of such tyranny and found
One great Kingdom of the Brutes.
"And its first great law shall be
For God's creatures one and all
Equal rights--no matter what
Be their faith, or hide or smell.
"Strict equality! Each ass
May become Prime Minister;
On the other hand the lion
Shall bear corn unto the mill.
"And the dog? Alas, 'tis true
He's a very servile cur,
Just because for ages man
Like a dog has treated him.
"Yet in our Free State shall he
Once again enjoy his rights--
Rights most unassailable--
Thus ennobled be the dog.
All the rights of citizens,
By the law made equal with
Every other mammal free.
"One thing only be denied them!
Dancing in the market-place;
This amendment I shall make
In the interests of my art.
"For they lack all sense of style;
All plasticity of limb
Lacks that race. Full surely they
Would debauch the public taste."
Gloomy in his gloomy cave,
In the circle of his home,
As he growls and champs his jaws.
"Men, O crafty, pert _canaille_!
Smile away! That mighty hour
Dawns wherein we shall be freed
From your bondage and your smiles!
"Most offensive was to me
That same twitching bitter-sweet
Of the lips--the smiles of men
I found unendurable!
"When in every visage white
I beheld that fatal spasm,
Then did anger seize my bowels
And I felt a hideous qualm.
"For the smiling lips of men
More insultingly declare,
Even than their lips avouch,
All their insolence of soul.
"And they smile forever! Even
When all decency demands
Gravity--as in the moments
Of love's solemn mysteries.
"Yea, they smile forever. Even
In their dances!--desecrate
Thus this high and noble art
Which a sacred cult should be.
"Ah, the dance in olden days
Was a pious act of faith,
When the priests in solemn round
Turned about their holy shrines.
"Thus before the Covenant's
Sacred Ark King David danced.
Dancing then was worship too,--
It was praying with the legs!
"So did I regard my dance
When before the people all
In the market-place I danced
And was cheered by every soul.
"This applause, I grant you, oft
Made me feel content at heart;
Sweet it is from grudging foes
Admiration thus to win!
"Yet despite their rapture they
Still would smile and smile! My art--
Even that proved vain to save
Them from base frivolity!"
Many a virtuous citizen
Smells unpleasantly the while
Ducal knaves are lavendered
Or a-reek with ambergris.
There are many virgin souls
Redolent of greenest soap;
Vice will often lave herself
In rose attar top to toe.
Therefore, gentle reader, pray,
Do not lift your nose in air
Should Troll's cavern fail to rouse
Memories of Arabia's spice.
Bide with me within this reek,
'Mid these turbid odours foul,
Whence unto his son our hero
Speaks, as from a misty cloud:
"Child, my child, the last begot
Of my loins, thy single ear
Snuggle close against the snout
Of thy father, and give heed!
"Oh, beware man's mode of thought;
It destroys both flesh and soul,
For amongst all mankind never
Shalt thou find one worthy man.
"E'en the Germans, once the best,
Even Tuiskion's sons,
Our dear cousins primitive,
Even they have grown effete.
"Godless, faithless have they grown;
Atheism now they preach.
Child, my child, oh, guard thee 'gainst
Feuerbach and Bauer too!
"Never be an atheist!
Monster void of reverence!
For a great Creator reared
All the mighty Universe!
"And the sun and moon on high,
And the stars--the stars with tails
Even as the tailless ones--
Are reflections of His power.
"In the depths of sea and land
Ring the echoes of His fame,
And each creature yields Him praise
For His glory and His might.
"E'en the tiny silver louse
Which within some pilgrim's beard
Shares his earthly pilgrimage,
Sings to Him a song of praise!
"High upon his golden throne
In yon splendid tent of stars,
Clad in cosmic majesty,
Sits a titan polar bear.
"Spotless, gleaming white as snow
Is his fur; his head is decked
With a crown of diamonds
Blazing through the central vault.
"In his face bide harmony
And the silent deeds of thought,
And obedient to his sceptre
All the planets chime and sing.
"At his feet sit holy bears,
Saints who suffered on the Earth,
Meekly. In their paws they hold
Splendid palms of martyrdom.
"Ever and anon they leap
To their feet as though aroused
In a festal dance they join!
"'Tis a dance where saintly gifts
Cover up defects of style,--
Dance in which the very soul
Seeks to leap from out its skin!
"I, unworthy Troll, shall I
Ever such salvation share?
Shall I ever from this drear
Vale of tears ascend to joy?
"Shall I, drunk with Heaven's draught,
In that tent of stars above,
Dance before the Master's throne
With a halo and a palm?"
Of our Freiligrath protrudes
From his dusky mouth his long
Scarlet tongue in scorn and rage,--
Even so the moon now peers
Out of darkling clouds. The sad,
Sleepless waterfalls forever
Roar into the brooding night.
Atta Troll upon the crest
Of his well-beloved cliff
Stands alone, and now he howls
Down the wind and the abyss:
"Yea, a bear am I--even he,
Even he whom you have named
Bruin, growler, shag-coat too,
And such other titles vile.
"Yea, a bear am I--that same
Boorish animal you know;
That gross, trampling brute am I
Of your sly and crafty smiles!
"Of your wit am I the mark;
I'm the bugbear--him with whom
Every wicked child you frighten
In the silence of the night.
"Yea, I am that clumsy butt
Of your nursery tales--aloud
Will I shout that name forever
Through the scurvy world of men.
"Oyez! Oyez! I'm a bear
Unashamed of my descent,
Just as proud as if my forbear
Had been Moses Mendelsohn."
Lo, two figures, wild and sullen,
Gliding, sliding on all fours,
Break a path at dead of night
Through a wood of gloomy pines.
One-Ear too, his youngest son,
And they halt within a clearing
By a stone of bloody rites.
"This same stone," growled Atta Troll,
"Is a shrine where Druids once
Slaughtered wretched human wights
In dark Superstition's days.
"Oh! what frightful horrors these!
When I think of them, my fur
Lifts along my back! To praise
God they drenched the soil in blood!
"Certes, men have now become
More enlightened. Now no more
Do they slaughter in their zeal
For celestial interests.
"'Tis no longer holy rage,
Ecstasy nor madness sheer,
But self-love alone that urges
Them to slaughter and to crime.
"Now for worldly goods they strive,
Day by day and year by year.
It is one eternal war;
Each goes robbing for himself.
"When the common goods of all
Fall into the hands of one,
He will prate and Ownership.
Property is theft! O lies!
Craft and folly!--such a mixture
Man alone would dare invent.
"Never yet did Nature make
Properties, for pocketless
We are born into the world--
Who hath pockets in his pelt?
"None of us was ever born
With such little sacks devised
In our outer hides and skins
To enable us to steal!
"Only man, that creature smooth
Who in alien wool is garbed
Artfully, in artful wise
Made himself such pockets too.
"Pockets! as unnatural
As is property itself,
Or that law of have-and-hold.
Men are only pocket-thieves!
"Flamingly I hate them! Thee
All my hatred I bequeath.
Oh, my son, upon this shrine
Shalt thou swear eternal hate!
"Be the mortal foeman thou
Of th' oppressor, unforgiving
To thy very end of days!
Swear it--swear it here, my son!"
And the youngster swore as once
Hannibal. The moonbeams bleak
Yellowed on the bloodstone hoary
And that brace of misanthropes.
Later shall our harp record
How the young bear kept his faith
And his plighted oath,--for him
Shall our epic strings be strung.
With regard to Atta Troll,
Let us leave him for a space,
So we may the surer smite
Him with our unerring ball.
Thou art judged, the sentence writ.
Of _lese-majeste_ thou'rt guilty,
And to-morrow sees the chase.
Like to sleepy dancing-girls
Lift the mountains white and cold,
Standing in their skirts of mist
Flaunted by the winds of morn.
Yet full soon their breasts shall glow
To the sun-god's burning kiss,
He shall tear the clinging veils
And illume their beauty nude.
In the early dawn had I
With Lascaro sallied forth
On a bear-hunt and the noon
Saw us at the Pont d'Espagne.
Thus is named the bridge that leads
From the land of France to Spain,
To barbarians of the West,
Centuries behind the times.
Full ten centuries they lie
From all modern thought removed,
And my own barbarians
Of the East--not more than two.
Lingering and loth I left
The all-hallowed soil of France,
Left great Freedom's motherland
And the women that I love.
Midmost of the Pont d'Espagne
Lurked within his tattered cape;
Misery lurked within his eyes.
With his bony fingers he
Plucked an ancient mandolin
Full of discord shrill which echoed
Mockingly from out the gulch.
Then betimes he leaned aslant
O'er the depths and laughed aloud,
Tinkled then in maddest wise
As he sang his little song:
"In my very heart of heart
There's a tiny golden table,
And about this golden table
Four small golden chairs are set.
"Seated on these golden chairs,
Little dames with darts of gold
In their hair are playing cards--
Clara wins at every game.
"Yes, she wins and smiles in glee.
Clara, oh, within my heart,
Thou can'st never fail to win,
For thou holdest all the trumps!"
On I wandered and I spoke
Thus unto myself. How strange!
Lunacy itself sits there
Singing on the road to Spain.
Is this madman not a sign
Of how nations trade in thought?
Or is he his native land's
Twilight sank before we came
To a wretched old _posada_
Where _podrida_--favourite dish!
Steamed within a dirty pot.
There _garbanzos_ did I eat
Huge and hard as musket-balls,
Which not e'en a native Teuton,
Bred on dumplings, could digest.
And my bed was of a piece,
With the cooking. Insects vile
Dotted it. Oh, surely these
Are the grimmest foes of man!
Far more fearful than the wrath
Of a thousand elephants,
Is one small and angry bug
Crawling o'er thy lowly couch.
Helpless thou against its bite--
That is bad enough!--but worse
Evil comes if it be crushed
And its horrid smell released.
All Life's terrors we may taste
In the war with vermin waged,
Vermin well-equipped with stinks,
And in duels with a bug.
How they rave, the blessed bards--
Even the tamest! how they sing,--
How they do protest that Nature
Is a mighty fane of God!
One great fane whose splendours all
Of the Maker's glory tell;
Sun and moon and stars they vow
Hang as lamps within the dome.
Yet concede, most worthy folk,
That this mighty temple hath
Most uncomfortable stairs,
Stairs most villainously bad!
All this climbing up and down,
Escalading, jumping o'er
Boulders--how it tires me
Both in spirit and in legs!
By my side Lascaro strode,
Like a taper long and pale--
Never speaks he, never laughs--
He the witch's lifeless son.
For they say Lascaro died
Many years ago--his mother's,--
Old Uraka's,--magic draughts
Gave to him a seeming life.
These confounded temple steps!
How it chanced that I escaped
With whole vertebrae will puzzle
Me until my dying day.
How the torrents foamed and roared!
Through the pines how lashed the wind
Till they groaned! Then suddenly
Burst the clouds! O weather vile!
In a fisherman's poor hut
Close by Lac de Gaube we gained
Shelter and a mess of trout--
Dish divine and glorious!
In his padded arm-chair there
Sat the ancient ferryman,
Ill and grey. His nieces sweet
Like two angels tended him.
Plumpest angels, Flemish quite,
As if out of Rubens' frame
They had leaped, with golden locks,
Sparkling eyes of limpid blue,
Dimples in each ruddy cheek
Where bright mischief peered and hid,
And with limbs robust and lithe,
Waking both desire and fear.
Sweet and bonny creatures they
Who disputed prettily
Which might prove the sweetest draught
To their ancient, ailing charge.
If one proffers him a brew
Made of linden-flower tea,
Then the other tempts him with
Possets made of elder-blooms.
"I will swallow none of this!"
Cried the greyhead, sorely tried,
"Bring me wine so that my guest
May have worthy drink with me!"
If this stuff was really wine
Which I drank at Lac de Gaube--
Who can tell? My countrymen
Would have dubbed it sweetish beer.
Vilely smelled the wine-skin too,
Fashioned from a black goat's hide.
But the old man drank and drank
And grew jubilant and gay.
Of banditti tales he told
And of smugglers, merry men
Who still ply their goodly trades
Many ancient stories, too,
He recited, as of wars
'Twixt the giants and the bears
In the grey primeval days.
For it seems the bears and ogres
Waged a war for mastery
Of these ranges and these vales
Long ere man came wandering in.
Startled then at sight of men
All the giants fled the land;--
Only tiny brains were housed
In their huge, unwieldy heads!
It is also said these dolts,
When they reached the ocean-shore
Where the azure skies lay glassed
In the watery plains below,
Fondly fancied that the sea
Must be Heaven. In they plunged
All in reckless confidence,
And in watery graves were gulfed.
Now the bears are slain by man,
And each year their number grows
Smaller, smaller, till at last
None shall roam within the hills.
"And," the old man cackled, "thus
On this Earth must one yield room
To the other--after man
We shall have a reign of dwarfs.
"Tiny and most clever wights
Toiling in the bowels of Earth,
Busy little folk that gather
Riches from Earth's golden veins.
"I have seen their rounded heads
Peering out of rabbit-holes
In the moonlight--and I shook
As I thought of coming days.
"Yes, I dread the golden power
Of these mites. Our sons, I fear,
Will like stupid giants plunge
Straight into some watery heaven."
In the cauldron of the cliffs
Lies the deep and inky lake.
And from heaven the solemn stars
Peer upon us. Night and stillness.
Night and stillness. Beat of oars.
Like a rippling mystery
Swims our boat. The nieces twain
Serve in place of ferrymen.
Swift and blithe they row. Their arms
Sometimes shine from out the night,
And on their white skins the stars
Gleam and on large eyes of blue.
At my side Lascaro sits
Pale and mute as is his wont,
And I shudder at the thought:
Is Lascaro really dead?
Or perchance 'tis I am dead?
I, perchance, am drifting down
With these spectral passengers
To the icy realm of shades?
Can this lake be Styx's dark,
Sullen flood? Hath Proserpine,
In the absence of her Charon
Sent her maids to fetch me down?
Nay, not yet my days are done!
Unextinguished in my soul
Still the living flame of life,
Leaps and blazes, glows and sings.
And these girls who swing their oars
Merrily, and splash me too,
Laugh and grin with mischief rare
As the drops upon me flash.
Ah, these wenches fresh and strong,
Surely they could never be
Ghostly hell-cats, nor the maids
Of the dark queen Proserpine.
So that I might be assured
Of the girls' reality,
And unto myself might prove
My own honest flesh and blood,--
On their rosy dimples I
Swiftly pressed my eager lips,
And to this conclusion came:
Lo, I kiss; therefore I live!
When we reached the shore, again
Did I kiss these bonny maids,--
Kisses were the only coin
Which in payment they would take.
Joyous in the golden air
Lift the purple mountain heights
Where a daring hamlet clings
Like a nest against the steep.
Wearily I climbed and climbed.
When at last I stood aloft,
Then I found the old birds flown
And the fledglings left behind.
Pretty lads and lassies small
With their little heads half hid
In their white and scarlet caps,
Played at bridals in the mart.
Neither stay nor halt they brooked,
And the little love-lorn Prince
Of the Mice knelt down at once
To the Cat-King's daughter fair.
Hapless Prince! At last he's wed
To the Princess. How she scolds!
Bites him and devours him--
Hapless mouse!--thus ends the play.
That entire day I spent
With the children, and we talked
Cosily. They longed to know
Who I was? and what my trade?
"Germany, my dears," I spoke,
"Is my native country's name--
Bears are all too common there,
So I took to hunting bears!
"Many a bear-pelt have I pulled
Over many a bearish head,
Though, 'tis true, I sometimes got
Damage from their bearish paws.
"But at last I felt disgust
Of this strife with ill-licked boors
In my blessed land--I grew
Weary of these daily moils.
"So in quest of nobler game,
I at last have come to you;
I shall try my little strength
'Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.
"Worthy of me is this noble
Foe. In Germany, alas!
Many a battle did I win,
Most ashamed of victory."
When I left, the little folk
Danced about me in a ring,
And in sweetest wise they sang:
And the youngest of them all
Stepped before me quick and pert,
And four times she curtsied low
As she sang in silver tones:
"Curtsies two I give the King,
Should I meet him. And the Queen,
Should I meet her, then I give
Curtsies three unto the Queen.
"But should I the devil meet
With his fiery eyes and horns,
I will make him curtsies four--
Shouts once more the mocking band,
And around me swings the gay
Ring-o'-roses with its song.
As I scrambled down the slopes,
After me in echoes sweet,
Came these words in bird-like strains:
Hulking and enormous cliffs
Of deformed and twisted shapes
Look on me like petrified
Monsters of primeval times.
Strange! the dingy clouds above
Drift like doubles bred of mist,
Like some silly counterfeit
Of these savage shapes of stone.
In the distance roars the fall;
Through the fir trees howls the wind!
'Tis a sound implacable
And as fatal as despair.
Lone and dreadful lies the waste
And the black daws sit in swarms
On the bleached and rotten pines,
Flapping with their weary wings.
At my side Lascaro strides
Pale and silent--I myself
Must like sorry madness look
By dire Death accompanied.
'Tis a wild and desert place.
Curst perchance? I seem to see
On the crippled roots of yonder
Tree a crimson smear of blood.
This tree shades a little hut
Cowering humbly in the earth,
And the wretched roof of thatch
Pleads for pity in your sight.
Cagots are the denizens
Of this hut--the last remains
Of a tribe which sunk in darkness
Bides its bitter destiny.
In the heart of every Basque
You will find a rooted hate
Of the Cagots. 'Tis a foul
Relic of the days of faith.
In the minster at Bagneres
You may see a narrow grille,
Once the door, the sexton told me,
Which the herded Cagots used.
In that day all other gates
Were forbidden them. They crawled
Like to thieves into the blest
House of God to worship there.
There these wretched beings sat
On their lowly stools and prayed,
Parted as by leprosy,
From all other worshippers.
But the hallowed lamps of this
Later century burn bright,
And their light destroys the black
Shadows of that cruel age!
While Lascaro waited there,
Entered I the lonely hut
Of the Cagot, and I clasped
Straight his hand in brotherhood.
Likewise did I kiss his child
Which unto the shrivelled breast
Of his wife clung fast and sucked
Like some spider sick and starved.
Shouldst thou see these mountain peaks
From the distance thou wouldst think
That with gold and purple they
Flamed in splendour to the sun.
But at closer hand their pomp
Vanishes. Earth's glories thus
With their myriad light-effects
Still beguile us artfully.
What to thee seemed blue and gold
Is, alas, but idle snow,
Idle snow which, lone and drear,
Bores itself in solitude.
There upon the heights I heard
How the hapless crackling snow
Cried aloud its pallid grief
To the cold and heartless wind:
"Ah," it sobbed, "how slow the hours
Crawl within this awful waste!
All these many endless hours,
Like eternities of ice!
"Woe is me, poor snow! I would
I had never seen these peaks--
Might I but in vales have fallen
Where a myriad flowers bloom!
"To some little brook would I
Then have melted, and some maid--
Fairest of the land! with smiles
Would in me have laved her face.
"Yea, perchance, I might have fared
To the sea and changed betimes
To a pearl and gleamed at last
In some royal coronet!"
When I heard this plaint, I spake:
"Dearest Snow, indeed I doubt
Whether such a brilliant fate
Had been thine within the world.
"Comfort take. Few, few, indeed,
Ever grow to pearls. No doubt
Thou hadst fallen in the mire
And become a clod of mud."
As in kindly wise I spoke
Thus unto the joyless snow,
Came a shot--and from the skies
Plunged a hawk of brownish wing.
It was just a hunter's joke
Of Lascaro's. But his face
Was as ever stark and grim,
And his rifle barrel smoked.
Silently he tore a plume
From the hawk's erected tail,
Stuck it in his pointed hat
And resumed his silent way.
'Twas an eerie sight to see
How his shadow black and thin
With the nodding feather moved
O'er the slopes of drifted snow.
Lo, a valley like a street!
Dizzily the cloven crags
Tower up on every side.
There upon the sheerest slope
Hangs Uraka's little shack
Like some outpost over chaos--
Thither fared her son and I.
He took counsel with his dam,
How great Atta Troll might best
Be ensnared and safely slain.
We had found his mighty spoor.
Never more canst thou escape
From our hands! thine earthly days
All are numbered--Atta Troll!
Never could I well determine
If Uraka, ancient hag,
Was in truth a potent witch,
As within these Pyrenees
It was rumoured. But I know
That in truth her very looks
Were suspicious. Most suspicious
Were her red and running eyes.
Evil is her look and slant.
It is said whene'er she stares
At some hapless cow, its milk
Dries, its udder withers straight.
It is said that stroking with
Her thin fingers, many a kid
She had slaughtered, many a huge
Ox had stricken unto death.
Oft within the local court
For such crimes arraigned she stood,
Was a true Voltairean.
Quite a modern worldling he,
Shallow and devoid of faith,--
So the plaintiffs he dismissed
Both in mockery and scorn.
The alleged official trade
Of Uraka's honest quite,
For she deals in mountain-herbs
And in birds that she has stuffed.
Her entire hut was crammed
With such relics. Horrible
Was the smell of cuckoo-flowers,
Fungi, henbane, elder-blooms.
There a fine array of hawks
To advantage was displayed,
All with pinions stretching wide
And with grim enormous bills.
Was it but the breath of these
Maddening plants that turned my brain?
Still the vision of these birds
Filled me with the strangest thoughts.
These perchance are mortal wights,
Bound by sorcery in this
Miserable state as birds
Stuffed and most disconsolate.
Sad, pathetic is their stare,
Yet it hath impatience too,
And, methinks at times they cast
Sidelong glances at the witch.
She, Uraka, ancient, grim,
Crouches low beside her son,
Mute Lascaro near the fire
Where the twain are casting slugs.
Casting that same fateful ball
Whereby Atta Troll was slain.
How the lurching firelight flares
O'er the witch's features gaunt!
Ceaselessly, yet silently
Move her thin and quivering lips.
Are those magic spells she murmurs
That the balls may travel true?
To her son. But he is deep
In the business of the casts
And sits silently as Death.
Overcome by fevered fears,
Yearning for the cooler air,
To the window then I strode
And looked down the gulches dim.
All that in that midnight hour
I beheld, all that will I
Faithfully and featly tell
In the canto that shall follow.
'Twas the night before Saint John's,
In the fullness of the moon,
When that wild and spectral hunt
From the window of Uraka's
Little cabin I could see
All that mighty host of wraiths
As it drifted through the gorge.
Yea, a goodly place was mine
Wherefrom I might well behold
The tremendous spectacle
Of the raised, carousing dead.
Cracking whips, hallo! hurrah!
Neigh of horses, bark of dogs,
Laughter, blare of huntsmen's horns--
How the tumult echoed there!
Dashing in advance there came
Stags and boars adventurous
In a solid pack; behind
Charged a wild and merry rout.
Huntsmen come from many zones
And from many ages too.
Charles the Tenth rode close beside
High upon their snowy steeds
They charged onward. Then on foot
Came the whips with hounds in leash
And the pages with the links.
Many in that maddened horde
Seemed familiar--yon knight
Gleaming all in golden mail,--
Surely was King Arthur's self!
In chain-armour shining green,
Truly close resemblance bore
To some mighty frog forsooth!
Many a hero I beheld
Of the gleaming world of thought;
Wolfgang Goethe straight I knew
By the sparkling of his eyes.
Being damned by Hengstenberg,
In his grave no peace he finds,
So with pagan blazonry
Gallops down the chase of Life.
By the glamour of his smile
Did I know the mighty Will
Whom the Puritans once cursed
Like our Goethe,--yet must he,
Luckless sinner, in this host
Ride a charger black as coal.
Close beside him on an ass
Rode a mortal and--great heavens!
By the weary mien of prayer
And the snowy night-cap too,
And the terror of his soul,
Francis Horn I recognized.
Commentaries he composed
On that great and cosmic child,
Shakespeare--therefore at his side
He must ride through thick and thin.
Lo, poor silent Francis rides,
He who scarcely dared to walk,
He who only stirred himself
At tea-tables and at prayers.
Surely all the oldish maids
Who indulged him in his ease,
Will be startled when they hear
Of his riding rough and free.
When the gallop faster grows,
Then great William glances down
On his commentator meek
Jogging onward on his ass.
To the saddle clinging tight,
Fainting in his terror sheer,
Yet unto his author loyal
In his death as in his life.
Many ladies there I saw,
Many lovely nymphs with forms
Slender with the grace of youth.
On their steeds they sat astride
Mythologically nude!
Though their tresses thick and long
Fell like cloaks of stranded gold.
Garlands rustled on their heads
And they swung their laurelled staves,
Bending back in reckless ways,
Full of joyous insolence.
Mediaeval maids I saw
Buttoned high unto the chin,
On their saddles seated slant,
Poising falcons on their wrists.
Like a burlesque, from behind
On their hacks and skinny nags
Came a rout of merry wenches,
Most extravagantly garbed.
And each face, though lovely quite,
Bore a trace of impudence;
Madly would they shriek and yell,
Puffing up their painted cheeks.
How this tumult echoed there!
Laughter, blare of huntsmen's horns;
Neigh of horses, bark of dogs,
Crack of whips! hallo! hurrah!
But like Beauty's clover-leaf,
In the very midst arose
Three fair women. I shall never
Their majestic forms forget!
Well I knew the first! Her head
Glittered with the crescent moon.
Haughty, like some ivory statue
Sat the goddess on her steed.
And her fluttering tunic fell
Loose about her hips and breasts,
And the torchlight and the moon
Laved with love her snowy limbs.
Marble seemed her very face
And like marble cold. How dread
Was the pallor and the chill
Of that stern and noble front!
But within her dusky eye
Smouldered a mysterious,
Cruel and enticing fire
Which devoured my poor soul.
What a change has come o'er Dian
Since in outraged chastity
She smote Actaeon to a stag
As a quarry for his hounds!
Doth she now requite this crime
In this gallant company,
Riding like some ghostly mortal
Through the bleak, nocturnal air?
Late did passion wake in her
But for that the stronger burns,
And within her eyes its flames
Gleam like fiercest brands of hell.
For those vanished times she grieves
When the men were beautiful;
Now in quantity perchance,
She forgets their quality.
At her side a fair one rode--
Fair, but not by Grecian lines
Was she fair; for all her features
Shone with wondrous Celtic glow.
'Twas Abunda, fairy queen,
Whom to know I could not fail
By the sweetness of her smile
And the madness of her laugh!
Full and rosy was her face,
Like the faces limned by Greuze;
And from out her heart-shaped mouth
Flashed the splendour of her teeth!
All the winds made dalliance
With her robe of azure blue,
And such shoulders never I
In my wildest dreams beheld.
I was almost moved to leap
From the window for a kiss;
This had been sheer folly, true,
Ending in a broken neck!
Ah, and she, she would have laughed
If within that awful gulf
I had fallen at her feet;--
Laughter such as this I know!
And the third fair phantom, she
Who so moved my errant heart,--
Was this but some female fiend
Like the other figures twain?
Whether devil this or saint
Know I not. With women, ah,
None can ever know where saint
Ends nor where the fiend begins.
All the magic of the East
Lay within her glowing face,
And her dress brought memories
Of Scheherazade's tales.
Lips as red as pomegranates
And a curved nose lily white,
Limbs as slender and as cool
As some green oasis-palm.
From her palfrey white she leaned,
Flanked by giant Moors who trod
Close beside the queenly dame
Holding up the golden reins.
Of most royal blood was she,
She great Herod's lovely wife,
She who craved the Baptist's head.
For this crimson crime was she
Banned and cursed. Now in this chase
Till the dawn of Judgment Day.
Still within her hands she bears
That deep charger with the head
Of the Prophet, still she kisses--
Kisses it with fiery lips.
For she loved the Prophet once,
Though the Bible naught reveals,
Yet her blood-stained love lives on
Storied in her people's hearts.
How might else a man declare
All the longing of this lady?
Would a woman crave the head
Of a man she did not love?
She perchance was slightly vexed
With her darling, and was moved
To behead him, but when she
On the trencher saw his head,
Then she wept and lost her wits,
Dying in love's madness straight.
(What! Love's madness? pleonasm!
Love itself is madness still!)
Rising nightly from her grave,
To this frenzied hunt she hies,
In her hands the gory head
Which with feline joy she flings
High into the air betimes,
Laughing like a wanton child,
Cleverly she catches it
Like some idle rubber ball.
As she swept past me she bowed
Most coquettishly and looked
On me with her melting eyes,
So that all my heart was stirred.
Thrice that rout raged up and down
Past my window, then did she,
Ah, most beautiful of shades!
Greet me with her precious smile.
Even when the pageant dimmed
And the tumult silent grew
In my brain, that smiling face
Shone and beckoned on and on.
All that night I tossed and turned
My o'erwearied limbs on straw,
Musty straw. No feather-beds
In Uraka's hut I found!
And I mused: what might this mean,
This mysterious beckoning?
Why, Oh, why, Herodias,
Held thy look such tenderness?
Sunrise. Golden arrows dart
Through the pallid ranks of mist
Till they redden as with wounds
And dissolve in shining light.
Now hath triumph come to Day
And the gleaming conqueror
In his blinding glory treads
O'er the ridges and the peaks.
All the merry bands of birds
Twitter in their hidden nests,
And the scent of plants arises
Like a psalm of odours rare.
At the early glint of day
Down the valley we had gone.
Followed up the bear-tracks dim,
I with musings sought to slay
Time, but tired soon I grew
Of my musings,--drear, ah, drear!
Were my thoughts and void of joy.
Weary, joyless, down I sank
On a bank of softest moss
'Neath a great and kingly ash
Where a little spring gushed forth.
This with wondrous voice beguiled
All my wayward mood until
Thought and thinking vanished both
In the music of the spring.
Mighty longings seized me then,
Madness, dreams and death-desires,
Longings for those splendid queens
Riding in that ghostly throng.
Oh, ye lovely shapes of night,
Banished by the rose of dawn,
Whither, tell me, have ye fled,
Whither have ye flown by day?
Somewhere 'neath old temple-ruins
In the wide Romagna hid,
It is said Diana flees
The dominion of the Christ.
Only in the midnight gloom,
Dare she venture forth, but then
How she joys the merry chase
And the pagan sports of old!
Fay Abunda also fears
All these sallow Nazarenes,
So by day she hides herself
Deep in secret Avalon.
For this sacred island lies
In the still and silent sea
Of Romanticism, whither
None save winged steeds may go.
There no anchor Care may drop,
Never there do steamships touch,
Bringing loads of Philistines
With tobacco-pipes, to stare.
Never does that dismal, dull
Ring of bells this stillness break--
That atrocious bumm-bamm sound
Which all gentle fairies hate.
There, abloom with lasting youth
In unbroken joyfulness,
Lives that merry-hearted dame,
Golden-locked Abunda fair.
Laughing there she strolls between
Huge sun-flowers drenched with light,
Followed by her retinue
Of unworldly Paladins.
Ah, but thou, Herodias,
Say, where art thou? Ah, I know!
Thou art dead and buried deep
By Jerusholayim's walls!
Corpse-like is thy sleep by day
In thy marble coffin laid,
But at midnight dost thou wake
To the crack of whips! hurrah!
With Abunda, Dian, too,
Dost thou join the headlong plunge
And the blithesome hunter rout
Fleeing from all cross and care.
What companions rare and blithe!
Ride at night through forests dark,
I would gallop at thy side!
For of all I love thee most!
More than any goddess Grecian,
More than any northern fay,
Yea, I love thee most! 'Tis true,
By the trembling of my soul!
Love me too and be my sweet,--
Love me too and be my love!
Fling that gory block-head far
With its trencher. Sweeter dishes
I shall give thee to enjoy.
Am not I thy proper knight
Whom thou seekest? What care I
If perchance thou'rt dead and damned--
Prejudices I have none!
Is my own salvation not
In a parlous state? And oft
Do I question if my life
Still be linked with human lives.
Take me, take me as thy knight,
Thine own _cavalier servente_;
I will bear thy silken robe
And each wayward mood of thine.
Every night beside thee, love,
And we'll kiss and thou shalt laugh
At my quips and merry pranks.
I will help thee speed the hours
Of the night. And yet by day
All my joy shall pass;--in tears
I shall sit upon thy grave.
Aye, by day will I sit down
In the dust of kingly vaults,
At the grave of my beloved
By Jerusholayim's walls!
Will imagine that I mourn
The destruction of thy temple
And thy gates, Jerusholayim.
Foot loose in the mighty hills,
But instead of golden fleece
We seek Bruin's shaggy hide.
Naught but sorry devils twain,
Heroes of a modern cut,
And no classic bard will ever
Make us live within his song!
Even though we suffered dire
Hardships! What torrential rains
Fell upon us at the peak
Where was neither tree nor cab!
And in bucketsful it poured--
Jason, lost on Colchis bleak,
Suffered no such shower-bath!
"Six-and-thirty kings I'll give
Just for one umbrella now!"
So I cried. Umbrella none
Was I offered in that flood.
Weary unto death and glum,
Wet as drowned rats, we came
Back unto the witch's hut
In the middle of the night.
There beside the glowing hearth
Sat Uraka with a comb,
Toiling o'er her swollen pug;--
Him she quickly flung aside
As we entered. First my couch
She prepared, then bent to loose
From my feet the _espardillos_,--
Footgear comfortless and rude!
Helped me to disrobe,--she drew
Off my pantaloons which clung
To my legs as close and tight
As the friendship of a fool.
"Oh, a dressing-gown! I'd give
Six-and-thirty kings," I cried,
"For a dry one!"--as my shirt,
Wringing wet, began to steam.
Shivering, with chattering teeth,
There I stood beside the hearth,
Till the fire drowsed me quite,
Then upon the straw I sank.
Sleepless but with blinking eyes
Peered I at the witch who crouched
By the fire with her son's
Body spread upon her lap.
Upright at her side the pug
Stood, and in his clumsy paws,
Very cleverly and tight,
Held aloft a little jar.
From this did Uraka take
Reddish fat and salved therewith
Swift Lascaro's ribs and breast
With her thin and trembling hands.
And she hummed a lullaby
In a high and nasal tone
As she rubbed him with the salve
'Midst the crackling of the fire.
Sere and bony like a corpse
Lay the son upon the lap
Of his mother; opened wide
Stared his pale and tragic eyes.
Is he really dead, this man?
Kept alive by mother-love?
Nightly by the witch-fat potent
Salved into a magic life?
Oh, that strange, strange fever-sleep!
In which all my limbs grew stiff
As if fettered, yet each sense,
Overwrought, waked horribly!
How that smell of hellish herbs
Plagued me! Musing in my woe,
Long I thought where had I once
Smelled such odours?--but in vain.
How the wind within the flue
Wrought me terror! Like the sobs
Of some parched soul it rang--
Or some well-remembered voice!
But these stuffed birds standing guard
On a board above my head,
These grim birds tormented me
Far beyond all other things!
Slowly, gruesomely they moved
Their accursed wings and bent
Low to me with monstrous bills,
Bills like human noses huge.
Where had I such noses seen?
Well, mayhap in Hamburg once,
Or in Frankfort's ghetto dim;
Memory smote me harshly then.
But at last did slumber quite
Overcome me and in place
Of such waking phantoms crept
Wholesome and unbroken dreams.
And within my dream the hut
Quickly to a ball-room changed,
High on lofty pillars borne
And illumed by chandeliers.
There invisible musicians
Played from "Robert le Diable"
That atrocious dance of nuns
As I promenaded there.
But at last the portals wide
Open and with stately step
Slowly in the hall appear
Guests most wonderful and strange.
Every one a bear or spectre!
Striding upright every bear
Leads an apparition wrapped
In a white and gleaming shroud.
Coupled in this wise, each pair
Up and down began to waltz
Through the hall. O strangest sight!
Fit for laughter and for fear!
How those plump old animals
Panted in the paces set
By those filmy shapes of air
Whirling gracefully and light!
Pitiless, the harried beasts
Thus were borne along until
Their deep panting overdroned
Even the orchestral bass!
When betimes the couples crashed
In collision, then each bear
Gave the pushing spectre straight
Hearty kicks upon the rump.
Sometimes in the tumult too
When the cerements fell away
From each white and muffled head,--
Lo! a grinning skull appeared!
But at last with shattering blare
Yelled the horns, the cymbals clashed
And the thunder of the drums
Brought about the gallopade.
But the end of this, alas,
Came not to my dreams. For, lo,
One most clumsy bear trod full
On my corns--I shrieked and woke!
Phoebus in his solar coach,
Whipping up his steeds of flame,
Had traversed the middle part
Of his journey through the skies,
Whilst in sleep I lay a-dream
With the goblins and the bears
Winding like mad arabesques
Through my slack and heated brain.
When I wakened it was noon,
And I found myself alone,
Since my hostess and Lascaro
For the chase had left at dawn.
There was no one save the pug
In the hovel. There he stood
By the hearth beside the pot
Holding in his paws a spoon.
Clever pug! well disciplined!
Lest the steaming soup boil over,
Swift he stirred it round and round,
Skimming off the foam and scum.
But--am I bewitched too?
Or does fever smoulder still
In my brain? For scarce can I
Trust my ears. The pug-dog speaks!
Aye, he speaks in homely strains
Of the Swabian dialect,
Deeply sunk in thought, he cries,
As it were within a dream:
"Woe is me--a Swabian bard,
Banned in exile must I grieve
In a pug-dog's cursed shape
Guardian of a witch's pot.
"What a base and hideous crime
Is this sorcery! My fate
Ah, how tragic! I, a man,
In the body of a dog!
"Had I but remained at home
With my jolly comrades true--
No vile sorcerers are they!
And their spells no man need fear.
"Had I but remained at home
At Karl Meyer's--with the sweet
And good honest metzel-soup!
"Of homesickness I shall die!
Might I only spy the smoke
Rising from old Stuttgart's flues
When the precious dumplings seethe."
Pity seized me when I heard
This sad story, and I sprang
From my couch and took a seat
By the fireplace and spake:
"Noble poet, tell what chance
Brought thee to this beldam's hut.
Why, oh why, in cruel wise,
Wast thou changed into a dog?"
But the pug exclaimed in joy:
"What! You are no Frenchman then?
But a German, and you've heard
All my hapless monologue?
"Ah, dear countryman, 'twas ill
When at eve we sat and argued
At the inn o'er pipe and mug,
"Should have harped on the idea
That by travel only might
One attain such culture broad,
As by travel he attained!
"Now, so I might shed the rude
Husk that on my manners lay,
Even as Koelle, and attain
Polish from the world at large,
"To my home I bade farewell,
And in quest of culture came
To the Pyrenees at last,
And Uraka's little hut.
"And a reference I brought
From Justinus Kerner too!
Never did I dream my friend
Stood in league with such a witch!
"Friendly was Uraka's mood,
Till at last with horrid shock,
Lo, I found her friendliness
Had to fiery passion grown.
"Yes, within that withered breast
Lust blazed up in monstrous wise,
And at once this vicious crone
Sought to drag me down to sin.
"Yet I prayed: 'Oh, pardon, ma'am!
Do not fancy I am one
Of those wanton Goethe Bards,--
I belong to Swabia's school.
"'Sweet Morality's our Muse
And the drawers she wears are made
Of the stoutest leather--Oh!
Do not wrong my virtue, pray!
"'Other bards may boast of soul,
Others phantasy--and some
Of their passion--Swabians have
Nothing but their innocence.
"'Nothing else do we possess!
Do not rob me of my pure,
Most religious beggar's cloak,--
Naked else my soul must go!'
"Thus I spoke, whereat the hag
Smiled with hideous irony,
Seized a switch of mistletoe,
Smote me over brow and cheek.
"Chilly spasms seized me then
Just as if a goose's skin
Crept across my limbs--but oh!
This was worse than goose's-skin!
"It was nothing more nor less
Than a dog-pelt! Since that hour,
That accursed hour, I've lived
Changed into a lumpy pug!"
Luckless wight! his piteous sobs
Now denied him further speech,
And so bitterly he wept
That he half dissolved in tears.
"Hark!" I spoke in pity then,
"Tell me how you might be freed
From this dog-skin. How may I
Give you back to muse and man?"
In despair, disconsolate,
Then he raised his paws in air,
And with sobs and groans at length
Thus his mournful plaint he made:
"Not before the Judgment Day
Shall I shed this horrid form,
If no noble virgin come
To absolve me of the curse.
"None can free me save a maid,
Pure, untouched by any man,
And she must fulfil a pact
Most inexorable--thus:
"Such unspotted maiden must
In Sylvester's holy night
Read the verse of Gustav Pfizer,
Read it and not fall asleep!
"If her chaste eyes do not close
At the reading--then, O bliss!
I shall disenchanted be,
Breathe as man--unpugged at last!"
"In that case, alas," said I,
"Never may I undertake
Your salvation, for you see,
First I am no spotless maid,
"And, still more impossible,
Secondly, I ne'er could read
Any one of Pfizer's poems
And not fall asleep at once."
From this eerie witch-menage
To the valley down we went,
And once more our feet took hold
On the good and solid Earth.
Spectres hence! Hence, gibbering masks!
Shapes of air and fever-dreams!--
Once again, most sensibly
Let us deal with Atta Troll.
In the cavern with his young
Bruin lies in slumber wrapt,
Snoring like an honest soul,
Then he stretches, yawns and wakes.
And young One-Ear crouches down
At his side, his head he rakes
Like a poet seeking rhymes,
And upon his paws he scans.
Close beside the father lie
Atta Troll's beloved girls,
Pure, four-footed lilies they,
Stretched in dreams upon their backs.
Ah, what tender thoughts must glow
In the budding souls of these
Snow-white virgin bearesses
With their soft and dewy eyes?
And the youngest of them all
Seems most deeply stirred. Her heart,
Smitten by Dan Cupid's shaft,
Quivers with a blissful throe.
Yea, this godling's arrow pierced
Through and through her furry pelt
When she saw him first--Oh, heavens!
'Tis a mortal man she loves!
Man it is--Schnapphahnski named,
Who one day in mad retreat
Passed her as she wandered through
The dim passes of the hills.
Woes of heroes move the fair,
And within our hero's face,
Quite as usual, sorrow lowered,
Pallid care and money-need.
Spent were all his funds of war!
Two-and-twenty silver groats
Taken unto Spain by him
Espartero seized as spoil.
Aye, his very watch was gone!
This in Pampeluna's pawnshop
Lay in bondage. 'Twas a rich
Heirloom all of silver made.
Little thought he as he ran
On his long legs through the woods,
He had won a greater thing
Than a fight--a loving heart!
Yes, she loves him--him the born
Enemy of bears she loves!
Hapless maid! If but your sire
Knew it--oh! what rage were his!
Just like Odoardo old
Who in honest burgess-pride
Even so would Atta Troll
Rather slay his darling lass,
Slay her with his proper paws,
Than that she should ever sink
Even into princely arms!
Yet in this same moment he
Is as softly moved--"no rose
Would he pluck before the storm
Reft it of its petals fair."
Atta Troll in saddest mood
Lies within his rocky cave.
Like Death's warning o'er him creeps
Hunger for infinity.
"Children!" then he sobs, the tears
Burst from out his mournful eyes,--
"Children! soon my earthly days
Shall be ended--we must part.
"Unto me this very noon
Came a dream of import vast,
And my soul drank in the sweet
Sense of early death-to-be.
"Superstitious am I not,
Nor fantastic--ah, and yet
More things lie 'twixt Earth and Heaven
Than philosophy may dream.
"Pondering on the world and fate,
Yawning I had dropped asleep,
And I dreamed that I was lying
Stretched beneath a mighty tree.
"From the branches of this tree
White celestial honey dripped
Straight into my open jaws,
Filling me with wondrous bliss.
"Peering happily aloft
Soon I spied within the leaves
Seven pretty little bears
Gliding up and down the boughs.
"Delicate and dainty things,
All with pelts of rosy hue,
And their heavenly voices rang
Like a melody of flutes!
"As they sang an icy chill
Seized my flesh, although my soul
Like a flame went soaring straight
Gleaming into highest Heaven."
Thus with soft and quivering grunts,
Spake our Atta Troll, then grew
Silent in his wistful grief.
Suddenly his ears he raised,
And in strangest wise they twitched!
Then from up his couch he sprang
Trembling, bellowing with joy:
"Children! do you hear that voice!
"Are not those the dulcet tones
Of your mother? Do I not
My dear Mumma's grumbles know?--
Mumma! Mumma! precious mate!"
Like a madman with these words
From the cave rushed Atta Troll
Swift to his destruction--oh!
To his ruin straight he plunged.
On that very spot where erst
Charlemagne's great nephew fell,
Gasping forth his warrior soul,
Fell and perished Atta Troll,
Fell through ambush, even as he
Whom that Judas of the Knights,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.
Oh! that noblest trait in bears--
Conjugal affection--love--
Formed a pitfall which Uraka
In her evil craft prepared.
Assistant: Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  For so truly mimicked she
Coal-black Mumma's tender growls,
That poor Atta Troll was lured
From the safety of his lair.
On desire's wings he ran
Through the valley, halting oft
By a rock with tender sniff,
Thinking Mumma there lay hid.
There Lascaro lay, alas,
With his rifle. Swift he shot
Through that gladsome heart a ball,
And a crimson stream welled forth.
Twice or thrice he shakes his head
To and fro, at last he sinks
Groaning, seized with ghastly shudders;--
"Mumma!" is his final sob!
Thus our noble hero fell--
Perished thus. Immortal he
Yet shall live in strains of bards,
Resurrected after death.
He shall rise again in song,
And his wide renown shall stalk
In this blunt trochaic verse
O'er the round and living Earth.
In Valhalla's Hall a shaft
Shall King Ludwig build for him,--
In Bavarian lapidary
Style these words be there inscribed:
Three-and-thirty wrinkled dames,
Wearing on their heads their Basque
Scarlet hoods of ancient style,
Stood beside the village gate.
One of them, like Deborah,
Beat the tambourine and danced
While she sang a hymn in praise
Of the slayer of the bear.
Four strong men in triumph bore
Slaughtered Atta, who erect
In his wicker litter sat
Like some patient at a spa.
To the rear, like relatives
Of the dead, Lascaro came
With Uraka, who abashed,
Nodded to the right and left.
Then the town-clerk at the hall
Spoke as the procession came
To a halt. Of many things
Spoke that dapper little man.
As, for instance, of the rise
Of the navy, of the Press,
Of the sugar-beet debates,
And that hydra, party strife.
All the feats of Louis Philippe
Vaunted he unto the skies,--
Of Lascaro then he spoke
And his great heroic deed.
"Thou Lascaro!" cried the clerk,
As he mopped his streaming brow
With his bright tri-coloured sash--
"Thou Lascaro! thou that hast
From that monster Atta Troll,
By both lands shalt be acclaimed the
When Lascaro in official
Wise thus heard himself announced
As a hero, then he smiled
In his beard and blushed for joy.
And in stammering syllables
And in broken phrases he
Stuttered forth his gratitude
For the honour shown to him.
Wonder-smitten then stood all
At the unexpected sight,
And in low and timid tones
Thus the ancient women spoke:
"Did you hear Lascaro laugh?
Did you see Lascaro blush?
Did you hear Lascaro speak?
He the witch's perished son!"
On that very day they flayed
Atta Troll. At auction they
Sold his hide. A furrier bid
Just an even hundred francs.
And the furrier decked the skin
Handsomely, and mounted it
All on scarlet. For this work
He demanded twice the cost.
From a third hand Juliet
Then received it. Now it lies
As a rug before her bed
In the city by the Seine.
Oh, how many nights I've stood
Barefoot on the earthly husk
Of my hero great and true,
On the hide of Atta Troll!
Then by sorrow deeply touched
Would I think of Schiller's words:
"That which song would make eternal
First must perish from the Earth."
Is a woman. Frailty
Is her name! Alas, that women
Should be frail as porcelain!
Now when Fate had parted her
From her great and noble mate,
Did she perish of her woe,
Sinking into hopeless gloom?
Nay, contrarywise, she lived
Merrily as ever--danced
For the public as before,
Eager for their plaudits too.
And at last a splendid place
And support for all her days
Was procured for her in Paris
At the old Jardin-des-Plantes.
There, last Sunday as I strolled
Through that place with Juliet,
Baring Nature's realms to her--
Animal and vegetable,--
Tall giraffes, and cedars brought
Out of Lebanon, the huge
Dromedary, golden pheasants,
And the zebra;--chatting thus,--
We at last stood still and leaned
O'er the rampart of that pit
Where the bears are safely penned--
Heavens! what a sight we saw!
There a huge bear from the wastes
Of Siberia, snowy-white,
Dallied in a love-feast sweet
With a she-bear small and dark.
This was Mumma! This, alas,
Was the mate of Atta Troll!
Well I knew her by the soft
Glances of her dewy eye.
It was she! the daughter dark
Of the Southland! Mumma lives
With a Russian now; she lives
With this savage of the North!
Coming up with stealthy pace:
"Could there be a fairer sight
Than a pair of lovers, say?"
Then I answered him: "Pray, who
Honours me by this address?"
Whereupon he cried amazed:
"Have you quite forgotten me?
"Why I am that Moorish prince
Who beat drums in Freiligrath--
Times were bad--in Germany
I was lonely and forlorn.
"Now as keeper I'm employed
In this garden,--here I find
All the flowers of my native
Tropics,--lions, tigers, too.
"Here I feel content and gay,
Better than at German fairs,
Where each day I beat the drum
And was fed but scantily.
"Late in wedlock was I bound
To a blonde Alsatian cook,
And within her arms I feel
All my native joys again!
"And her feet remind me ever
Of my blessed elephants,
And her French has quite the ring
Of my sable mother-tongue.
"When she coughs, the rattle fierce
Moves me of that famous drum
Which, bedecked with human skulls,
Drove the snakes and lions far.
"But when moonlight charms her mood,
Like a crocodile she weeps,
Which from out some luke-warm stream
Lifts to gape in cooler air.
"And she cooks me dainty bits.
See, I thrive! I feed again
As upon the Niger I
Fed with gusto African!
"Mark the nicely rounded paunch
I possess! Behold it peeps
From my shirt like some black moon
Stealing forth from whitest clouds."
"Heavens! where, dear Ludoviso,
With these words did Cardinal
D'Este Ariosto greet
When that poet read his work
On Orlando's madness. This
He unto His Eminence
Humbly sought to dedicate.
Yes, Varnhagen, dear old friend,
Yes, I see these very words
Tremble on thy lips, that same
Faint and devastating smile.
Sometimes o'er a book thou laughest,
Then again in earnestness
Thy high forehead wrinkles o'er
As old memories come to thee.
Hark unto the dreams of youth!
Such Chamisso dreamed with me,
And Brentano, Fouque, too,
In blue nights beneath the moon.
Comes no sound of saintly chimes
From that vanished forest fane,
And no tinkling of the gay
Unforgotten cap-and-bells?
Through the choir of nightingales
Rumbles now the growl of bears,
Low and fierce, and changes then
To the gibbering of ghosts!
Madness in the guise of sense,
Wisdom with a broken spine!
Dying sobs which suddenly
Into hollow laughter pass!
Aye, my friend, such strains arise
From the dream-time that is dead,
Though some modern trills may oft
Caper through the ancient theme.
Spite of waywardness thou'lt find
Here and there a note of pain;--
To thy well-proved mildness now
Do I recommend my song!
'Tis, perchance, the final strain
Of the pure and free Romance:--
In to-day's wild battle-clash,
Miserably it must end.
Other times and other birds!
Other birds and other songs!
What a chattering as of geese
That had saved a capitol!
What a chirping!--sparrows these
Penny tapers in their claws,
Yet have they assumed the ways
Of Jove's eagle with the bolt.
What a cooing! Turtle-doves,
Cloyed with love, now long to hate,
And thenceforth in place of Venus'
They would drag Bellona's car!
What a buzz that shakes the skies!--
These must be the great May-beetles
Of the nation's dawning Spring,
With a Viking fury seized!
Other times and other birds!
Other birds and other songs;--
These, perchance, might yield delight
Were I blest with other ears!
Ledru-Rollin represented France and Mazzini Italy.
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH (1810-1876). A well-known poet and skilful
democrats--but they alone--find it easy to feel comfortable and
patriotic in such a milieu.
PUTANA. Italian for strumpet.
Athletics was one of the pet ideas of the German patriots; the
TUISKION. The god whom the Germans, according to Tacitus (vide
"Germania," cap. II) regard as the original father of their race.
century, amongst others of Richard Wagner. The latter, however,
co-religionaries from the oppressive influence of the Talmud.
PROPERTY IS THEFT. A dictum of Prudhon.
therefore represented in Heine's poem by the fairy Abunda, in
supernatural world. Thousands of those who believed, or wished to
Roncesvalles, as related in the well-known "Chanson de Roland."
character," has become a familiar phrase in Germany.
DROVE THE SNAKES AND LIONS FAR. A burlesque quotation from
VARNHAGEN VON ENSE (1785-1858). After abandoning his career as a
politicians that came storming after them. This doctrinaire and
lyrico-satiric masterpiece, "Atta Troll." The poem has been
"ond entreaties" was changed to "fond entreaties."