Like some drowsy bayaderesLook the mountains, standing shiv’ringIn their snowy shirts of clouds,Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.Yet they soon become enliven’dBy the sun-god stripping from themAll the veil that’s hanging o’er themLighting up their naked beauty!Early in the morn I startedWith Lascaro on our journeyBound to hunt the bear. At noondayWe arrived at Pont d’Espagne.So they call the bridge which leadethOut of France and into Spain,To the land of west barbarians,Who’re a thousand years behind us,—Yes, a thousand years behind usIn all modern civ’lisation;My barbarians to the eastwardBut a hundred years behind are.Slowly, almost trembling, left IFrance’s sacred territory,Blessèd fatherland of freedomAnd the women that I love!On the middle of the bridgeA poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ryLurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,Misery in his eyes was lurking.An old crazy mandolineWith his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;Shrill the discord which re-echoedFrom the rocks, as in derision.Oftentimes his figure bent heDownward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,Tinkling harder then than ever,While the following words he sang:“In the middle of my bosom“Stands a little golden table;“Round the little golden table“Stand four little golden chairs.“On the golden chairs are sitting“Little ladies, golden arrows“In their hair,—at cards they’re playing,“But ’tis only Clara wins.“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”Wand’ring onward, to myself ISpoke: “’Tis singular that madnessSits and sings upon yon bridge,That from France to Spain leads over.“Is this madman but the emblem“Of the interchange ’mongst nations“Of their thoughts? or his own country’s“Wild and crazy title-page?”We arrived not until eveningAt the wretched small posada,Where an olla-podridaIn a dirty dish was smoking.There I swallow’d some garbanzos,Heavy, large as musket-bullets,Indigestible to Germans,Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.Fit companion to the cookingWas the bed. With insects pepper’dIt appear’d. The bugs, alas! areFar the greatest foes of man.Fiercer than the wrath of thousandElephants, I find the hatredOf one tiny little bug,When across my bed it crawleth.One must let them bite in quiet,—This is bad enough,—still more ’tisIf one crushes them. The stink thenKeeps one all night long in torment.Yes, the fiercest earthly troubleIs the fight with noxious vermin,Who a stench employ as weapons,—Is a duel with a bug!
Like some drowsy bayaderesLook the mountains, standing shiv’ringIn their snowy shirts of clouds,Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.Yet they soon become enliven’dBy the sun-god stripping from themAll the veil that’s hanging o’er themLighting up their naked beauty!Early in the morn I startedWith Lascaro on our journeyBound to hunt the bear. At noondayWe arrived at Pont d’Espagne.So they call the bridge which leadethOut of France and into Spain,To the land of west barbarians,Who’re a thousand years behind us,—Yes, a thousand years behind usIn all modern civ’lisation;My barbarians to the eastwardBut a hundred years behind are.Slowly, almost trembling, left IFrance’s sacred territory,Blessèd fatherland of freedomAnd the women that I love!On the middle of the bridgeA poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ryLurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,Misery in his eyes was lurking.An old crazy mandolineWith his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;Shrill the discord which re-echoedFrom the rocks, as in derision.Oftentimes his figure bent heDownward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,Tinkling harder then than ever,While the following words he sang:“In the middle of my bosom“Stands a little golden table;“Round the little golden table“Stand four little golden chairs.“On the golden chairs are sitting“Little ladies, golden arrows“In their hair,—at cards they’re playing,“But ’tis only Clara wins.“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”Wand’ring onward, to myself ISpoke: “’Tis singular that madnessSits and sings upon yon bridge,That from France to Spain leads over.“Is this madman but the emblem“Of the interchange ’mongst nations“Of their thoughts? or his own country’s“Wild and crazy title-page?”We arrived not until eveningAt the wretched small posada,Where an olla-podridaIn a dirty dish was smoking.There I swallow’d some garbanzos,Heavy, large as musket-bullets,Indigestible to Germans,Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.Fit companion to the cookingWas the bed. With insects pepper’dIt appear’d. The bugs, alas! areFar the greatest foes of man.Fiercer than the wrath of thousandElephants, I find the hatredOf one tiny little bug,When across my bed it crawleth.One must let them bite in quiet,—This is bad enough,—still more ’tisIf one crushes them. The stink thenKeeps one all night long in torment.Yes, the fiercest earthly troubleIs the fight with noxious vermin,Who a stench employ as weapons,—Is a duel with a bug!
Like some drowsy bayaderesLook the mountains, standing shiv’ringIn their snowy shirts of clouds,Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.
Yet they soon become enliven’dBy the sun-god stripping from themAll the veil that’s hanging o’er themLighting up their naked beauty!
Early in the morn I startedWith Lascaro on our journeyBound to hunt the bear. At noondayWe arrived at Pont d’Espagne.
So they call the bridge which leadethOut of France and into Spain,To the land of west barbarians,Who’re a thousand years behind us,—
Yes, a thousand years behind usIn all modern civ’lisation;My barbarians to the eastwardBut a hundred years behind are.
Slowly, almost trembling, left IFrance’s sacred territory,Blessèd fatherland of freedomAnd the women that I love!
On the middle of the bridgeA poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ryLurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,Misery in his eyes was lurking.
An old crazy mandolineWith his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;Shrill the discord which re-echoedFrom the rocks, as in derision.
Oftentimes his figure bent heDownward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,Tinkling harder then than ever,While the following words he sang:
“In the middle of my bosom“Stands a little golden table;“Round the little golden table“Stand four little golden chairs.
“On the golden chairs are sitting“Little ladies, golden arrows“In their hair,—at cards they’re playing,“But ’tis only Clara wins.
“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”
Wand’ring onward, to myself ISpoke: “’Tis singular that madnessSits and sings upon yon bridge,That from France to Spain leads over.
“Is this madman but the emblem“Of the interchange ’mongst nations“Of their thoughts? or his own country’s“Wild and crazy title-page?”
We arrived not until eveningAt the wretched small posada,Where an olla-podridaIn a dirty dish was smoking.
There I swallow’d some garbanzos,Heavy, large as musket-bullets,Indigestible to Germans,Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.
Fit companion to the cookingWas the bed. With insects pepper’dIt appear’d. The bugs, alas! areFar the greatest foes of man.
Fiercer than the wrath of thousandElephants, I find the hatredOf one tiny little bug,When across my bed it crawleth.
One must let them bite in quiet,—This is bad enough,—still more ’tisIf one crushes them. The stink thenKeeps one all night long in torment.
Yes, the fiercest earthly troubleIs the fight with noxious vermin,Who a stench employ as weapons,—Is a duel with a bug!
How they rave, the race of poets,E’en the tame ones, singing everAnd exclaiming: “Nature’s surely“The Creator’s mighty temple—“Is a temple all whose glories“To our Maker’s fame bear witness,“Sun and moon and stars all hanging“In its cupola as lamps.”Well and good, my worthy people!Yet confess that in this templeAre the stairs uncomfortable,Bad and inconvenient stairs!All this up-and-down-stairs going,Mountain-climbing and this jumpingOver rocks is very tiringTo the legs as well as spirit.Close beside me walk’d Lascaro,Pale and lanky, like a taper;Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man,Dead long since, but yet his motherOld Uraca’s magic scienceKept him living in appearance.—That accursèd temple-staircase!It exceeds my comprehensionHow my neck escaped from breaking,Stumbling o’er a precipice.How the cataracts were shrieking!How the tempest flogg’d the fir-treesTill they howl’d! The clouds began tooCrashing suddenly—bad weather!In a little fishing cottageBy the Lac-de-Gobe soon found weShelter and some trout for luncheon;Most delicious were the latter.In an arm-chair was reclining,Ill and grey, the ferryman;On him his two pretty nieces,Like a pair of angels, waited.Stoutish angels, rather Flemish,Seeming from a frame descendedOf a Rubens; gold their tresses,Full of health their eyes, and liquid.Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,With a secret slyness in them;Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,Giving pleasure to the fancy.Dear, affectionate young creatures,Keeping up a sweet discussion,As to which drink would be relish’dMost of all by their sick uncle.If the one the cup should bring himFull of well-boil’d linden blossoms,Then the other hastes to feed himWith an elder-flow’r decoction.“I’ll not drink of either of them,”“Cried impatiently the old man;“Fetch some wine, that I may offer“To my guests some better drink!”Whether it was wine they gave meAt the Lac-de-Gobe, I reallyCannot say. Methinks in BrunswickBy the name of Mum they’d call it.Of the very best black goat-skinWas the wine-skin, stinking foully;Yet the old man drank with pleasure,And he seem’d quite well and joyous.He recounted the achievementsOf the smugglers and bandittiMerrily and freely livingIn the Pyrenean forests.Many old traditions alsoWell he knew: amongst the othersWere the battles of the giantsWith the bears in times primeval.Yes, the bears then and the giantsStruggled fiercely for the mast’ryOf these mountains and these valleys,Ere by man they were discover’d.But when man arrived, the giantsFled away from out the countryStupified, for little brainsAre contain’d in heads gigantic.And ’tis said the silly fellows,On arriving at the ocean,And observing how the heavensIn its azure depths were mirror’d,Cleverly supposed the oceanTo be heaven, and plunged down in it,Full of godlike confidence,And were drown’d, the whole togetherAs respects the bears, however,They are gradually beingKill’d by man, their numbers yearlyIn the mountain still decreasing.“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man,“One gives place unto another,“And when men are put an end to,“Then the dwarfs will be the masters.“Yes, the clever little people,“Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,“‘Mongst the golden mines of riches“Digging and collecting nimbly.“How they from their hiding-places“With their small sly heads keep peeping!“Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,“And then trembled at the future;“At the power their gold will give them;“Ah, I fear lest our descendants“Fly for refuge, like the stupid“Giants, to the watery heaven!”
How they rave, the race of poets,E’en the tame ones, singing everAnd exclaiming: “Nature’s surely“The Creator’s mighty temple—“Is a temple all whose glories“To our Maker’s fame bear witness,“Sun and moon and stars all hanging“In its cupola as lamps.”Well and good, my worthy people!Yet confess that in this templeAre the stairs uncomfortable,Bad and inconvenient stairs!All this up-and-down-stairs going,Mountain-climbing and this jumpingOver rocks is very tiringTo the legs as well as spirit.Close beside me walk’d Lascaro,Pale and lanky, like a taper;Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man,Dead long since, but yet his motherOld Uraca’s magic scienceKept him living in appearance.—That accursèd temple-staircase!It exceeds my comprehensionHow my neck escaped from breaking,Stumbling o’er a precipice.How the cataracts were shrieking!How the tempest flogg’d the fir-treesTill they howl’d! The clouds began tooCrashing suddenly—bad weather!In a little fishing cottageBy the Lac-de-Gobe soon found weShelter and some trout for luncheon;Most delicious were the latter.In an arm-chair was reclining,Ill and grey, the ferryman;On him his two pretty nieces,Like a pair of angels, waited.Stoutish angels, rather Flemish,Seeming from a frame descendedOf a Rubens; gold their tresses,Full of health their eyes, and liquid.Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,With a secret slyness in them;Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,Giving pleasure to the fancy.Dear, affectionate young creatures,Keeping up a sweet discussion,As to which drink would be relish’dMost of all by their sick uncle.If the one the cup should bring himFull of well-boil’d linden blossoms,Then the other hastes to feed himWith an elder-flow’r decoction.“I’ll not drink of either of them,”“Cried impatiently the old man;“Fetch some wine, that I may offer“To my guests some better drink!”Whether it was wine they gave meAt the Lac-de-Gobe, I reallyCannot say. Methinks in BrunswickBy the name of Mum they’d call it.Of the very best black goat-skinWas the wine-skin, stinking foully;Yet the old man drank with pleasure,And he seem’d quite well and joyous.He recounted the achievementsOf the smugglers and bandittiMerrily and freely livingIn the Pyrenean forests.Many old traditions alsoWell he knew: amongst the othersWere the battles of the giantsWith the bears in times primeval.Yes, the bears then and the giantsStruggled fiercely for the mast’ryOf these mountains and these valleys,Ere by man they were discover’d.But when man arrived, the giantsFled away from out the countryStupified, for little brainsAre contain’d in heads gigantic.And ’tis said the silly fellows,On arriving at the ocean,And observing how the heavensIn its azure depths were mirror’d,Cleverly supposed the oceanTo be heaven, and plunged down in it,Full of godlike confidence,And were drown’d, the whole togetherAs respects the bears, however,They are gradually beingKill’d by man, their numbers yearlyIn the mountain still decreasing.“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man,“One gives place unto another,“And when men are put an end to,“Then the dwarfs will be the masters.“Yes, the clever little people,“Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,“‘Mongst the golden mines of riches“Digging and collecting nimbly.“How they from their hiding-places“With their small sly heads keep peeping!“Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,“And then trembled at the future;“At the power their gold will give them;“Ah, I fear lest our descendants“Fly for refuge, like the stupid“Giants, to the watery heaven!”
How they rave, the race of poets,E’en the tame ones, singing everAnd exclaiming: “Nature’s surely“The Creator’s mighty temple—
“Is a temple all whose glories“To our Maker’s fame bear witness,“Sun and moon and stars all hanging“In its cupola as lamps.”
Well and good, my worthy people!Yet confess that in this templeAre the stairs uncomfortable,Bad and inconvenient stairs!
All this up-and-down-stairs going,Mountain-climbing and this jumpingOver rocks is very tiringTo the legs as well as spirit.
Close beside me walk’d Lascaro,Pale and lanky, like a taper;Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.
Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man,Dead long since, but yet his motherOld Uraca’s magic scienceKept him living in appearance.—
That accursèd temple-staircase!It exceeds my comprehensionHow my neck escaped from breaking,Stumbling o’er a precipice.
How the cataracts were shrieking!How the tempest flogg’d the fir-treesTill they howl’d! The clouds began tooCrashing suddenly—bad weather!
In a little fishing cottageBy the Lac-de-Gobe soon found weShelter and some trout for luncheon;Most delicious were the latter.
In an arm-chair was reclining,Ill and grey, the ferryman;On him his two pretty nieces,Like a pair of angels, waited.
Stoutish angels, rather Flemish,Seeming from a frame descendedOf a Rubens; gold their tresses,Full of health their eyes, and liquid.
Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,With a secret slyness in them;Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,Giving pleasure to the fancy.
Dear, affectionate young creatures,Keeping up a sweet discussion,As to which drink would be relish’dMost of all by their sick uncle.
If the one the cup should bring himFull of well-boil’d linden blossoms,Then the other hastes to feed himWith an elder-flow’r decoction.
“I’ll not drink of either of them,”“Cried impatiently the old man;“Fetch some wine, that I may offer“To my guests some better drink!”
Whether it was wine they gave meAt the Lac-de-Gobe, I reallyCannot say. Methinks in BrunswickBy the name of Mum they’d call it.
Of the very best black goat-skinWas the wine-skin, stinking foully;Yet the old man drank with pleasure,And he seem’d quite well and joyous.
He recounted the achievementsOf the smugglers and bandittiMerrily and freely livingIn the Pyrenean forests.
Many old traditions alsoWell he knew: amongst the othersWere the battles of the giantsWith the bears in times primeval.
Yes, the bears then and the giantsStruggled fiercely for the mast’ryOf these mountains and these valleys,Ere by man they were discover’d.
But when man arrived, the giantsFled away from out the countryStupified, for little brainsAre contain’d in heads gigantic.
And ’tis said the silly fellows,On arriving at the ocean,And observing how the heavensIn its azure depths were mirror’d,
Cleverly supposed the oceanTo be heaven, and plunged down in it,Full of godlike confidence,And were drown’d, the whole together
As respects the bears, however,They are gradually beingKill’d by man, their numbers yearlyIn the mountain still decreasing.
“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man,“One gives place unto another,“And when men are put an end to,“Then the dwarfs will be the masters.
“Yes, the clever little people,“Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,“‘Mongst the golden mines of riches“Digging and collecting nimbly.
“How they from their hiding-places“With their small sly heads keep peeping!“Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,“And then trembled at the future;
“At the power their gold will give them;“Ah, I fear lest our descendants“Fly for refuge, like the stupid“Giants, to the watery heaven!”
In the black and rocky caldronRest the waters deep of ocean;Stars, all pale and melancholy,Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.Night and silence. Oars are moving.Like a splashing wondrous secretFloats the bark. The old man’s niecesPlay the part of ferrymen,Joyously and nimbly rowing;Ofttimes glisten in the darknessTheir stout naked arms, illuminedBy the stars,—their great blue eyes, too.By my side Lascaro sittingIs as pale and mute as usual,And the fearful thought shoots through me:Is he but a very corpse then?I myself,—am I dead also,And embarking on my journeyWith my ghostly comrades by meTo the chilly realm of shadows?And this lake, can it be Styx’sGloomy flood? Has Proserpina,In default of Charon’s presence,Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?No! I am not yet departedAnd extinguish’d; in my spiritIs the living flame of life stillGlowing, blazing and exulting.And these maidens, gaily pullingAt their oars, and o’er me splashingWith the water dripping from them,Full of merriment and laughter,—These two fresh and sprightly damselsAre most certainly not ghostlyChambermaids in hell residing,Waiting-maids of Proserpina!That I might be fully certainOf their upper-worldliness,And by practical experienceAscertain my own existence,Hastily my lips applied ITo their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,And then framed this syllogism:Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!When we reach’d the shore, again IKiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;In this coin, and no other,Would they take the passage-money.
In the black and rocky caldronRest the waters deep of ocean;Stars, all pale and melancholy,Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.Night and silence. Oars are moving.Like a splashing wondrous secretFloats the bark. The old man’s niecesPlay the part of ferrymen,Joyously and nimbly rowing;Ofttimes glisten in the darknessTheir stout naked arms, illuminedBy the stars,—their great blue eyes, too.By my side Lascaro sittingIs as pale and mute as usual,And the fearful thought shoots through me:Is he but a very corpse then?I myself,—am I dead also,And embarking on my journeyWith my ghostly comrades by meTo the chilly realm of shadows?And this lake, can it be Styx’sGloomy flood? Has Proserpina,In default of Charon’s presence,Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?No! I am not yet departedAnd extinguish’d; in my spiritIs the living flame of life stillGlowing, blazing and exulting.And these maidens, gaily pullingAt their oars, and o’er me splashingWith the water dripping from them,Full of merriment and laughter,—These two fresh and sprightly damselsAre most certainly not ghostlyChambermaids in hell residing,Waiting-maids of Proserpina!That I might be fully certainOf their upper-worldliness,And by practical experienceAscertain my own existence,Hastily my lips applied ITo their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,And then framed this syllogism:Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!When we reach’d the shore, again IKiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;In this coin, and no other,Would they take the passage-money.
In the black and rocky caldronRest the waters deep of ocean;Stars, all pale and melancholy,Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.
Night and silence. Oars are moving.Like a splashing wondrous secretFloats the bark. The old man’s niecesPlay the part of ferrymen,
Joyously and nimbly rowing;Ofttimes glisten in the darknessTheir stout naked arms, illuminedBy the stars,—their great blue eyes, too.
By my side Lascaro sittingIs as pale and mute as usual,And the fearful thought shoots through me:Is he but a very corpse then?
I myself,—am I dead also,And embarking on my journeyWith my ghostly comrades by meTo the chilly realm of shadows?
And this lake, can it be Styx’sGloomy flood? Has Proserpina,In default of Charon’s presence,Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?
No! I am not yet departedAnd extinguish’d; in my spiritIs the living flame of life stillGlowing, blazing and exulting.
And these maidens, gaily pullingAt their oars, and o’er me splashingWith the water dripping from them,Full of merriment and laughter,—
These two fresh and sprightly damselsAre most certainly not ghostlyChambermaids in hell residing,Waiting-maids of Proserpina!
That I might be fully certainOf their upper-worldliness,And by practical experienceAscertain my own existence,
Hastily my lips applied ITo their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,And then framed this syllogism:Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!
When we reach’d the shore, again IKiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;In this coin, and no other,Would they take the passage-money.
Violet-colour’d mountain summitsSmile from out the sunny gold-ground;To the slope a village clingeth,Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.When I climb’d up to it, found IThat the old ones all had flown,And that none were now remainingSave the young, who could not fly yet;Pretty boys, and little maidens,Almost hidden in their scarletOr white woollen caps, whilst playingAt a marriage, in the market.Still they play’d regardless of me,And I saw how the enamour’dMouse-prince knelt patheticallyTo the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.Poor young prince! Alas! he’s marriedTo the beauty. She moroselyWrangles, bites him, and then eats him;When he’s dead, the game is over.Almost all the day I linger’dWith the children, and we chattedLike old friends. They fain would ask meWho I was, and what my business.“Dear young friends, my native country“Is call’d Germany,” I told them:“Bears are found there in abundance,“And my business is bear-hunting.“There I’ve torn the skin from many“Of their bearish ears, and sometimes“Found myself full sorely handled“By the paws of Master Bruin.“Yet with ill-lick’d doltards daily“I was forced to keep on wrangling“In my own dear home, and found it“Get at length beyond all bearing.“And accordingly here came I,“Some more noble prey desiring,“And I fain would try my forces“‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.“He’s a noble adversary,“Worthy of me. Ah! I often“Have in Germany been victor,“When my victory ashamed me.”When I took my leave, around meDanced the pretty little beingsIn a rondo, whilst thus sang they:“Girofflino, Girofflette!”Full of charming impudenceStepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me,Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times,While with pleasing voice thus sang she:“When the king I chance to meet with,“Then I make him two low curtsies;“When the queen I chance to meet with,“Then I make her curtsies three.“But whene’er the devil happens“With his horns to come across me,“Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times—“Girofflino, Girofflette!”“Girofflino, Girofflette!”Sang the chorus, and with bant’ringRound my legs kept gaily whirlingWith their circling dance and sing-song.Whilst descending to the valleyThat sweet echo still pursued meEvermore, like birds’ soft chirping:“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Violet-colour’d mountain summitsSmile from out the sunny gold-ground;To the slope a village clingeth,Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.When I climb’d up to it, found IThat the old ones all had flown,And that none were now remainingSave the young, who could not fly yet;Pretty boys, and little maidens,Almost hidden in their scarletOr white woollen caps, whilst playingAt a marriage, in the market.Still they play’d regardless of me,And I saw how the enamour’dMouse-prince knelt patheticallyTo the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.Poor young prince! Alas! he’s marriedTo the beauty. She moroselyWrangles, bites him, and then eats him;When he’s dead, the game is over.Almost all the day I linger’dWith the children, and we chattedLike old friends. They fain would ask meWho I was, and what my business.“Dear young friends, my native country“Is call’d Germany,” I told them:“Bears are found there in abundance,“And my business is bear-hunting.“There I’ve torn the skin from many“Of their bearish ears, and sometimes“Found myself full sorely handled“By the paws of Master Bruin.“Yet with ill-lick’d doltards daily“I was forced to keep on wrangling“In my own dear home, and found it“Get at length beyond all bearing.“And accordingly here came I,“Some more noble prey desiring,“And I fain would try my forces“‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.“He’s a noble adversary,“Worthy of me. Ah! I often“Have in Germany been victor,“When my victory ashamed me.”When I took my leave, around meDanced the pretty little beingsIn a rondo, whilst thus sang they:“Girofflino, Girofflette!”Full of charming impudenceStepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me,Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times,While with pleasing voice thus sang she:“When the king I chance to meet with,“Then I make him two low curtsies;“When the queen I chance to meet with,“Then I make her curtsies three.“But whene’er the devil happens“With his horns to come across me,“Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times—“Girofflino, Girofflette!”“Girofflino, Girofflette!”Sang the chorus, and with bant’ringRound my legs kept gaily whirlingWith their circling dance and sing-song.Whilst descending to the valleyThat sweet echo still pursued meEvermore, like birds’ soft chirping:“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Violet-colour’d mountain summitsSmile from out the sunny gold-ground;To the slope a village clingeth,Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.
When I climb’d up to it, found IThat the old ones all had flown,And that none were now remainingSave the young, who could not fly yet;
Pretty boys, and little maidens,Almost hidden in their scarletOr white woollen caps, whilst playingAt a marriage, in the market.
Still they play’d regardless of me,And I saw how the enamour’dMouse-prince knelt patheticallyTo the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.
Poor young prince! Alas! he’s marriedTo the beauty. She moroselyWrangles, bites him, and then eats him;When he’s dead, the game is over.
Almost all the day I linger’dWith the children, and we chattedLike old friends. They fain would ask meWho I was, and what my business.
“Dear young friends, my native country“Is call’d Germany,” I told them:“Bears are found there in abundance,“And my business is bear-hunting.
“There I’ve torn the skin from many“Of their bearish ears, and sometimes“Found myself full sorely handled“By the paws of Master Bruin.
“Yet with ill-lick’d doltards daily“I was forced to keep on wrangling“In my own dear home, and found it“Get at length beyond all bearing.
“And accordingly here came I,“Some more noble prey desiring,“And I fain would try my forces“‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.
“He’s a noble adversary,“Worthy of me. Ah! I often“Have in Germany been victor,“When my victory ashamed me.”
When I took my leave, around meDanced the pretty little beingsIn a rondo, whilst thus sang they:“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Full of charming impudenceStepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me,Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times,While with pleasing voice thus sang she:
“When the king I chance to meet with,“Then I make him two low curtsies;“When the queen I chance to meet with,“Then I make her curtsies three.
“But whene’er the devil happens“With his horns to come across me,“Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times—“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”Sang the chorus, and with bant’ringRound my legs kept gaily whirlingWith their circling dance and sing-song.
Whilst descending to the valleyThat sweet echo still pursued meEvermore, like birds’ soft chirping:“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Rocky blocks, of size gigantic,All-misshapen and distorted,Gaze upon me like fierce monstersTurn’d to stone, from times primeval.Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ringHigh above me, like their double;They’re the pallid counterfeitOf those wild and stony figures.In the distance roars the streamlet,And the wind howls through the fir-trees;’Tis a noise inexorable,And as wretched as despair.Solitude most terrible!Troops of jackdaws black are sittingOn the batter’d crumbling fir-trees,Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.Close beside me goes Lascaro,Pale and silent,—I myself, too,Looking like incarnate madness,With grim death as my companion.Wild and wretched is the country;Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks IOn the roots of yonder stuntedTree can marks of blood discover.It o’ershadoweth a cottage,Which is modestly half-hiddenIn the earth; with meek entreatySeems its thatch to gaze upon thee.They who this poor cot inhabitAreCagots,[31]surviving relicsOf a race that deep in darknessLives a sad despised existence.In the hearts of the BiscayansStill is rooted fast the loathingOf Cagots, dark heritageFrom dark days of superstition.In Bagnères cathedral evenIs a narrow grated entrance;This, the sacristan inform’d me,Was the door Cagots went in at.Once to them all other ingressTo the church was interdicted,And by stealth they had to enterIn God’s holy house, like felons.There, upon a lowly footstool,Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d thereAll alone,—as though infected,Sever’d from the congregation.But the consecrated tapersOf this century flare brightly,And their lustre scares the evilShadows of the middle ages!So outside remained Lascaro,Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottageEnter’d, and my hand extendedKindly to my suff’ring brother.And I also kiss’d his infant,Who, close-clinging to the bosomOf his wife, suck’d greedily,Looking like a sickly spider.
Rocky blocks, of size gigantic,All-misshapen and distorted,Gaze upon me like fierce monstersTurn’d to stone, from times primeval.Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ringHigh above me, like their double;They’re the pallid counterfeitOf those wild and stony figures.In the distance roars the streamlet,And the wind howls through the fir-trees;’Tis a noise inexorable,And as wretched as despair.Solitude most terrible!Troops of jackdaws black are sittingOn the batter’d crumbling fir-trees,Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.Close beside me goes Lascaro,Pale and silent,—I myself, too,Looking like incarnate madness,With grim death as my companion.Wild and wretched is the country;Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks IOn the roots of yonder stuntedTree can marks of blood discover.It o’ershadoweth a cottage,Which is modestly half-hiddenIn the earth; with meek entreatySeems its thatch to gaze upon thee.They who this poor cot inhabitAreCagots,[31]surviving relicsOf a race that deep in darknessLives a sad despised existence.In the hearts of the BiscayansStill is rooted fast the loathingOf Cagots, dark heritageFrom dark days of superstition.In Bagnères cathedral evenIs a narrow grated entrance;This, the sacristan inform’d me,Was the door Cagots went in at.Once to them all other ingressTo the church was interdicted,And by stealth they had to enterIn God’s holy house, like felons.There, upon a lowly footstool,Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d thereAll alone,—as though infected,Sever’d from the congregation.But the consecrated tapersOf this century flare brightly,And their lustre scares the evilShadows of the middle ages!So outside remained Lascaro,Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottageEnter’d, and my hand extendedKindly to my suff’ring brother.And I also kiss’d his infant,Who, close-clinging to the bosomOf his wife, suck’d greedily,Looking like a sickly spider.
Rocky blocks, of size gigantic,All-misshapen and distorted,Gaze upon me like fierce monstersTurn’d to stone, from times primeval.
Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ringHigh above me, like their double;They’re the pallid counterfeitOf those wild and stony figures.
In the distance roars the streamlet,And the wind howls through the fir-trees;’Tis a noise inexorable,And as wretched as despair.
Solitude most terrible!Troops of jackdaws black are sittingOn the batter’d crumbling fir-trees,Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.
Close beside me goes Lascaro,Pale and silent,—I myself, too,Looking like incarnate madness,With grim death as my companion.
Wild and wretched is the country;Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks IOn the roots of yonder stuntedTree can marks of blood discover.
It o’ershadoweth a cottage,Which is modestly half-hiddenIn the earth; with meek entreatySeems its thatch to gaze upon thee.
They who this poor cot inhabitAreCagots,[31]surviving relicsOf a race that deep in darknessLives a sad despised existence.
In the hearts of the BiscayansStill is rooted fast the loathingOf Cagots, dark heritageFrom dark days of superstition.
In Bagnères cathedral evenIs a narrow grated entrance;This, the sacristan inform’d me,Was the door Cagots went in at.
Once to them all other ingressTo the church was interdicted,And by stealth they had to enterIn God’s holy house, like felons.
There, upon a lowly footstool,Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d thereAll alone,—as though infected,Sever’d from the congregation.
But the consecrated tapersOf this century flare brightly,And their lustre scares the evilShadows of the middle ages!
So outside remained Lascaro,Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottageEnter’d, and my hand extendedKindly to my suff’ring brother.
And I also kiss’d his infant,Who, close-clinging to the bosomOf his wife, suck’d greedily,Looking like a sickly spider.
When thou see’st yon mountain summitsFrom a distance, they are gleamingAs though deck’d with gold and purple,Proud and princely in the sunlight.But when close at hand, this splendourVanishes, and, as in otherEarthly loveliness and glory,’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.What to thee seem’d gold and purpleIs, alas! but common snow,Common snow, which, pale and wretched,Lives a weary life and lonely.Just above me heard I plainlyHow the hapless snow was crackling,To the heartless cold winds tellingAll the tale of its white sorrows.“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it,“In the desert waste the hours!“O these hours that seem quite endless,“Like eternities hard frozen!“Hapless snow! O had I only,“‘Stead of on these mountain summits,“Fallen into yonder valley,“Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,“Then should I have softly melted,“And become a brook, whilst fairest“Village maidens in my waters“Would have washed their smiling faces.“Yes, perchance I should have floated“To the ocean, there becoming“Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d“To adorn a monarch’s crown!”When I heard this pretty language,Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful“Whether such a brilliant future“Would have met thee in the valley.“Comfort take! But few amongst you“Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen“Probably in some small puddle,“And become a piece of dirt!”Whilst I in this friendly fashionWith the snow held conversation,Came a shot, and from above meFell to earth a tawny vulture.’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro,Sportsman’s joke; and yet his featuresStill continued fix’d and solemn,His gun-barrel only smoking.He in silence tore a featherFrom the bird’s tail, and then stuck itOn the top of his peak’d felt-hat,And then hasten’d on as usual.Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him,As his shadow with the featherOn the white snow of the mountain,Black and long, was onward moving.
When thou see’st yon mountain summitsFrom a distance, they are gleamingAs though deck’d with gold and purple,Proud and princely in the sunlight.But when close at hand, this splendourVanishes, and, as in otherEarthly loveliness and glory,’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.What to thee seem’d gold and purpleIs, alas! but common snow,Common snow, which, pale and wretched,Lives a weary life and lonely.Just above me heard I plainlyHow the hapless snow was crackling,To the heartless cold winds tellingAll the tale of its white sorrows.“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it,“In the desert waste the hours!“O these hours that seem quite endless,“Like eternities hard frozen!“Hapless snow! O had I only,“‘Stead of on these mountain summits,“Fallen into yonder valley,“Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,“Then should I have softly melted,“And become a brook, whilst fairest“Village maidens in my waters“Would have washed their smiling faces.“Yes, perchance I should have floated“To the ocean, there becoming“Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d“To adorn a monarch’s crown!”When I heard this pretty language,Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful“Whether such a brilliant future“Would have met thee in the valley.“Comfort take! But few amongst you“Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen“Probably in some small puddle,“And become a piece of dirt!”Whilst I in this friendly fashionWith the snow held conversation,Came a shot, and from above meFell to earth a tawny vulture.’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro,Sportsman’s joke; and yet his featuresStill continued fix’d and solemn,His gun-barrel only smoking.He in silence tore a featherFrom the bird’s tail, and then stuck itOn the top of his peak’d felt-hat,And then hasten’d on as usual.Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him,As his shadow with the featherOn the white snow of the mountain,Black and long, was onward moving.
When thou see’st yon mountain summitsFrom a distance, they are gleamingAs though deck’d with gold and purple,Proud and princely in the sunlight.
But when close at hand, this splendourVanishes, and, as in otherEarthly loveliness and glory,’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.
What to thee seem’d gold and purpleIs, alas! but common snow,Common snow, which, pale and wretched,Lives a weary life and lonely.
Just above me heard I plainlyHow the hapless snow was crackling,To the heartless cold winds tellingAll the tale of its white sorrows.
“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it,“In the desert waste the hours!“O these hours that seem quite endless,“Like eternities hard frozen!
“Hapless snow! O had I only,“‘Stead of on these mountain summits,“Fallen into yonder valley,“Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,
“Then should I have softly melted,“And become a brook, whilst fairest“Village maidens in my waters“Would have washed their smiling faces.
“Yes, perchance I should have floated“To the ocean, there becoming“Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d“To adorn a monarch’s crown!”
When I heard this pretty language,Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful“Whether such a brilliant future“Would have met thee in the valley.
“Comfort take! But few amongst you“Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen“Probably in some small puddle,“And become a piece of dirt!”
Whilst I in this friendly fashionWith the snow held conversation,Came a shot, and from above meFell to earth a tawny vulture.
’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro,Sportsman’s joke; and yet his featuresStill continued fix’d and solemn,His gun-barrel only smoking.
He in silence tore a featherFrom the bird’s tail, and then stuck itOn the top of his peak’d felt-hat,And then hasten’d on as usual.
Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him,As his shadow with the featherOn the white snow of the mountain,Black and long, was onward moving.
Like a street there runs a valley,Known by name of Spirit-Hollow;Rugged cliffs on either side of’tRise to giddy elevation.On the widest, steepest slope there,Peers Uraca’s daring cottageLike a watch-tow’r o’er the valley;Thither follow’d I Lascaro.With his mother held he counselIn mysterious signal-language,As to how great Atta TrollMight be best allur’d and vanquish’d.For we had explored his tracesCarefully, and he no longerCould escape us. Now are number’d,Atta Troll, thy days on earth!As to whether old UracaWas in truth a mighty witchOf distinction, as the peopleIn the Pyrenees asserted,I’ll not venture to determine;This much know I, her exteriorWas suspicious, and suspiciousWas her red eyes’ constant dripping.Evil was her look, and squinting,And the poor cows (’tis reported)Whom she look’d on, in their uddersHad the milk dried suddenly.It is even said that manyFatted swine and strongest oxenShe had put to death, by merelyStroking with her wither’d hands.She at times for such offencesWas exposed to accusationsTo the justice. But the latterWas a follower of Voltaire,Just a modern, shallow worldling,Void of faith and penetration,And the’ accusers scepticallyWere dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.Publicly Uraca follow’dQuite an honest occupation,Namely, selling mountain-simplesAnd stuff’d birds to those who sought them.Full her cottage was of suchlikeCuriosities, and frightfulWas the smell of fungi in it,Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.There was quite a fine collectionOf the vulture tribe display’d there,With their wings extended fully,And their monstrous beaks projecting.Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mountedTo my head and stupified me?Wondrous feelings stole across me,As I gazed upon those birds.They’re perchance enchanted mortals,Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,To the wretched stuff’d conditionOf poor birds have been converted.Fixedly they gaze upon me,Sadly, yet with much impatience;Often they appear to throwTow’rd the witch shy glances also.But the latter, old Uraca,Close beside her son LascaroCowers in the chimney corner,Melting lead and casting bullets,—Bullets that by fate are destinedTo destroy poor Atta Troll.How the flames with hasty motionQuiver o’er the witch’s features!She incessantly keeps movingHer thin lips, but nothing says she;Mutters she the witches’ blessing,That the casting be successful?Oft she chuckles and oft nods sheTo her son, but he continuesEarnestly his occupation,And as silently as Death.Swelt’ring ’neath my awe-struck feelings,To the window went I, seekingFor fresh air, and then look’d downwardO’er the valley far below me.What I saw on that occasion’Tween the hours of twelve and one,I will faithfully and neatlyTell you in the following chapters.
Like a street there runs a valley,Known by name of Spirit-Hollow;Rugged cliffs on either side of’tRise to giddy elevation.On the widest, steepest slope there,Peers Uraca’s daring cottageLike a watch-tow’r o’er the valley;Thither follow’d I Lascaro.With his mother held he counselIn mysterious signal-language,As to how great Atta TrollMight be best allur’d and vanquish’d.For we had explored his tracesCarefully, and he no longerCould escape us. Now are number’d,Atta Troll, thy days on earth!As to whether old UracaWas in truth a mighty witchOf distinction, as the peopleIn the Pyrenees asserted,I’ll not venture to determine;This much know I, her exteriorWas suspicious, and suspiciousWas her red eyes’ constant dripping.Evil was her look, and squinting,And the poor cows (’tis reported)Whom she look’d on, in their uddersHad the milk dried suddenly.It is even said that manyFatted swine and strongest oxenShe had put to death, by merelyStroking with her wither’d hands.She at times for such offencesWas exposed to accusationsTo the justice. But the latterWas a follower of Voltaire,Just a modern, shallow worldling,Void of faith and penetration,And the’ accusers scepticallyWere dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.Publicly Uraca follow’dQuite an honest occupation,Namely, selling mountain-simplesAnd stuff’d birds to those who sought them.Full her cottage was of suchlikeCuriosities, and frightfulWas the smell of fungi in it,Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.There was quite a fine collectionOf the vulture tribe display’d there,With their wings extended fully,And their monstrous beaks projecting.Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mountedTo my head and stupified me?Wondrous feelings stole across me,As I gazed upon those birds.They’re perchance enchanted mortals,Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,To the wretched stuff’d conditionOf poor birds have been converted.Fixedly they gaze upon me,Sadly, yet with much impatience;Often they appear to throwTow’rd the witch shy glances also.But the latter, old Uraca,Close beside her son LascaroCowers in the chimney corner,Melting lead and casting bullets,—Bullets that by fate are destinedTo destroy poor Atta Troll.How the flames with hasty motionQuiver o’er the witch’s features!She incessantly keeps movingHer thin lips, but nothing says she;Mutters she the witches’ blessing,That the casting be successful?Oft she chuckles and oft nods sheTo her son, but he continuesEarnestly his occupation,And as silently as Death.Swelt’ring ’neath my awe-struck feelings,To the window went I, seekingFor fresh air, and then look’d downwardO’er the valley far below me.What I saw on that occasion’Tween the hours of twelve and one,I will faithfully and neatlyTell you in the following chapters.
Like a street there runs a valley,Known by name of Spirit-Hollow;Rugged cliffs on either side of’tRise to giddy elevation.
On the widest, steepest slope there,Peers Uraca’s daring cottageLike a watch-tow’r o’er the valley;Thither follow’d I Lascaro.
With his mother held he counselIn mysterious signal-language,As to how great Atta TrollMight be best allur’d and vanquish’d.
For we had explored his tracesCarefully, and he no longerCould escape us. Now are number’d,Atta Troll, thy days on earth!
As to whether old UracaWas in truth a mighty witchOf distinction, as the peopleIn the Pyrenees asserted,
I’ll not venture to determine;This much know I, her exteriorWas suspicious, and suspiciousWas her red eyes’ constant dripping.
Evil was her look, and squinting,And the poor cows (’tis reported)Whom she look’d on, in their uddersHad the milk dried suddenly.
It is even said that manyFatted swine and strongest oxenShe had put to death, by merelyStroking with her wither’d hands.
She at times for such offencesWas exposed to accusationsTo the justice. But the latterWas a follower of Voltaire,
Just a modern, shallow worldling,Void of faith and penetration,And the’ accusers scepticallyWere dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.
Publicly Uraca follow’dQuite an honest occupation,Namely, selling mountain-simplesAnd stuff’d birds to those who sought them.
Full her cottage was of suchlikeCuriosities, and frightfulWas the smell of fungi in it,Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.
There was quite a fine collectionOf the vulture tribe display’d there,With their wings extended fully,And their monstrous beaks projecting.
Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mountedTo my head and stupified me?Wondrous feelings stole across me,As I gazed upon those birds.
They’re perchance enchanted mortals,Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,To the wretched stuff’d conditionOf poor birds have been converted.
Fixedly they gaze upon me,Sadly, yet with much impatience;Often they appear to throwTow’rd the witch shy glances also.
But the latter, old Uraca,Close beside her son LascaroCowers in the chimney corner,Melting lead and casting bullets,—
Bullets that by fate are destinedTo destroy poor Atta Troll.How the flames with hasty motionQuiver o’er the witch’s features!
She incessantly keeps movingHer thin lips, but nothing says she;Mutters she the witches’ blessing,That the casting be successful?
Oft she chuckles and oft nods sheTo her son, but he continuesEarnestly his occupation,And as silently as Death.
Swelt’ring ’neath my awe-struck feelings,To the window went I, seekingFor fresh air, and then look’d downwardO’er the valley far below me.
What I saw on that occasion’Tween the hours of twelve and one,I will faithfully and neatlyTell you in the following chapters.
And it was the time of full moonOn St. John the Baptist’s evening,When the wild hunt’s apparitionRush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.From the window of Uraca’sWitchlike hut I excellentlyCould observe the spirit-armyAs it sped along the valley.Capital the place I stood inFor observing what was passing;I enjoy’d a full sight of theGrave-arisen dead men’s pastime.Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing,Yelping dogs and neighing horses,Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,How they joyously re-echoed!On in front by way of vanguardRan the wondrous game they hunted,Stag and sow, in herds enormous,With the pack of hounds behind them.Huntsmen out of every regionAnd of every age were gather’d;Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,For example, rode Charles X—.High upon their snowy horsesOn they rush’d; on foot there follow’dThe piqueurs, the leashes holding,And the pages with the torches.Many in the wild processionSeem’d to me well-known. The horsemanIn the golden glist’ning armour,—Was he not the great King Arthur?And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,Wore he not his green and glancingCoat of ringèd mail, that gave himAll the’ appearance of a frog?In the long train also saw IMany intellectual heroes;There I recognized our Wolfgang,By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.Being damn’d by Hengstenberg,In his grave he cannot slumber,But his earthly love for huntingWith the heathen throng continues.By his mouth’s sweet smile I alsoKnew again the worthy William,[32]Whom the Puritans had likewiseCursed with bitterness; this sinnerNeeds must join at night that savageArmy, on a black steed mounted;On an ass, and close beside himRode a man,—and, O good heavens,By his weary, praying gestures,By his pious snow-white nightcap,By his grief of soul, I straightwayKnew our old friend, Francis Horn!Just for writing commentariesOn the world-child Shakespear, must heAfter death, poor fellow, with himRide amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;Who ne’er moved, except when praying,Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!Would not all the aged maidens,Long accustomed to caress him,Shudder if they came to hear thatFrancis was a savage huntsman!When he breaks into a gallop,The great William with derisionLooks on his poor commentatorWho at donkey’s pace goes after,Helplessly and wildly clingingTo the pommel of his donkey,Yet in death as well as lifetimeFollowing faithfully his author.Many ladies saw I alsoIn the spirits’ wild procession,Many beauteous nymphs amongst themWith their slender, youthful figures.They astraddle sat their horses,Mythologically naked;Yet their long and curling tressesFell low down, like golden mantles.Garlands on their heads they carried,And with saucy backward-bendingSupercilious wanton posturesLeafy wands kept ever swinging.Hard beside them saw I certainClosely-button’d dames on horsebackOn their ladies’ saddles sittingWith their falcons on their fists.As in parody behind themOn their knackers, lanky ponies,Rode a troop of gay bedizen’dWomen, looking like comedians.Full of beauty were their features,But perchance a little bold;Madly were they shouting with theirCheeks so full and wanton-painted.How they joyously re-echoed,Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,Yelping dogs and neighing horses,Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.
And it was the time of full moonOn St. John the Baptist’s evening,When the wild hunt’s apparitionRush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.From the window of Uraca’sWitchlike hut I excellentlyCould observe the spirit-armyAs it sped along the valley.Capital the place I stood inFor observing what was passing;I enjoy’d a full sight of theGrave-arisen dead men’s pastime.Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing,Yelping dogs and neighing horses,Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,How they joyously re-echoed!On in front by way of vanguardRan the wondrous game they hunted,Stag and sow, in herds enormous,With the pack of hounds behind them.Huntsmen out of every regionAnd of every age were gather’d;Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,For example, rode Charles X—.High upon their snowy horsesOn they rush’d; on foot there follow’dThe piqueurs, the leashes holding,And the pages with the torches.Many in the wild processionSeem’d to me well-known. The horsemanIn the golden glist’ning armour,—Was he not the great King Arthur?And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,Wore he not his green and glancingCoat of ringèd mail, that gave himAll the’ appearance of a frog?In the long train also saw IMany intellectual heroes;There I recognized our Wolfgang,By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.Being damn’d by Hengstenberg,In his grave he cannot slumber,But his earthly love for huntingWith the heathen throng continues.By his mouth’s sweet smile I alsoKnew again the worthy William,[32]Whom the Puritans had likewiseCursed with bitterness; this sinnerNeeds must join at night that savageArmy, on a black steed mounted;On an ass, and close beside himRode a man,—and, O good heavens,By his weary, praying gestures,By his pious snow-white nightcap,By his grief of soul, I straightwayKnew our old friend, Francis Horn!Just for writing commentariesOn the world-child Shakespear, must heAfter death, poor fellow, with himRide amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;Who ne’er moved, except when praying,Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!Would not all the aged maidens,Long accustomed to caress him,Shudder if they came to hear thatFrancis was a savage huntsman!When he breaks into a gallop,The great William with derisionLooks on his poor commentatorWho at donkey’s pace goes after,Helplessly and wildly clingingTo the pommel of his donkey,Yet in death as well as lifetimeFollowing faithfully his author.Many ladies saw I alsoIn the spirits’ wild procession,Many beauteous nymphs amongst themWith their slender, youthful figures.They astraddle sat their horses,Mythologically naked;Yet their long and curling tressesFell low down, like golden mantles.Garlands on their heads they carried,And with saucy backward-bendingSupercilious wanton posturesLeafy wands kept ever swinging.Hard beside them saw I certainClosely-button’d dames on horsebackOn their ladies’ saddles sittingWith their falcons on their fists.As in parody behind themOn their knackers, lanky ponies,Rode a troop of gay bedizen’dWomen, looking like comedians.Full of beauty were their features,But perchance a little bold;Madly were they shouting with theirCheeks so full and wanton-painted.How they joyously re-echoed,Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,Yelping dogs and neighing horses,Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.
And it was the time of full moonOn St. John the Baptist’s evening,When the wild hunt’s apparitionRush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.
From the window of Uraca’sWitchlike hut I excellentlyCould observe the spirit-armyAs it sped along the valley.
Capital the place I stood inFor observing what was passing;I enjoy’d a full sight of theGrave-arisen dead men’s pastime.
Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing,Yelping dogs and neighing horses,Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,How they joyously re-echoed!
On in front by way of vanguardRan the wondrous game they hunted,Stag and sow, in herds enormous,With the pack of hounds behind them.
Huntsmen out of every regionAnd of every age were gather’d;Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,For example, rode Charles X—.
High upon their snowy horsesOn they rush’d; on foot there follow’dThe piqueurs, the leashes holding,And the pages with the torches.
Many in the wild processionSeem’d to me well-known. The horsemanIn the golden glist’ning armour,—Was he not the great King Arthur?
And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,Wore he not his green and glancingCoat of ringèd mail, that gave himAll the’ appearance of a frog?
In the long train also saw IMany intellectual heroes;There I recognized our Wolfgang,By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.
Being damn’d by Hengstenberg,In his grave he cannot slumber,But his earthly love for huntingWith the heathen throng continues.
By his mouth’s sweet smile I alsoKnew again the worthy William,[32]Whom the Puritans had likewiseCursed with bitterness; this sinner
Needs must join at night that savageArmy, on a black steed mounted;On an ass, and close beside himRode a man,—and, O good heavens,
By his weary, praying gestures,By his pious snow-white nightcap,By his grief of soul, I straightwayKnew our old friend, Francis Horn!
Just for writing commentariesOn the world-child Shakespear, must heAfter death, poor fellow, with himRide amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!
Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;Who ne’er moved, except when praying,Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!
Would not all the aged maidens,Long accustomed to caress him,Shudder if they came to hear thatFrancis was a savage huntsman!
When he breaks into a gallop,The great William with derisionLooks on his poor commentatorWho at donkey’s pace goes after,
Helplessly and wildly clingingTo the pommel of his donkey,Yet in death as well as lifetimeFollowing faithfully his author.
Many ladies saw I alsoIn the spirits’ wild procession,Many beauteous nymphs amongst themWith their slender, youthful figures.
They astraddle sat their horses,Mythologically naked;Yet their long and curling tressesFell low down, like golden mantles.
Garlands on their heads they carried,And with saucy backward-bendingSupercilious wanton posturesLeafy wands kept ever swinging.
Hard beside them saw I certainClosely-button’d dames on horsebackOn their ladies’ saddles sittingWith their falcons on their fists.
As in parody behind themOn their knackers, lanky ponies,Rode a troop of gay bedizen’dWomen, looking like comedians.
Full of beauty were their features,But perchance a little bold;Madly were they shouting with theirCheeks so full and wanton-painted.
How they joyously re-echoed,Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,Yelping dogs and neighing horses,Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.
But, resembling beauty’s trefoil,In the midst of the processionFigures three I noticed; ne’er ICan forget those lovely women.Easily the first one knew IBy the crescent on her forehead;Like a statue pure, all-proudlyOnward rode the mighty goddess.High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic,Half her breast and hip disclosing;Torchlight, moonlight both were playingGaily round her snowy members.White as marble were her features,Cold as marble too; and fearfulWas the numbness and the palenessOf that face, so stern and noble.Yet within her black eye plainlyTerribly but sweetly sparkledA mysterious, glowing fire,Spirit-dazzling and consuming.O, how alter’d was DianaWho, with haughty chastity,To a stag once turn’d Acteon,And as prey to dogs abandon’d!Does she expiate this crime nowJoin’d to these gallant companions?Like a wretched spectral creatureNightly through the air she travels.Late, indeed, but all the strongerShe to thoughts of lust awakens,And within her eyes ’tis burning,Like a very brand of hell.All the lost time now laments she,When mankind were far more handsomeAnd by quantity perchance sheNow makes up for quality.Close beside her rode a beautyWhose fair features were not chisell’dIn such Grecian mould, yet glisten’dWith the Celtic race’s charms.This one was the fay Abunde,Whom I easily distinguish’dBy the sweetness of her smile,And her mad and hearty laughter!Hale and rosy were her features,As though limn’d by Master Greuze;Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open,Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she,That the wind to lift attempted;Even in my brightest visionsNever saw I such fair shoulders!Scarcely could I keep from springingOut of window to embrace them;Ill should I have fared, however,For my neck should I have broken.She, alas! would but have titter’dIf before her feet, all-bleeding,In the deep abyss I tumbled,—Ah! a laugh like this well know I!And the third of those fair women,Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,—Was she but a female devilLike the other two first mention’d?Whether devil she or angel,Know I not; in case of womenOne knows never where the angelCeases, and the deuce commences.On her glowing sickly featuresLay an oriental charm,And her costly robes remindedOf Schehezerade’s sweet stories.Soft her lips, just like pomegranates,And her nose a bending lily,And her members cool and slenderAs the palms in the oasis.On a snowy palfrey sat she,Whose gold bridle by two negroesWas conducted, who on footBy the princess’ side were walking.And in truth she was a princess,Was the queen of far Judæa,Was the lovely wife of Herod,Who the Baptist’s head demanded.For this deed of blood she alsoWas accurs’d, and as a spectreWith the wild hunt must keep riding,Even to the day of judgment.In her hands she evermoreBears the charger with the Baptist’sHead upon it, which she kisses,—Yes, the head she kisses wildly.For she once loved John the Baptist;In the Bible ’tis not written,Yet in popular traditionLives Herodias’ bloody love.Otherwise there’s no explainingThat strange fancy of the lady,—Would a woman ever ask forThat man’s head for whom she cared not?She was somewhat angry, may be,With him,—had him, too, beheaded;But when she upon the chargerSaw the much-loved head lie lifeless,Sore she wept, and lost her senses,And she died of love’s delirium.(Love’s delirium! Pleonasm!Love must always be delirium!)Every night arising, bears sheAs I’ve said, the bloody headIn her hand as she goes hunting,Yet with foolish woman’s fancyShe at times the head hurls from herThrough the air, with childish laughter,And then catches it againVery nimbly, like a plaything.And as she was riding by me,On me look’d she, and she noddedSo coquettishly and fondly,That my inmost heart was shaken.Three times up and downward movingThe procession pass’d, and three timesDid the lovely apparitionGreet me, as she rode before me.When the train at last had faded,And the tumult was extinguish’d,Still that loving salutationGlow’d within my inmost brain.And throughout the livelong nightI my weary limbs kept tossingOn the straw (for feather bedsWere not in Uraca’s cottage),And methought: What meaning was thereIn that strange, mysterious nodding?Wherefore didst thou gaze upon meWith such tenderness, Herodias?
But, resembling beauty’s trefoil,In the midst of the processionFigures three I noticed; ne’er ICan forget those lovely women.Easily the first one knew IBy the crescent on her forehead;Like a statue pure, all-proudlyOnward rode the mighty goddess.High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic,Half her breast and hip disclosing;Torchlight, moonlight both were playingGaily round her snowy members.White as marble were her features,Cold as marble too; and fearfulWas the numbness and the palenessOf that face, so stern and noble.Yet within her black eye plainlyTerribly but sweetly sparkledA mysterious, glowing fire,Spirit-dazzling and consuming.O, how alter’d was DianaWho, with haughty chastity,To a stag once turn’d Acteon,And as prey to dogs abandon’d!Does she expiate this crime nowJoin’d to these gallant companions?Like a wretched spectral creatureNightly through the air she travels.Late, indeed, but all the strongerShe to thoughts of lust awakens,And within her eyes ’tis burning,Like a very brand of hell.All the lost time now laments she,When mankind were far more handsomeAnd by quantity perchance sheNow makes up for quality.Close beside her rode a beautyWhose fair features were not chisell’dIn such Grecian mould, yet glisten’dWith the Celtic race’s charms.This one was the fay Abunde,Whom I easily distinguish’dBy the sweetness of her smile,And her mad and hearty laughter!Hale and rosy were her features,As though limn’d by Master Greuze;Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open,Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she,That the wind to lift attempted;Even in my brightest visionsNever saw I such fair shoulders!Scarcely could I keep from springingOut of window to embrace them;Ill should I have fared, however,For my neck should I have broken.She, alas! would but have titter’dIf before her feet, all-bleeding,In the deep abyss I tumbled,—Ah! a laugh like this well know I!And the third of those fair women,Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,—Was she but a female devilLike the other two first mention’d?Whether devil she or angel,Know I not; in case of womenOne knows never where the angelCeases, and the deuce commences.On her glowing sickly featuresLay an oriental charm,And her costly robes remindedOf Schehezerade’s sweet stories.Soft her lips, just like pomegranates,And her nose a bending lily,And her members cool and slenderAs the palms in the oasis.On a snowy palfrey sat she,Whose gold bridle by two negroesWas conducted, who on footBy the princess’ side were walking.And in truth she was a princess,Was the queen of far Judæa,Was the lovely wife of Herod,Who the Baptist’s head demanded.For this deed of blood she alsoWas accurs’d, and as a spectreWith the wild hunt must keep riding,Even to the day of judgment.In her hands she evermoreBears the charger with the Baptist’sHead upon it, which she kisses,—Yes, the head she kisses wildly.For she once loved John the Baptist;In the Bible ’tis not written,Yet in popular traditionLives Herodias’ bloody love.Otherwise there’s no explainingThat strange fancy of the lady,—Would a woman ever ask forThat man’s head for whom she cared not?She was somewhat angry, may be,With him,—had him, too, beheaded;But when she upon the chargerSaw the much-loved head lie lifeless,Sore she wept, and lost her senses,And she died of love’s delirium.(Love’s delirium! Pleonasm!Love must always be delirium!)Every night arising, bears sheAs I’ve said, the bloody headIn her hand as she goes hunting,Yet with foolish woman’s fancyShe at times the head hurls from herThrough the air, with childish laughter,And then catches it againVery nimbly, like a plaything.And as she was riding by me,On me look’d she, and she noddedSo coquettishly and fondly,That my inmost heart was shaken.Three times up and downward movingThe procession pass’d, and three timesDid the lovely apparitionGreet me, as she rode before me.When the train at last had faded,And the tumult was extinguish’d,Still that loving salutationGlow’d within my inmost brain.And throughout the livelong nightI my weary limbs kept tossingOn the straw (for feather bedsWere not in Uraca’s cottage),And methought: What meaning was thereIn that strange, mysterious nodding?Wherefore didst thou gaze upon meWith such tenderness, Herodias?
But, resembling beauty’s trefoil,In the midst of the processionFigures three I noticed; ne’er ICan forget those lovely women.
Easily the first one knew IBy the crescent on her forehead;Like a statue pure, all-proudlyOnward rode the mighty goddess.
High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic,Half her breast and hip disclosing;Torchlight, moonlight both were playingGaily round her snowy members.
White as marble were her features,Cold as marble too; and fearfulWas the numbness and the palenessOf that face, so stern and noble.
Yet within her black eye plainlyTerribly but sweetly sparkledA mysterious, glowing fire,Spirit-dazzling and consuming.
O, how alter’d was DianaWho, with haughty chastity,To a stag once turn’d Acteon,And as prey to dogs abandon’d!
Does she expiate this crime nowJoin’d to these gallant companions?Like a wretched spectral creatureNightly through the air she travels.
Late, indeed, but all the strongerShe to thoughts of lust awakens,And within her eyes ’tis burning,Like a very brand of hell.
All the lost time now laments she,When mankind were far more handsomeAnd by quantity perchance sheNow makes up for quality.
Close beside her rode a beautyWhose fair features were not chisell’dIn such Grecian mould, yet glisten’dWith the Celtic race’s charms.
This one was the fay Abunde,Whom I easily distinguish’dBy the sweetness of her smile,And her mad and hearty laughter!
Hale and rosy were her features,As though limn’d by Master Greuze;Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open,Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.
Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she,That the wind to lift attempted;Even in my brightest visionsNever saw I such fair shoulders!
Scarcely could I keep from springingOut of window to embrace them;Ill should I have fared, however,For my neck should I have broken.
She, alas! would but have titter’dIf before her feet, all-bleeding,In the deep abyss I tumbled,—Ah! a laugh like this well know I!
And the third of those fair women,Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,—Was she but a female devilLike the other two first mention’d?
Whether devil she or angel,Know I not; in case of womenOne knows never where the angelCeases, and the deuce commences.
On her glowing sickly featuresLay an oriental charm,And her costly robes remindedOf Schehezerade’s sweet stories.
Soft her lips, just like pomegranates,And her nose a bending lily,And her members cool and slenderAs the palms in the oasis.
On a snowy palfrey sat she,Whose gold bridle by two negroesWas conducted, who on footBy the princess’ side were walking.
And in truth she was a princess,Was the queen of far Judæa,Was the lovely wife of Herod,Who the Baptist’s head demanded.
For this deed of blood she alsoWas accurs’d, and as a spectreWith the wild hunt must keep riding,Even to the day of judgment.
In her hands she evermoreBears the charger with the Baptist’sHead upon it, which she kisses,—Yes, the head she kisses wildly.
For she once loved John the Baptist;In the Bible ’tis not written,Yet in popular traditionLives Herodias’ bloody love.
Otherwise there’s no explainingThat strange fancy of the lady,—Would a woman ever ask forThat man’s head for whom she cared not?
She was somewhat angry, may be,With him,—had him, too, beheaded;But when she upon the chargerSaw the much-loved head lie lifeless,
Sore she wept, and lost her senses,And she died of love’s delirium.(Love’s delirium! Pleonasm!Love must always be delirium!)
Every night arising, bears sheAs I’ve said, the bloody headIn her hand as she goes hunting,Yet with foolish woman’s fancy
She at times the head hurls from herThrough the air, with childish laughter,And then catches it againVery nimbly, like a plaything.
And as she was riding by me,On me look’d she, and she noddedSo coquettishly and fondly,That my inmost heart was shaken.
Three times up and downward movingThe procession pass’d, and three timesDid the lovely apparitionGreet me, as she rode before me.
When the train at last had faded,And the tumult was extinguish’d,Still that loving salutationGlow’d within my inmost brain.
And throughout the livelong nightI my weary limbs kept tossingOn the straw (for feather bedsWere not in Uraca’s cottage),
And methought: What meaning was thereIn that strange, mysterious nodding?Wherefore didst thou gaze upon meWith such tenderness, Herodias?