’Twas the sunrise. Golden arrowsShot against the white mist fiercely,Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded,And in light and glory melted.Finally the victory’s won,And the day, the triumphator,Stood, in full and beaming splendour,On the summit of the mountain.All the birds in noisy chorusTwitter’d in their secret nests,And a smell of herbs arose too,Like a concert of sweet odours.At the earliest dawn of morningTo the valley we descended,And whilst friend Lascaro follow’dOn the traces of the bear,I the time to kill attemptedWith my thoughts, and yet this thinkingMade me at the last quite weary,And a little mournful even.Weary, then, and mournful sank IOn the soft moss-bank beside me.Under yonder mighty ash-tree,Where the little streamlet flow’d,Which, with its mysterious plashingSo mysteriously befool’d me,That all thoughts and power of thinkingFrom my spirit pass’d away.And a raging yearning seized meFor a dream, for death, for madness,For that woman-rider, whom IIn the spirit-march had seen.O ye lovely nightly faces,Scared away by beams of morning,Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?Under olden temples’ ruins,Far away in the Romagna(So ’tis said) Diana refugeSeeks by day from Christ’s dominion.Only in the midnight darknessFrom her hiding place she ventures,And rejoices in the chaseWith her heathenish companions.And the beauteous fay AbundeOf the Nazarenes is fearful,And throughout the day she lingersSafe within her Avalun.This fair island lies deep-hiddenFar off, in the silent oceanOf romance, that none can reach saveOn the fabled horse’s pinions.Never there casts care its anchor,Never there appears a steamer,Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,With tobacco-pipes in mouth.Never reaches there the languidSound of bells, so dull and tedious,—That incessant bim-bom clatterWhich the fairies so detest.There, in never-troubled pleasure,And in youth eternal blooming,Still resides the joyous lady,Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.Laughingly her walks there takes sheUnder lofty heliotropes,With her talking train beside her,World-departed Paladins.Well, and thou, Herodias, prytheeSay where art thou? Ah, I know it,Thou art dead, and liest buriedBy the town Jerusalem!Stiffly sleeps by day thy body,In its marble coffin prison’d;Yet the cracking whips and halloingWaken thee at midnight’s hour,And the wild array thou followestWith Diana and Abunde,With thy merry hunting comrades,Who hold cross and pain detested.O what sweet society!Could I hunt with you by night-timeThrough the forests! By thy sideAlways would I ride, Herodias!For ’tis thee I love the dearest!More than yonder Grecian goddess,More than yonder Northern fairy,Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!Yes, I love thee! Well I know itBy the trembling of my spirit;Love thou me, and be my darling,Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.I’m the very knight thou wantest!Little truly it concerns meThat thou’rt dead and damn’d already,For I’m free from prejudices.My own happiness ’tis onlyThat concerns me, and at times IFeel inclined to doubt if trulyTo the living I belong!Take me as thy knight, I pray thee,As thy Cavalier servente,And thy mantle will I carryAnd e’en all thy whims put up with.Every night I’ll ride beside thee,With the army wild careering;Merrily we’ll talk and laugh thenAt my frenzied conversation.Thus the time I’ll shorten for theeIn the night; but yet by day-timeAll our joy will fly, and weepingOn that grave I’ll take my seat.Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weepingOn the regal vault’s sad ruins,On the grave of thee, my loved one,By the town Jerusalem.Aged Jews, who chance to pass me,Then will surely think I’m sorrowingFor the temple’s desolation,And the town Jerusalem.
’Twas the sunrise. Golden arrowsShot against the white mist fiercely,Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded,And in light and glory melted.Finally the victory’s won,And the day, the triumphator,Stood, in full and beaming splendour,On the summit of the mountain.All the birds in noisy chorusTwitter’d in their secret nests,And a smell of herbs arose too,Like a concert of sweet odours.At the earliest dawn of morningTo the valley we descended,And whilst friend Lascaro follow’dOn the traces of the bear,I the time to kill attemptedWith my thoughts, and yet this thinkingMade me at the last quite weary,And a little mournful even.Weary, then, and mournful sank IOn the soft moss-bank beside me.Under yonder mighty ash-tree,Where the little streamlet flow’d,Which, with its mysterious plashingSo mysteriously befool’d me,That all thoughts and power of thinkingFrom my spirit pass’d away.And a raging yearning seized meFor a dream, for death, for madness,For that woman-rider, whom IIn the spirit-march had seen.O ye lovely nightly faces,Scared away by beams of morning,Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?Under olden temples’ ruins,Far away in the Romagna(So ’tis said) Diana refugeSeeks by day from Christ’s dominion.Only in the midnight darknessFrom her hiding place she ventures,And rejoices in the chaseWith her heathenish companions.And the beauteous fay AbundeOf the Nazarenes is fearful,And throughout the day she lingersSafe within her Avalun.This fair island lies deep-hiddenFar off, in the silent oceanOf romance, that none can reach saveOn the fabled horse’s pinions.Never there casts care its anchor,Never there appears a steamer,Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,With tobacco-pipes in mouth.Never reaches there the languidSound of bells, so dull and tedious,—That incessant bim-bom clatterWhich the fairies so detest.There, in never-troubled pleasure,And in youth eternal blooming,Still resides the joyous lady,Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.Laughingly her walks there takes sheUnder lofty heliotropes,With her talking train beside her,World-departed Paladins.Well, and thou, Herodias, prytheeSay where art thou? Ah, I know it,Thou art dead, and liest buriedBy the town Jerusalem!Stiffly sleeps by day thy body,In its marble coffin prison’d;Yet the cracking whips and halloingWaken thee at midnight’s hour,And the wild array thou followestWith Diana and Abunde,With thy merry hunting comrades,Who hold cross and pain detested.O what sweet society!Could I hunt with you by night-timeThrough the forests! By thy sideAlways would I ride, Herodias!For ’tis thee I love the dearest!More than yonder Grecian goddess,More than yonder Northern fairy,Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!Yes, I love thee! Well I know itBy the trembling of my spirit;Love thou me, and be my darling,Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.I’m the very knight thou wantest!Little truly it concerns meThat thou’rt dead and damn’d already,For I’m free from prejudices.My own happiness ’tis onlyThat concerns me, and at times IFeel inclined to doubt if trulyTo the living I belong!Take me as thy knight, I pray thee,As thy Cavalier servente,And thy mantle will I carryAnd e’en all thy whims put up with.Every night I’ll ride beside thee,With the army wild careering;Merrily we’ll talk and laugh thenAt my frenzied conversation.Thus the time I’ll shorten for theeIn the night; but yet by day-timeAll our joy will fly, and weepingOn that grave I’ll take my seat.Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weepingOn the regal vault’s sad ruins,On the grave of thee, my loved one,By the town Jerusalem.Aged Jews, who chance to pass me,Then will surely think I’m sorrowingFor the temple’s desolation,And the town Jerusalem.
’Twas the sunrise. Golden arrowsShot against the white mist fiercely,Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded,And in light and glory melted.
Finally the victory’s won,And the day, the triumphator,Stood, in full and beaming splendour,On the summit of the mountain.
All the birds in noisy chorusTwitter’d in their secret nests,And a smell of herbs arose too,Like a concert of sweet odours.
At the earliest dawn of morningTo the valley we descended,And whilst friend Lascaro follow’dOn the traces of the bear,
I the time to kill attemptedWith my thoughts, and yet this thinkingMade me at the last quite weary,And a little mournful even.
Weary, then, and mournful sank IOn the soft moss-bank beside me.Under yonder mighty ash-tree,Where the little streamlet flow’d,
Which, with its mysterious plashingSo mysteriously befool’d me,That all thoughts and power of thinkingFrom my spirit pass’d away.
And a raging yearning seized meFor a dream, for death, for madness,For that woman-rider, whom IIn the spirit-march had seen.
O ye lovely nightly faces,Scared away by beams of morning,Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?
Under olden temples’ ruins,Far away in the Romagna(So ’tis said) Diana refugeSeeks by day from Christ’s dominion.
Only in the midnight darknessFrom her hiding place she ventures,And rejoices in the chaseWith her heathenish companions.
And the beauteous fay AbundeOf the Nazarenes is fearful,And throughout the day she lingersSafe within her Avalun.
This fair island lies deep-hiddenFar off, in the silent oceanOf romance, that none can reach saveOn the fabled horse’s pinions.
Never there casts care its anchor,Never there appears a steamer,Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,With tobacco-pipes in mouth.
Never reaches there the languidSound of bells, so dull and tedious,—That incessant bim-bom clatterWhich the fairies so detest.
There, in never-troubled pleasure,And in youth eternal blooming,Still resides the joyous lady,Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.
Laughingly her walks there takes sheUnder lofty heliotropes,With her talking train beside her,World-departed Paladins.
Well, and thou, Herodias, prytheeSay where art thou? Ah, I know it,Thou art dead, and liest buriedBy the town Jerusalem!
Stiffly sleeps by day thy body,In its marble coffin prison’d;Yet the cracking whips and halloingWaken thee at midnight’s hour,
And the wild array thou followestWith Diana and Abunde,With thy merry hunting comrades,Who hold cross and pain detested.
O what sweet society!Could I hunt with you by night-timeThrough the forests! By thy sideAlways would I ride, Herodias!
For ’tis thee I love the dearest!More than yonder Grecian goddess,More than yonder Northern fairy,Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!
Yes, I love thee! Well I know itBy the trembling of my spirit;Love thou me, and be my darling,Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.
I’m the very knight thou wantest!Little truly it concerns meThat thou’rt dead and damn’d already,For I’m free from prejudices.
My own happiness ’tis onlyThat concerns me, and at times IFeel inclined to doubt if trulyTo the living I belong!
Take me as thy knight, I pray thee,As thy Cavalier servente,And thy mantle will I carryAnd e’en all thy whims put up with.
Every night I’ll ride beside thee,With the army wild careering;Merrily we’ll talk and laugh thenAt my frenzied conversation.
Thus the time I’ll shorten for theeIn the night; but yet by day-timeAll our joy will fly, and weepingOn that grave I’ll take my seat.
Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weepingOn the regal vault’s sad ruins,On the grave of thee, my loved one,By the town Jerusalem.
Aged Jews, who chance to pass me,Then will surely think I’m sorrowingFor the temple’s desolation,And the town Jerusalem.
Argonauts without a ship,Who on foot the mountain visit,And instead of golden fleecesAim at nothing but a bear’s skin,—We’re, alas! poor devils only,Heroes of a modern fashion,And no classic poet everWill in song immortalize us.Yet we notwithstanding suffer’dSerious hardships! O what rainFell upon us on the summit,Where no tree or hackney-coach was!Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken,And in buckets it descended;Jason surely was at ColchisNever drench’d in such a show’r-bath!“An umbrella! Gladly would I“Give you six-and-thirty kings[33]“For the loan of one umbrella!”“Cried I,—and the water dripp’d still.Fagg’d to death, and out of temper,We return’d, like half-drown’d puppiesLate at night, as best we could,To the witch’s lofty cottage.There beside the glowing fire-placeSat Uraca, busy combingHer great fat and ugly pug-dog;Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,To attend to us instead,And my bed she soon got ready,Loosening first my espardillas,That uncomfortable foot-gear—Help’d me to undress, my stockingsPulling off; I found them stickingTo my legs, as close and faithfulAs the friendship of a blockhead.“Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you“Six-and-thirty kings for only“One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I,As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.Freezing and with chattering teeth, IStood awhile upon the hearth;By the fire then driven senselessOn the straw at length I sank.But I slept not. Blinking look’d IOn the witch, who by the chimneySat, and held the head and shouldersOf her son upon her lap,Helping to undress him. Near herStood upright her ugly pug-dog,And he in his front paw managedCleverly to hold a pot.From the pot Uraca took someReddish fat, and with it rubb’d theRibs and bosom of her son,Rubbing hastily, with trembling.And while rubbing him and salving,She a cradle-song was hummingThrough her nose, whilst strangely crackledOn the hearth the ruddy flames.Like a corpse, all yellow, bony,On his mother’s lap the son lay,Sorrowful as death, wide openStared his hollow, pallid eyes.Is he truly but a dead manWho each night by love maternalHath a life enchanted giv’n himBy the aid of strongest witch-salve?Wondrous the half-sleep of fever,Where the leaden limbs feel wearyAs though fetter’d, and the sensesO’er-excited, wide awake!How the herb-smell in the chamberTroubled me! With painful effortThought I where I had alreadySmelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.How the wind a-down the chimneyGave me pain! Like sighs it soundedOf dejected dried-up spirits,—Like the sound of well-known voices.Most of all was I tormentedBy the stuff’d birds, which were standingOn a shelf above my head,Near the place where I was lying.They their wings were slowly flappingAnd with awful motion, bendingDownward tow’rd me, forward pushingTheir long beaks, like human noses.Ah! where have I seen alreadyNoses such as these? At Hamburg,Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?Sad the glimmering recollection!I at last was overpower’dQuite by sleep, and in the place ofWakeful, terrible phantasmas,Came a healthful, steady dream.And I dreamt that this poor cottageSuddenly became a ball-roomWhich by columns was supported,And by candelabra lighted.Some invisible musiciansPlay’d from out Robert-le-DiableThat fine crazy dance of nuns;All alone I walk’d about there.But at length the doors were open’d,Open’d wide and then advancedWith a step both slow and statelyGuests of wonderful appearance.They were solely bears and spirits!Walking bolt upright, each bearLed a spirit as his partner,In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.In this manner pair’d, began theyWaltzing up and down with vigourIn the hall. The sight was curious,Laughable, but also fearful!For the awkward bears soon found itDifficult to keep in stepWith the white and airy figures,Who whirl’d round with easy motion.But those poor unhappy creaturesWere inexorably driven,And their snorting overpower’dE’en the’ orchestral double bass.Oftentimes one couple jostled’Gainst another, and the bearGave the spirit that had push’d himSome hard kicks on his hind quarters.Often in the dance’s bustleWould a bear tear off the shroudFrom the head of his companion,And a death’s head was disclosed then.But at length with joyous uproarCrash’d the trumpets and the cymbals,And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d,And there came the gallopade.To the end of this I dreamt not,—For a stupid clumsy bearTrod upon my corns, and made meCry aloud, and so awoke me.
Argonauts without a ship,Who on foot the mountain visit,And instead of golden fleecesAim at nothing but a bear’s skin,—We’re, alas! poor devils only,Heroes of a modern fashion,And no classic poet everWill in song immortalize us.Yet we notwithstanding suffer’dSerious hardships! O what rainFell upon us on the summit,Where no tree or hackney-coach was!Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken,And in buckets it descended;Jason surely was at ColchisNever drench’d in such a show’r-bath!“An umbrella! Gladly would I“Give you six-and-thirty kings[33]“For the loan of one umbrella!”“Cried I,—and the water dripp’d still.Fagg’d to death, and out of temper,We return’d, like half-drown’d puppiesLate at night, as best we could,To the witch’s lofty cottage.There beside the glowing fire-placeSat Uraca, busy combingHer great fat and ugly pug-dog;Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,To attend to us instead,And my bed she soon got ready,Loosening first my espardillas,That uncomfortable foot-gear—Help’d me to undress, my stockingsPulling off; I found them stickingTo my legs, as close and faithfulAs the friendship of a blockhead.“Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you“Six-and-thirty kings for only“One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I,As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.Freezing and with chattering teeth, IStood awhile upon the hearth;By the fire then driven senselessOn the straw at length I sank.But I slept not. Blinking look’d IOn the witch, who by the chimneySat, and held the head and shouldersOf her son upon her lap,Helping to undress him. Near herStood upright her ugly pug-dog,And he in his front paw managedCleverly to hold a pot.From the pot Uraca took someReddish fat, and with it rubb’d theRibs and bosom of her son,Rubbing hastily, with trembling.And while rubbing him and salving,She a cradle-song was hummingThrough her nose, whilst strangely crackledOn the hearth the ruddy flames.Like a corpse, all yellow, bony,On his mother’s lap the son lay,Sorrowful as death, wide openStared his hollow, pallid eyes.Is he truly but a dead manWho each night by love maternalHath a life enchanted giv’n himBy the aid of strongest witch-salve?Wondrous the half-sleep of fever,Where the leaden limbs feel wearyAs though fetter’d, and the sensesO’er-excited, wide awake!How the herb-smell in the chamberTroubled me! With painful effortThought I where I had alreadySmelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.How the wind a-down the chimneyGave me pain! Like sighs it soundedOf dejected dried-up spirits,—Like the sound of well-known voices.Most of all was I tormentedBy the stuff’d birds, which were standingOn a shelf above my head,Near the place where I was lying.They their wings were slowly flappingAnd with awful motion, bendingDownward tow’rd me, forward pushingTheir long beaks, like human noses.Ah! where have I seen alreadyNoses such as these? At Hamburg,Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?Sad the glimmering recollection!I at last was overpower’dQuite by sleep, and in the place ofWakeful, terrible phantasmas,Came a healthful, steady dream.And I dreamt that this poor cottageSuddenly became a ball-roomWhich by columns was supported,And by candelabra lighted.Some invisible musiciansPlay’d from out Robert-le-DiableThat fine crazy dance of nuns;All alone I walk’d about there.But at length the doors were open’d,Open’d wide and then advancedWith a step both slow and statelyGuests of wonderful appearance.They were solely bears and spirits!Walking bolt upright, each bearLed a spirit as his partner,In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.In this manner pair’d, began theyWaltzing up and down with vigourIn the hall. The sight was curious,Laughable, but also fearful!For the awkward bears soon found itDifficult to keep in stepWith the white and airy figures,Who whirl’d round with easy motion.But those poor unhappy creaturesWere inexorably driven,And their snorting overpower’dE’en the’ orchestral double bass.Oftentimes one couple jostled’Gainst another, and the bearGave the spirit that had push’d himSome hard kicks on his hind quarters.Often in the dance’s bustleWould a bear tear off the shroudFrom the head of his companion,And a death’s head was disclosed then.But at length with joyous uproarCrash’d the trumpets and the cymbals,And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d,And there came the gallopade.To the end of this I dreamt not,—For a stupid clumsy bearTrod upon my corns, and made meCry aloud, and so awoke me.
Argonauts without a ship,Who on foot the mountain visit,And instead of golden fleecesAim at nothing but a bear’s skin,—
We’re, alas! poor devils only,Heroes of a modern fashion,And no classic poet everWill in song immortalize us.
Yet we notwithstanding suffer’dSerious hardships! O what rainFell upon us on the summit,Where no tree or hackney-coach was!
Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken,And in buckets it descended;Jason surely was at ColchisNever drench’d in such a show’r-bath!
“An umbrella! Gladly would I“Give you six-and-thirty kings[33]“For the loan of one umbrella!”“Cried I,—and the water dripp’d still.
Fagg’d to death, and out of temper,We return’d, like half-drown’d puppiesLate at night, as best we could,To the witch’s lofty cottage.
There beside the glowing fire-placeSat Uraca, busy combingHer great fat and ugly pug-dog;Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,
To attend to us instead,And my bed she soon got ready,Loosening first my espardillas,That uncomfortable foot-gear—
Help’d me to undress, my stockingsPulling off; I found them stickingTo my legs, as close and faithfulAs the friendship of a blockhead.
“Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you“Six-and-thirty kings for only“One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I,As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.
Freezing and with chattering teeth, IStood awhile upon the hearth;By the fire then driven senselessOn the straw at length I sank.
But I slept not. Blinking look’d IOn the witch, who by the chimneySat, and held the head and shouldersOf her son upon her lap,
Helping to undress him. Near herStood upright her ugly pug-dog,And he in his front paw managedCleverly to hold a pot.
From the pot Uraca took someReddish fat, and with it rubb’d theRibs and bosom of her son,Rubbing hastily, with trembling.
And while rubbing him and salving,She a cradle-song was hummingThrough her nose, whilst strangely crackledOn the hearth the ruddy flames.
Like a corpse, all yellow, bony,On his mother’s lap the son lay,Sorrowful as death, wide openStared his hollow, pallid eyes.
Is he truly but a dead manWho each night by love maternalHath a life enchanted giv’n himBy the aid of strongest witch-salve?
Wondrous the half-sleep of fever,Where the leaden limbs feel wearyAs though fetter’d, and the sensesO’er-excited, wide awake!
How the herb-smell in the chamberTroubled me! With painful effortThought I where I had alreadySmelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.
How the wind a-down the chimneyGave me pain! Like sighs it soundedOf dejected dried-up spirits,—Like the sound of well-known voices.
Most of all was I tormentedBy the stuff’d birds, which were standingOn a shelf above my head,Near the place where I was lying.
They their wings were slowly flappingAnd with awful motion, bendingDownward tow’rd me, forward pushingTheir long beaks, like human noses.
Ah! where have I seen alreadyNoses such as these? At Hamburg,Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?Sad the glimmering recollection!
I at last was overpower’dQuite by sleep, and in the place ofWakeful, terrible phantasmas,Came a healthful, steady dream.
And I dreamt that this poor cottageSuddenly became a ball-roomWhich by columns was supported,And by candelabra lighted.
Some invisible musiciansPlay’d from out Robert-le-DiableThat fine crazy dance of nuns;All alone I walk’d about there.
But at length the doors were open’d,Open’d wide and then advancedWith a step both slow and statelyGuests of wonderful appearance.
They were solely bears and spirits!Walking bolt upright, each bearLed a spirit as his partner,In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.
In this manner pair’d, began theyWaltzing up and down with vigourIn the hall. The sight was curious,Laughable, but also fearful!
For the awkward bears soon found itDifficult to keep in stepWith the white and airy figures,Who whirl’d round with easy motion.
But those poor unhappy creaturesWere inexorably driven,And their snorting overpower’dE’en the’ orchestral double bass.
Oftentimes one couple jostled’Gainst another, and the bearGave the spirit that had push’d himSome hard kicks on his hind quarters.
Often in the dance’s bustleWould a bear tear off the shroudFrom the head of his companion,And a death’s head was disclosed then.
But at length with joyous uproarCrash’d the trumpets and the cymbals,And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d,And there came the gallopade.
To the end of this I dreamt not,—For a stupid clumsy bearTrod upon my corns, and made meCry aloud, and so awoke me.
Phœbus in his sunny droschkaLash’d his flaming horses onwards,And had half his course alreadyThrough the spacious heavens completed,Whilst I still in slumber lay,And of bears and spirits, strangelyIntertwining with each otherIn quaint arabesque, was dreaming.Midday ’twas ere I awaken’d,And I found myself alone;Both my hostess and LascaroFor the chase had started early.In the hut the pug-dog onlyStill remain’d. Beside the hearth heStood upright before the kettle,While his paws a spoon were holding.Admirably had they taught himWhensoe’er the broth boil’d overHastily to stir it round,And to skim away the bubbles.But am I myself bewitch’d?Or still blazes there the feverIn my head? I scarce can creditMy own ears—the pug-dog’s talking!Yes, he’s talking, and his accentGentle is and Swabian; dreaming,As though buried in deep thought,Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:“Poor unhappy Swabian poet!“In a foreign land I sadly“Languish, as a dog enchanted,“And a witch’s kettle watch!“What a shameful sin is witchcraft!“O how sad, how deeply tragic“Is my fate,—with human feelings“Underneath a dog’s exterior!“Would that I at home had tarried“With my trusty school companions!“They’re at any rate no wizards,—“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!“Would that I at home had tarried“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant“Wallflow’rs of my native country,“With its pudding-broth delicious!“I’m half dead now with nostalgia—“Would that I could see the smoke“Rising from the chimneys where they“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”When I heard this, deep emotionCame across me; quickly sprang IFrom the couch, approach’d the fireplace,And address’d him with compassion:“Noble bard, say how it happens“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”But with joy exclaim’d the other:“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,“But a German, understanding“All my silent monologue?“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,“When we o’er our pipes and glasses“Held discussions in the beershop,“Always harp’d upon the thesis“That by travelling alone we“Could obtain that polish, which he“Had from foreign lands imported!“So, that I might wipe away all“That raw crust which stuck upon me,“And like Kölle might acquire“Elegant and polish’d manners,“From my country I departed,“And while thus the grand tour making,“Came I to the Pyrenees,“To the cottage of Uraca.“I an introduction brought her“From Justinus Kerner[34], never“Thinking that this so-called friend“Was in wicked league with witches.“Kindly welcomed me Uraca,“Yet, to my alarm, her friendship“Kept on growing, till converted“At the last to sensual passion.“Yes, immodesty still flicker’d“Wildly in the wither’d bosom“Of this wretched, worthless woman,“And she now must needs seduce me!“Yet implored I: ‘Ah, excuse me,“‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous“‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong“‘To the poet-school of Swabia.“‘Modesty’s the muse we worship,“‘And the drawers she wears are made of“‘Thickest leather—Ah, good madam,“‘Do not violate my virtue!“‘Other poets boast of genius,“‘Others fancy, others passion,“‘But the pride of Swabian poets“‘Is especially their virtue.“‘That’s the only wealth we boast of!“‘Do not rob me of the modest“‘And religious simple garment“‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’“Thus I spoke, and yet the woman“Smiled ironically; smiling“She a switch of mistletoe“Took, and then my head touch’d with it.“Thereupon I felt a chilly“Strange sensation, like a goose-skin“Being o’er my members drawn;“Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not—“On the contrary, a dog-skin“Was it rather; since that fearful“Moment have I been converted“As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”Poor young fellow! Through his sobbingNot a word more could he utter;And he wept with so much fervour,That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.“Listen now,” I said with pity:“Can I possibly relieve you“Of your dog-skin, and restore you“To humanity and verses?”But the other raised his paws upIn the air disconsolatelyAnd despairingly; at length heSpake with sighing and with groaning:“Till the Judgment Day, alas! I“In this dog-skin must be prison’d,“If I’m freed not from enchantment“By a virgin’s self-devotion.“Yes, a pure unsullied virgin,“Who ne’er touch’d a human being,“And the following condition“Truly keeps, alone can free me.“This unsullied virgin must,“In the night of Saint Sylvester,“Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35]poems,“And not go to sleep one moment!“If she keeps awake while reading,“And her modest eye ne’er closes,—“Then shall I be disenchanted,“Be a man,—yes, be undogg’d!”“In that case, good friend,” replied I,“I at any rate can never“Undertake to disenchant you,“For I’m no unsullied virgin;“And still less should I be able“To fulfil the task of reading“All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems,“And not fall asleep instanter!”
Phœbus in his sunny droschkaLash’d his flaming horses onwards,And had half his course alreadyThrough the spacious heavens completed,Whilst I still in slumber lay,And of bears and spirits, strangelyIntertwining with each otherIn quaint arabesque, was dreaming.Midday ’twas ere I awaken’d,And I found myself alone;Both my hostess and LascaroFor the chase had started early.In the hut the pug-dog onlyStill remain’d. Beside the hearth heStood upright before the kettle,While his paws a spoon were holding.Admirably had they taught himWhensoe’er the broth boil’d overHastily to stir it round,And to skim away the bubbles.But am I myself bewitch’d?Or still blazes there the feverIn my head? I scarce can creditMy own ears—the pug-dog’s talking!Yes, he’s talking, and his accentGentle is and Swabian; dreaming,As though buried in deep thought,Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:“Poor unhappy Swabian poet!“In a foreign land I sadly“Languish, as a dog enchanted,“And a witch’s kettle watch!“What a shameful sin is witchcraft!“O how sad, how deeply tragic“Is my fate,—with human feelings“Underneath a dog’s exterior!“Would that I at home had tarried“With my trusty school companions!“They’re at any rate no wizards,—“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!“Would that I at home had tarried“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant“Wallflow’rs of my native country,“With its pudding-broth delicious!“I’m half dead now with nostalgia—“Would that I could see the smoke“Rising from the chimneys where they“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”When I heard this, deep emotionCame across me; quickly sprang IFrom the couch, approach’d the fireplace,And address’d him with compassion:“Noble bard, say how it happens“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”But with joy exclaim’d the other:“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,“But a German, understanding“All my silent monologue?“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,“When we o’er our pipes and glasses“Held discussions in the beershop,“Always harp’d upon the thesis“That by travelling alone we“Could obtain that polish, which he“Had from foreign lands imported!“So, that I might wipe away all“That raw crust which stuck upon me,“And like Kölle might acquire“Elegant and polish’d manners,“From my country I departed,“And while thus the grand tour making,“Came I to the Pyrenees,“To the cottage of Uraca.“I an introduction brought her“From Justinus Kerner[34], never“Thinking that this so-called friend“Was in wicked league with witches.“Kindly welcomed me Uraca,“Yet, to my alarm, her friendship“Kept on growing, till converted“At the last to sensual passion.“Yes, immodesty still flicker’d“Wildly in the wither’d bosom“Of this wretched, worthless woman,“And she now must needs seduce me!“Yet implored I: ‘Ah, excuse me,“‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous“‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong“‘To the poet-school of Swabia.“‘Modesty’s the muse we worship,“‘And the drawers she wears are made of“‘Thickest leather—Ah, good madam,“‘Do not violate my virtue!“‘Other poets boast of genius,“‘Others fancy, others passion,“‘But the pride of Swabian poets“‘Is especially their virtue.“‘That’s the only wealth we boast of!“‘Do not rob me of the modest“‘And religious simple garment“‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’“Thus I spoke, and yet the woman“Smiled ironically; smiling“She a switch of mistletoe“Took, and then my head touch’d with it.“Thereupon I felt a chilly“Strange sensation, like a goose-skin“Being o’er my members drawn;“Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not—“On the contrary, a dog-skin“Was it rather; since that fearful“Moment have I been converted“As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”Poor young fellow! Through his sobbingNot a word more could he utter;And he wept with so much fervour,That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.“Listen now,” I said with pity:“Can I possibly relieve you“Of your dog-skin, and restore you“To humanity and verses?”But the other raised his paws upIn the air disconsolatelyAnd despairingly; at length heSpake with sighing and with groaning:“Till the Judgment Day, alas! I“In this dog-skin must be prison’d,“If I’m freed not from enchantment“By a virgin’s self-devotion.“Yes, a pure unsullied virgin,“Who ne’er touch’d a human being,“And the following condition“Truly keeps, alone can free me.“This unsullied virgin must,“In the night of Saint Sylvester,“Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35]poems,“And not go to sleep one moment!“If she keeps awake while reading,“And her modest eye ne’er closes,—“Then shall I be disenchanted,“Be a man,—yes, be undogg’d!”“In that case, good friend,” replied I,“I at any rate can never“Undertake to disenchant you,“For I’m no unsullied virgin;“And still less should I be able“To fulfil the task of reading“All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems,“And not fall asleep instanter!”
Phœbus in his sunny droschkaLash’d his flaming horses onwards,And had half his course alreadyThrough the spacious heavens completed,
Whilst I still in slumber lay,And of bears and spirits, strangelyIntertwining with each otherIn quaint arabesque, was dreaming.
Midday ’twas ere I awaken’d,And I found myself alone;Both my hostess and LascaroFor the chase had started early.
In the hut the pug-dog onlyStill remain’d. Beside the hearth heStood upright before the kettle,While his paws a spoon were holding.
Admirably had they taught himWhensoe’er the broth boil’d overHastily to stir it round,And to skim away the bubbles.
But am I myself bewitch’d?Or still blazes there the feverIn my head? I scarce can creditMy own ears—the pug-dog’s talking!
Yes, he’s talking, and his accentGentle is and Swabian; dreaming,As though buried in deep thought,Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:
“Poor unhappy Swabian poet!“In a foreign land I sadly“Languish, as a dog enchanted,“And a witch’s kettle watch!
“What a shameful sin is witchcraft!“O how sad, how deeply tragic“Is my fate,—with human feelings“Underneath a dog’s exterior!
“Would that I at home had tarried“With my trusty school companions!“They’re at any rate no wizards,—“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!
“Would that I at home had tarried“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant“Wallflow’rs of my native country,“With its pudding-broth delicious!
“I’m half dead now with nostalgia—“Would that I could see the smoke“Rising from the chimneys where they“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”
When I heard this, deep emotionCame across me; quickly sprang IFrom the couch, approach’d the fireplace,And address’d him with compassion:
“Noble bard, say how it happens“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”
But with joy exclaim’d the other:“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,“But a German, understanding“All my silent monologue?
“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,“When we o’er our pipes and glasses“Held discussions in the beershop,
“Always harp’d upon the thesis“That by travelling alone we“Could obtain that polish, which he“Had from foreign lands imported!
“So, that I might wipe away all“That raw crust which stuck upon me,“And like Kölle might acquire“Elegant and polish’d manners,
“From my country I departed,“And while thus the grand tour making,“Came I to the Pyrenees,“To the cottage of Uraca.
“I an introduction brought her“From Justinus Kerner[34], never“Thinking that this so-called friend“Was in wicked league with witches.
“Kindly welcomed me Uraca,“Yet, to my alarm, her friendship“Kept on growing, till converted“At the last to sensual passion.
“Yes, immodesty still flicker’d“Wildly in the wither’d bosom“Of this wretched, worthless woman,“And she now must needs seduce me!
“Yet implored I: ‘Ah, excuse me,“‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous“‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong“‘To the poet-school of Swabia.
“‘Modesty’s the muse we worship,“‘And the drawers she wears are made of“‘Thickest leather—Ah, good madam,“‘Do not violate my virtue!
“‘Other poets boast of genius,“‘Others fancy, others passion,“‘But the pride of Swabian poets“‘Is especially their virtue.
“‘That’s the only wealth we boast of!“‘Do not rob me of the modest“‘And religious simple garment“‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’
“Thus I spoke, and yet the woman“Smiled ironically; smiling“She a switch of mistletoe“Took, and then my head touch’d with it.
“Thereupon I felt a chilly“Strange sensation, like a goose-skin“Being o’er my members drawn;“Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not—
“On the contrary, a dog-skin“Was it rather; since that fearful“Moment have I been converted“As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”
Poor young fellow! Through his sobbingNot a word more could he utter;And he wept with so much fervour,That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.
“Listen now,” I said with pity:“Can I possibly relieve you“Of your dog-skin, and restore you“To humanity and verses?”
But the other raised his paws upIn the air disconsolatelyAnd despairingly; at length heSpake with sighing and with groaning:
“Till the Judgment Day, alas! I“In this dog-skin must be prison’d,“If I’m freed not from enchantment“By a virgin’s self-devotion.
“Yes, a pure unsullied virgin,“Who ne’er touch’d a human being,“And the following condition“Truly keeps, alone can free me.
“This unsullied virgin must,“In the night of Saint Sylvester,“Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35]poems,“And not go to sleep one moment!
“If she keeps awake while reading,“And her modest eye ne’er closes,—“Then shall I be disenchanted,“Be a man,—yes, be undogg’d!”
“In that case, good friend,” replied I,“I at any rate can never“Undertake to disenchant you,“For I’m no unsullied virgin;
“And still less should I be able“To fulfil the task of reading“All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems,“And not fall asleep instanter!”
From the witch’s entertainmentTo the valley we descended,And our footsteps to the regionOf the Positive return’d.Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres!Airy figures! Fev’rish visions!We find rational employmentOnce again with Atta Troll.In the cavern, by his young ones,Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,With the snore of conscious virtue,And at length he wakes with gaping.Near him squats young Master One-earAnd his head he’s gently scratching.Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,And upon his paws he’s scanning.Likewise by their father’s sideOn their backs are dreaming lyingInnocent four-footed lilies,Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.Say, what tender thoughts are piningIn the softly blooming spiritsOf these snowy young bear-virgins?Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.Most of all appears the youngestDeeply moved. Within her bosomShe a blissful twinge is feeling,And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.Yes, that little god’s sharp arrowThrough her thick skin penetratedWhen she saw Him—O, good heavensHim she loves, a living man is!Is a man, yclept Schnapphahnski;—Whilst before his foes retreatingHe arrived by chance one morningAt the mountain in his flight.Woes of heroes touch all women,And within our hero’s featuresWere depicted want of money,Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.All his military chest,Two-and-twenty silver groschen,Which he had when Spain he enter’d,Was the prey of Espartero.E’en his watch was not preserved him,But remain’d at PampelunaIn a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom,Costly and of genuine silver.And with long legs swiftly ran he,But unconsciously whilst runningWon he something that’s far betterThan the best of fights,—a heart!Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe!O thou most unhappy bearess!If thy father knew the secret,He would growl in frightful fashion.As the aged Odoardo[36]Stabb’d Emilia GalottiIn his pride of citizenship,So would also Atta TrollSooner have destroy’d his daughter,Yes, with his own paws destroy’d herThan permitted her to tumbleIn the arms of any monarchYet he at this very momentIs of tender disposition,With no wish to crush a rosebudEre the hurricane has stripp’d it.[37]Tenderly lies Atta TrollIn the cavern, by his young ones.O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings,Mournful yearnings for the future.“Children,” sigh’d he, as his great eyes“Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children,“All my earthly pilgrimage“Is accomplish’d, we must part now.“For to-day at noon whilst sleeping“Came a vision full of meaning,“And my soul enjoy’d the blissful“Foretaste of an early death.“Now, I’m far from superstitious,“I’m no giddy bear,—yet are there“Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven“Unaccountable to thinkers.“Over world and fate whilst poring,“Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,“And I dreamt that I was lying“Underneath a mighty tree.“From the branches of this tree there“Trickled down some whitish honey,“Gliding in my open muzzle,“And I felt a sweet enjoyment.“As I blissfully peer’d upwards,“Saw I on the very tree-top“Seven tiny little bears“Sliding up and down the branches.“Tender, pretty little creatures,“With a skin of rose-red colour,“While, like silk, from their dear shoulders“Hung a something, like two pinions.“Yes, those rose-red little bears“Were adorn’d with silken pinions,“And with sweet celestial voices,“Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold,“And from out my skin there mounted,“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”—Thus spake Atta Troll in quiveringTender grunting tones; a momentPaused he, full of melancholy—But his ears with sudden impulsePrick’d he up, and strangely shook they,Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,Trembling, bellowing with rapture:“Do ye hear that sound, my children?“Is it not the darling accents“Of your mother? O, well know I,“’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,Hasten’d, like a crazy being,From the cavern to destruction!Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!
From the witch’s entertainmentTo the valley we descended,And our footsteps to the regionOf the Positive return’d.Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres!Airy figures! Fev’rish visions!We find rational employmentOnce again with Atta Troll.In the cavern, by his young ones,Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,With the snore of conscious virtue,And at length he wakes with gaping.Near him squats young Master One-earAnd his head he’s gently scratching.Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,And upon his paws he’s scanning.Likewise by their father’s sideOn their backs are dreaming lyingInnocent four-footed lilies,Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.Say, what tender thoughts are piningIn the softly blooming spiritsOf these snowy young bear-virgins?Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.Most of all appears the youngestDeeply moved. Within her bosomShe a blissful twinge is feeling,And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.Yes, that little god’s sharp arrowThrough her thick skin penetratedWhen she saw Him—O, good heavensHim she loves, a living man is!Is a man, yclept Schnapphahnski;—Whilst before his foes retreatingHe arrived by chance one morningAt the mountain in his flight.Woes of heroes touch all women,And within our hero’s featuresWere depicted want of money,Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.All his military chest,Two-and-twenty silver groschen,Which he had when Spain he enter’d,Was the prey of Espartero.E’en his watch was not preserved him,But remain’d at PampelunaIn a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom,Costly and of genuine silver.And with long legs swiftly ran he,But unconsciously whilst runningWon he something that’s far betterThan the best of fights,—a heart!Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe!O thou most unhappy bearess!If thy father knew the secret,He would growl in frightful fashion.As the aged Odoardo[36]Stabb’d Emilia GalottiIn his pride of citizenship,So would also Atta TrollSooner have destroy’d his daughter,Yes, with his own paws destroy’d herThan permitted her to tumbleIn the arms of any monarchYet he at this very momentIs of tender disposition,With no wish to crush a rosebudEre the hurricane has stripp’d it.[37]Tenderly lies Atta TrollIn the cavern, by his young ones.O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings,Mournful yearnings for the future.“Children,” sigh’d he, as his great eyes“Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children,“All my earthly pilgrimage“Is accomplish’d, we must part now.“For to-day at noon whilst sleeping“Came a vision full of meaning,“And my soul enjoy’d the blissful“Foretaste of an early death.“Now, I’m far from superstitious,“I’m no giddy bear,—yet are there“Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven“Unaccountable to thinkers.“Over world and fate whilst poring,“Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,“And I dreamt that I was lying“Underneath a mighty tree.“From the branches of this tree there“Trickled down some whitish honey,“Gliding in my open muzzle,“And I felt a sweet enjoyment.“As I blissfully peer’d upwards,“Saw I on the very tree-top“Seven tiny little bears“Sliding up and down the branches.“Tender, pretty little creatures,“With a skin of rose-red colour,“While, like silk, from their dear shoulders“Hung a something, like two pinions.“Yes, those rose-red little bears“Were adorn’d with silken pinions,“And with sweet celestial voices,“Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold,“And from out my skin there mounted,“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”—Thus spake Atta Troll in quiveringTender grunting tones; a momentPaused he, full of melancholy—But his ears with sudden impulsePrick’d he up, and strangely shook they,Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,Trembling, bellowing with rapture:“Do ye hear that sound, my children?“Is it not the darling accents“Of your mother? O, well know I,“’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,Hasten’d, like a crazy being,From the cavern to destruction!Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!
From the witch’s entertainmentTo the valley we descended,And our footsteps to the regionOf the Positive return’d.
Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres!Airy figures! Fev’rish visions!We find rational employmentOnce again with Atta Troll.
In the cavern, by his young ones,Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,With the snore of conscious virtue,And at length he wakes with gaping.
Near him squats young Master One-earAnd his head he’s gently scratching.Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,And upon his paws he’s scanning.
Likewise by their father’s sideOn their backs are dreaming lyingInnocent four-footed lilies,Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.
Say, what tender thoughts are piningIn the softly blooming spiritsOf these snowy young bear-virgins?Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.
Most of all appears the youngestDeeply moved. Within her bosomShe a blissful twinge is feeling,And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.
Yes, that little god’s sharp arrowThrough her thick skin penetratedWhen she saw Him—O, good heavensHim she loves, a living man is!
Is a man, yclept Schnapphahnski;—Whilst before his foes retreatingHe arrived by chance one morningAt the mountain in his flight.
Woes of heroes touch all women,And within our hero’s featuresWere depicted want of money,Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.
All his military chest,Two-and-twenty silver groschen,Which he had when Spain he enter’d,Was the prey of Espartero.
E’en his watch was not preserved him,But remain’d at PampelunaIn a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom,Costly and of genuine silver.
And with long legs swiftly ran he,But unconsciously whilst runningWon he something that’s far betterThan the best of fights,—a heart!
Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe!O thou most unhappy bearess!If thy father knew the secret,He would growl in frightful fashion.
As the aged Odoardo[36]Stabb’d Emilia GalottiIn his pride of citizenship,So would also Atta Troll
Sooner have destroy’d his daughter,Yes, with his own paws destroy’d herThan permitted her to tumbleIn the arms of any monarch
Yet he at this very momentIs of tender disposition,With no wish to crush a rosebudEre the hurricane has stripp’d it.[37]
Tenderly lies Atta TrollIn the cavern, by his young ones.O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings,Mournful yearnings for the future.
“Children,” sigh’d he, as his great eyes“Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children,“All my earthly pilgrimage“Is accomplish’d, we must part now.
“For to-day at noon whilst sleeping“Came a vision full of meaning,“And my soul enjoy’d the blissful“Foretaste of an early death.
“Now, I’m far from superstitious,“I’m no giddy bear,—yet are there“Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven“Unaccountable to thinkers.
“Over world and fate whilst poring,“Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,“And I dreamt that I was lying“Underneath a mighty tree.
“From the branches of this tree there“Trickled down some whitish honey,“Gliding in my open muzzle,“And I felt a sweet enjoyment.
“As I blissfully peer’d upwards,“Saw I on the very tree-top“Seven tiny little bears“Sliding up and down the branches.
“Tender, pretty little creatures,“With a skin of rose-red colour,“While, like silk, from their dear shoulders“Hung a something, like two pinions.
“Yes, those rose-red little bears“Were adorn’d with silken pinions,“And with sweet celestial voices,“Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!
“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold,“And from out my skin there mounted,“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”—
Thus spake Atta Troll in quiveringTender grunting tones; a momentPaused he, full of melancholy—But his ears with sudden impulse
Prick’d he up, and strangely shook they,Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,Trembling, bellowing with rapture:“Do ye hear that sound, my children?
“Is it not the darling accents“Of your mother? O, well know I,“’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”
Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,Hasten’d, like a crazy being,From the cavern to destruction!Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!
In the vale of RoncevalOn the very spot where whilomeCharlemagne’s unhappy nephewTo the foe his life surrender’d,There, too, fell poor Atta Troll,And he fell by cunning, like himWhom the base equestrian Judas,Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion,Namely his uxorious feelings,Was a snare which old UracaCunningly avail’d herself of.She the growl of swarthy MummaCopied with such great perfection,That poor Atta Troll was temptedOut of his secure bear’s-cavern.On the wings of yearning ran heThrough the vale,—oft stood he, gentlySnuffing at a rock in silence,Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.Ah! conceal’d there was LascaroWith his musket, and he shot himThrough the middle of his heart, whenceGush’d a ruddy stream of blood.Once or twice his head he waggled,But at last with heavy groaningFell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,And his latest sigh was—“Mumma.”Thus the noble hero fell;Thus he died. And yet immortalWill he in the poet’s numbersAfter death arise in glory.Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers,And his glory, grown colossal,On four-footed solemn trocheesO’er the face of earth stride proudly.And his tomb Bavaria’s monarchWill erect in the Walhalla,Writing on it this inscription,In true lapidary style:“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse;“Devotee; a loving husband;“Full of sans-culottic notions,“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.“Wretched dancer; strong opinions“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;“Often stinking very badly;“Talentless; a character!”
In the vale of RoncevalOn the very spot where whilomeCharlemagne’s unhappy nephewTo the foe his life surrender’d,There, too, fell poor Atta Troll,And he fell by cunning, like himWhom the base equestrian Judas,Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion,Namely his uxorious feelings,Was a snare which old UracaCunningly avail’d herself of.She the growl of swarthy MummaCopied with such great perfection,That poor Atta Troll was temptedOut of his secure bear’s-cavern.On the wings of yearning ran heThrough the vale,—oft stood he, gentlySnuffing at a rock in silence,Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.Ah! conceal’d there was LascaroWith his musket, and he shot himThrough the middle of his heart, whenceGush’d a ruddy stream of blood.Once or twice his head he waggled,But at last with heavy groaningFell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,And his latest sigh was—“Mumma.”Thus the noble hero fell;Thus he died. And yet immortalWill he in the poet’s numbersAfter death arise in glory.Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers,And his glory, grown colossal,On four-footed solemn trocheesO’er the face of earth stride proudly.And his tomb Bavaria’s monarchWill erect in the Walhalla,Writing on it this inscription,In true lapidary style:“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse;“Devotee; a loving husband;“Full of sans-culottic notions,“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.“Wretched dancer; strong opinions“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;“Often stinking very badly;“Talentless; a character!”
In the vale of RoncevalOn the very spot where whilomeCharlemagne’s unhappy nephewTo the foe his life surrender’d,
There, too, fell poor Atta Troll,And he fell by cunning, like himWhom the base equestrian Judas,Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.
Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion,Namely his uxorious feelings,Was a snare which old UracaCunningly avail’d herself of.
She the growl of swarthy MummaCopied with such great perfection,That poor Atta Troll was temptedOut of his secure bear’s-cavern.
On the wings of yearning ran heThrough the vale,—oft stood he, gentlySnuffing at a rock in silence,Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.
Ah! conceal’d there was LascaroWith his musket, and he shot himThrough the middle of his heart, whenceGush’d a ruddy stream of blood.
Once or twice his head he waggled,But at last with heavy groaningFell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,And his latest sigh was—“Mumma.”
Thus the noble hero fell;Thus he died. And yet immortalWill he in the poet’s numbersAfter death arise in glory.
Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers,And his glory, grown colossal,On four-footed solemn trocheesO’er the face of earth stride proudly.
And his tomb Bavaria’s monarchWill erect in the Walhalla,Writing on it this inscription,In true lapidary style:
“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse;“Devotee; a loving husband;“Full of sans-culottic notions,“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.
“Wretched dancer; strong opinions“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;“Often stinking very badly;“Talentless; a character!”
Three-and-thirty aged women,Wearing on their heads the scarletOld Biscayan caps we read of,Stood around the village entrance.One, like Deborah, amongst themBeat the tambourine, and danced too,And she sang a song of triumphO’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.Four strong men upon their shouldersBore the vanquish’d bear in triumph;Upright sat he on the seat,Like a sickly bathing patient.And behind, as if relatedTo the dead bear, went LascaroWith Uraca; right and left sheBow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.And the Mayor’s Assistant gave themQuite a speech before the town hall,When the grand procession got there,And he spoke on many subjects,—As, for instance, on the increaseOf the navy, on the press,On the weighty beetroot question,On the curse of party spirit.After fully illustratingLouis Philippe’s special merits,He proceeded to the bear,And Lascaro’s great achievement.“Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker,As with his tricolour’d sash heWiped the sweat from off his forehead,“Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!“Thou who bravely hast deliver’d“France and Spain from Atta Troll,“Thou’rt the hero of both countries,“Pyrenean Lafayette!”When Lascaro in this mannerHeard officially his praises,In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he,And quite blush’d with satisfaction,And in very broken accents,One word o’er another stumbling,Gave he utt’rance to his thanksFor this most exceeding honour!Every one with deep amazementGazed upon this sight unwonted,And the aged women mutter’dIn alarm, beneath their breath:“Why, Lascaro has been laughing!“Why, Lascaro has been blushing!“Why, Lascaro has been speaking!“He, the dead son of the witch!”—Atta Troll that very day wasFlay’d, and then they sold by auctionHis poor skin. A furrier bought itFor one hundred francs, hard money.He most beautifully trimm’d itWith a lovely scarlet border,And then sold it for just doubleWhat it cost him in the first place.Juliet then became its ownerAt third hand, and in her bedroomLies it now in Paris, servingAs a rug beside her bed.O, with naked feet how oftenHave I stood at night upon thisEarthly brown coat of my hero,On the skin of Atta Troll!And o’ercome by sad reflections,Schiller’s words I then remember’d:“What in song shall be immortal“Must in actual life first die!”[38]
Three-and-thirty aged women,Wearing on their heads the scarletOld Biscayan caps we read of,Stood around the village entrance.One, like Deborah, amongst themBeat the tambourine, and danced too,And she sang a song of triumphO’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.Four strong men upon their shouldersBore the vanquish’d bear in triumph;Upright sat he on the seat,Like a sickly bathing patient.And behind, as if relatedTo the dead bear, went LascaroWith Uraca; right and left sheBow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.And the Mayor’s Assistant gave themQuite a speech before the town hall,When the grand procession got there,And he spoke on many subjects,—As, for instance, on the increaseOf the navy, on the press,On the weighty beetroot question,On the curse of party spirit.After fully illustratingLouis Philippe’s special merits,He proceeded to the bear,And Lascaro’s great achievement.“Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker,As with his tricolour’d sash heWiped the sweat from off his forehead,“Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!“Thou who bravely hast deliver’d“France and Spain from Atta Troll,“Thou’rt the hero of both countries,“Pyrenean Lafayette!”When Lascaro in this mannerHeard officially his praises,In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he,And quite blush’d with satisfaction,And in very broken accents,One word o’er another stumbling,Gave he utt’rance to his thanksFor this most exceeding honour!Every one with deep amazementGazed upon this sight unwonted,And the aged women mutter’dIn alarm, beneath their breath:“Why, Lascaro has been laughing!“Why, Lascaro has been blushing!“Why, Lascaro has been speaking!“He, the dead son of the witch!”—Atta Troll that very day wasFlay’d, and then they sold by auctionHis poor skin. A furrier bought itFor one hundred francs, hard money.He most beautifully trimm’d itWith a lovely scarlet border,And then sold it for just doubleWhat it cost him in the first place.Juliet then became its ownerAt third hand, and in her bedroomLies it now in Paris, servingAs a rug beside her bed.O, with naked feet how oftenHave I stood at night upon thisEarthly brown coat of my hero,On the skin of Atta Troll!And o’ercome by sad reflections,Schiller’s words I then remember’d:“What in song shall be immortal“Must in actual life first die!”[38]
Three-and-thirty aged women,Wearing on their heads the scarletOld Biscayan caps we read of,Stood around the village entrance.
One, like Deborah, amongst themBeat the tambourine, and danced too,And she sang a song of triumphO’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.
Four strong men upon their shouldersBore the vanquish’d bear in triumph;Upright sat he on the seat,Like a sickly bathing patient.
And behind, as if relatedTo the dead bear, went LascaroWith Uraca; right and left sheBow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.
And the Mayor’s Assistant gave themQuite a speech before the town hall,When the grand procession got there,And he spoke on many subjects,—
As, for instance, on the increaseOf the navy, on the press,On the weighty beetroot question,On the curse of party spirit.
After fully illustratingLouis Philippe’s special merits,He proceeded to the bear,And Lascaro’s great achievement.
“Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker,As with his tricolour’d sash heWiped the sweat from off his forehead,“Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!
“Thou who bravely hast deliver’d“France and Spain from Atta Troll,“Thou’rt the hero of both countries,“Pyrenean Lafayette!”
When Lascaro in this mannerHeard officially his praises,In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he,And quite blush’d with satisfaction,
And in very broken accents,One word o’er another stumbling,Gave he utt’rance to his thanksFor this most exceeding honour!
Every one with deep amazementGazed upon this sight unwonted,And the aged women mutter’dIn alarm, beneath their breath:
“Why, Lascaro has been laughing!“Why, Lascaro has been blushing!“Why, Lascaro has been speaking!“He, the dead son of the witch!”—
Atta Troll that very day wasFlay’d, and then they sold by auctionHis poor skin. A furrier bought itFor one hundred francs, hard money.
He most beautifully trimm’d itWith a lovely scarlet border,And then sold it for just doubleWhat it cost him in the first place.
Juliet then became its ownerAt third hand, and in her bedroomLies it now in Paris, servingAs a rug beside her bed.
O, with naked feet how oftenHave I stood at night upon thisEarthly brown coat of my hero,On the skin of Atta Troll!
And o’ercome by sad reflections,Schiller’s words I then remember’d:“What in song shall be immortal“Must in actual life first die!”[38]
Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor MummaIs a woman! FrailtyIs her name! Alas! all womenAre as frail as any porcelain.When by fate’s hand she was partedFrom her glorious noble husband,She by no means died of sorrow,Nor succumb’d to her affliction.On the contrary, she gailyWent on living, went on dancingAs before, with ardour wooingFor the public’s daily plaudits.Finally she found a solidSituation, and provisionFor the whole of life, at ParisIn the famedJardin des Plantes.When I chanced the other SundayWith my Juliet to go thitherAnd expounded Nature to her,Of the plants and beasts conversing,Showing the giraffes and cedarsOf Mount Lebanon, the mightyDromedary, the gold pheasants,And the zebra,—as we chattedIt so happen’d that at length weStood before the pit’s close railingWhere the bears are all collected,—Gracious heavens, what saw we there!An enormous desert-bearFrom Siberia, white and hairy,With a lady-bear was playingA too-tender game of love there.And the latter was our Mumma!Was the wife of Atta Troll!Well I knew her by the tenderHumid glances of her eye.Yes, ’twas she! the South’s black daughter!She it was,—yes, Madame MummaWith a Russian is now living,With a Northern wild barbarian!With a simp’ring face a negroWho approach’d us, thus address’d me:“Is there any sight more pleasing“Than to see two lovers happy?”I replied: “Pray tell me whom, Sir,“I’ve the honour of addressing?”But the other cried with wonder:“Don’t you really recollect me?“Why, the Moorish prince am I“Who in Freiligrath was drumming;“Things in Germany went badly,“I was far too isolated.“Here, however, where as keeperI am station’d, where I’m living’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigersOf my home within the tropics,“Here I find it much more pleasantThan your German fairs attending,Where I day by day was drummingAnd was fed so very badly.“I quite recently was marriedTo a fair cook from Alsatia;When within her arms reposingFeel I then at home completely.“Her dear feet remind me closelyOf our darling elephants;When she speaks in French, her languageMy black mother-tongue resembles.“Oft she scolds me, and I think thenOf the rattling of that drumWhich had skulls around it hanging;Snake and lion fled before it.“Yet with feeling in the moonlightWeeps she, like a crocodilePeeping from the tepid riverTo enjoy a little coolness.“And she gives me charming tit-bits,And I thrive upon them, eatingOnce again, as on the Niger,With old African enjoyment.“I am getting fat; my belly’sGrown quite round, and from my shirt itIs projecting, like a black moonFrom the snow-white clouds advancing.”
Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor MummaIs a woman! FrailtyIs her name! Alas! all womenAre as frail as any porcelain.When by fate’s hand she was partedFrom her glorious noble husband,She by no means died of sorrow,Nor succumb’d to her affliction.On the contrary, she gailyWent on living, went on dancingAs before, with ardour wooingFor the public’s daily plaudits.Finally she found a solidSituation, and provisionFor the whole of life, at ParisIn the famedJardin des Plantes.When I chanced the other SundayWith my Juliet to go thitherAnd expounded Nature to her,Of the plants and beasts conversing,Showing the giraffes and cedarsOf Mount Lebanon, the mightyDromedary, the gold pheasants,And the zebra,—as we chattedIt so happen’d that at length weStood before the pit’s close railingWhere the bears are all collected,—Gracious heavens, what saw we there!An enormous desert-bearFrom Siberia, white and hairy,With a lady-bear was playingA too-tender game of love there.And the latter was our Mumma!Was the wife of Atta Troll!Well I knew her by the tenderHumid glances of her eye.Yes, ’twas she! the South’s black daughter!She it was,—yes, Madame MummaWith a Russian is now living,With a Northern wild barbarian!With a simp’ring face a negroWho approach’d us, thus address’d me:“Is there any sight more pleasing“Than to see two lovers happy?”I replied: “Pray tell me whom, Sir,“I’ve the honour of addressing?”But the other cried with wonder:“Don’t you really recollect me?“Why, the Moorish prince am I“Who in Freiligrath was drumming;“Things in Germany went badly,“I was far too isolated.“Here, however, where as keeperI am station’d, where I’m living’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigersOf my home within the tropics,“Here I find it much more pleasantThan your German fairs attending,Where I day by day was drummingAnd was fed so very badly.“I quite recently was marriedTo a fair cook from Alsatia;When within her arms reposingFeel I then at home completely.“Her dear feet remind me closelyOf our darling elephants;When she speaks in French, her languageMy black mother-tongue resembles.“Oft she scolds me, and I think thenOf the rattling of that drumWhich had skulls around it hanging;Snake and lion fled before it.“Yet with feeling in the moonlightWeeps she, like a crocodilePeeping from the tepid riverTo enjoy a little coolness.“And she gives me charming tit-bits,And I thrive upon them, eatingOnce again, as on the Niger,With old African enjoyment.“I am getting fat; my belly’sGrown quite round, and from my shirt itIs projecting, like a black moonFrom the snow-white clouds advancing.”
Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor MummaIs a woman! FrailtyIs her name! Alas! all womenAre as frail as any porcelain.
When by fate’s hand she was partedFrom her glorious noble husband,She by no means died of sorrow,Nor succumb’d to her affliction.
On the contrary, she gailyWent on living, went on dancingAs before, with ardour wooingFor the public’s daily plaudits.
Finally she found a solidSituation, and provisionFor the whole of life, at ParisIn the famedJardin des Plantes.
When I chanced the other SundayWith my Juliet to go thitherAnd expounded Nature to her,Of the plants and beasts conversing,
Showing the giraffes and cedarsOf Mount Lebanon, the mightyDromedary, the gold pheasants,And the zebra,—as we chatted
It so happen’d that at length weStood before the pit’s close railingWhere the bears are all collected,—Gracious heavens, what saw we there!
An enormous desert-bearFrom Siberia, white and hairy,With a lady-bear was playingA too-tender game of love there.
And the latter was our Mumma!Was the wife of Atta Troll!Well I knew her by the tenderHumid glances of her eye.
Yes, ’twas she! the South’s black daughter!She it was,—yes, Madame MummaWith a Russian is now living,With a Northern wild barbarian!
With a simp’ring face a negroWho approach’d us, thus address’d me:“Is there any sight more pleasing“Than to see two lovers happy?”
I replied: “Pray tell me whom, Sir,“I’ve the honour of addressing?”But the other cried with wonder:“Don’t you really recollect me?
“Why, the Moorish prince am I“Who in Freiligrath was drumming;“Things in Germany went badly,“I was far too isolated.
“Here, however, where as keeperI am station’d, where I’m living’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigersOf my home within the tropics,
“Here I find it much more pleasantThan your German fairs attending,Where I day by day was drummingAnd was fed so very badly.
“I quite recently was marriedTo a fair cook from Alsatia;When within her arms reposingFeel I then at home completely.
“Her dear feet remind me closelyOf our darling elephants;When she speaks in French, her languageMy black mother-tongue resembles.
“Oft she scolds me, and I think thenOf the rattling of that drumWhich had skulls around it hanging;Snake and lion fled before it.
“Yet with feeling in the moonlightWeeps she, like a crocodilePeeping from the tepid riverTo enjoy a little coolness.
“And she gives me charming tit-bits,And I thrive upon them, eatingOnce again, as on the Niger,With old African enjoyment.
“I am getting fat; my belly’sGrown quite round, and from my shirt itIs projecting, like a black moonFrom the snow-white clouds advancing.”
(To Augustus Varnhagen Von Ense.)