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CANTO II
When the dusky Moorish Prince
Sung by poet Freiligrath
Beat upon his mighty drum
Till the drumskin crashed and broke—
Thrilling must that crash have been—
Likewise hard upon the ear—
But just fancy when a bear
Breaks away from captive chains!
Swift the laughter and the pipes
Cease. What yells of fear arise!
From the square the people rush
And the gentle dames grow pale.
Yea, from all his slavish bonds
Atta Troll has torn him free.
Suddenly! With mighty leaps
Through the narrow streets he runs.
Room enough is his, I trow!
Up the jagged cliffs he climbs,
Flings down one contemptuous look,
Then is lost within the hills.
Lone within the market-place
Mumma and her master stand—
Raging, now he grasps his hat,
Cursing, casts it on the earth,
Tramples on it, kicks and flouts
The Madonnas, tears the cloak
Off his foul and naked back,
Yells and blasphemes horribly
'Gainst the base ingratitude
Of the race of sable bears.
Had he not been kind to Troll?
Taught him dancing free of charge?
Everything this monster owed him,
Even life. For some had bid,
All in vain! three hundred marks
For the hide of Atta Troll.
Like some carven form of grief
There the poor black Mumma stands
On her hind feet, with her paws
Pleading with the raging clown.
But on her the raging clown
Looses now his twofold wrath;
Beats her; calls her Queen Christine,
Dame Muñoz—Putana too....
All this happened on a fair
Sunny summer afternoon.
And the night which followed, ah!
Was superb and wonderful.
Of that night a part I spent
On a small white balcony;
Juliet was at my side
And we viewed the passing stars.
"Fairer far," she sighed, "the stars
Which in Paris I have seen,
When upon a winter's night
In the muddy streets they shine."
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CANTO III
Dream of summer nights! How vain
Is my fond fantastic song.
Quite as vain as Love and Life,
And Creator and Creation.
Subject to his own sweet will,
Now in gallop, now in flight,
So my Pegasus, my darling,
Revels through the realms of myth.
Ah, no plodding cart-horse he!
Harnessed up for citizens,
Nor a ramping party-hack
Full of showy kicks and neighs.
For my little wingèd steed's
Hoofs are shod with solid gold
And his bridle, dragging free,
Is a rope of gleaming pearls.
Bear me wheresoe'er thou wouldst—
To some lofty mountain-trail
Where the torrents toss and shriek
Warnings over folly's gulf.
Bear me through the silent vales
Where the solemn oaks arise
From whose twisted roots there well
Ancient springs of fairy lore.
There, oh, let me drink—mine eyes
Let me lave—Oh, how I thirst
For that flashing wonder-spring,
Full of wisdom and of light.
All my blindness flees. My glance
Pierces to the dimmest cave,
To the lair of Atta Troll,
And his speech I understand!
Strange it is—this bearish speech
Hath a most familiar ring!
Once, methinks, I heard such tones
In my own dear native land.
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CANTO IV
Roncesvalles, thou noble vale!
When thy golden name I hear,
Then the lost blue flower blooms
Once again within my heart!
All the glittering world of dreams
Rises from its hoary gulf,
And with great and ghostly eyes
Stares upon me till I quake!
What a stir and clang! The Franks
Battle with the Saracens,
While a thin, despairing wail
Pours like blood from Roland's horn.
In the Vale of Roncesvalles,
Close beside great Roland's Gap—
So 'twas named because the Knight
Once to clear himself a path.
Now this youngest was the pet
Of his mother. Once in play
Chewing off his tiny ear—
She devoured it for love.
A most genial youth is he,
Clever in gymnastic tricks,
Throwing somersaults as clever
As dear Massmann's somersaults.
Blossom of the pristine cult,
For the mother-tongue he raves,
Scorning all the senseless jargon
Of the Romans and the Greeks.
"Fresh and pious, gay and free,"
Hating all that smacks of soap
Or the modern craze for baths—
Verily like Massmann too!
Most inspired is this youth
When he clambers up the tree
Which from out the hollow gorge
Rears itself along the cliff,
Rears and lifts unto the crest
Where at night this jolly band
Squat and loll about their sire
In the twilight dim and cool.
Gladly there the father bear
Tells them stories of the world,
Of strange cities and their folk,
And of all he suffered too,
Suffered like Ulysses great—
Differing slightly from this brave
Since his black Penelope
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