itself,
Or that law of have-and-hold.
Men are only pocket-thieves!
"Flamingly I hate them! Thee
All my hatred I bequeath.
Oh, my son, upon this shrine
Shalt thou swear eternal hate!
"Be the mortal foeman thou
Of th' oppressor, unforgiving
To thy very end of days!
Swear it—swear it here, my son!"
And the youngster swore as once
Hannibal. The moonbeams bleak
Yellowed on the bloodstone hoary
And that brace of misanthropes.
Later shall our harp record
How the young bear kept his faith
And his plighted oath,—for him
Shall our epic strings be strung.
With regard to Atta Troll,
Let us leave him for a space,
So we may the surer smite
Him with our unerring ball.
Traitor to Humanity!
Thou art judged, the sentence writ.
Of lèse-majesté thou'rt guilty,
And to-morrow sees the chase.
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CANTO XI
Like to sleepy dancing-girls
Lift the mountains white and cold,
Standing in their skirts of mist
Flaunted by the winds of morn.
Yet full soon their breasts shall glow
To the sun-god's burning kiss,
He shall tear the clinging veils
And illume their beauty nude.
In the early dawn had I
With Lascaro sallied forth
On a bear-hunt and the noon
Saw us at the Pont d'Espagne.
Thus is named the bridge that leads
From the land of France to Spain,
To barbarians of the West,
Centuries behind the times.
Full ten centuries they lie
From all modern thought removed,
And my own barbarians
Of the East—not more than two.
Lingering and loth I left
The all-hallowed soil of France,
Left great Freedom's motherland
And the women that I love.
Midmost of the Pont d'Espagne
Sat a Spaniard. Misery
Lurked within his tattered cape;
Misery lurked within his eyes.
With his bony fingers he
Plucked an ancient mandolin
Full of discord shrill which echoed
Mockingly from out the gulch.
Then betimes he leaned aslant
O'er the depths and laughed aloud,
Tinkled then in maddest wise
As he sang his little song:
"In my very heart of heart
There's a tiny golden table,
And about this golden table
Four small golden chairs are set.
"Seated on these golden chairs,
Little dames with darts of gold
In their hair are playing cards—
Clara wins at every game.
"Yes, she wins and smiles in glee.
Clara, oh, within my heart,
Thou can'st never fail to win,
For thou holdest all the trumps!"
On I wandered and I spoke
Thus unto myself. How strange!
Lunacy itself sits there
Singing on the road to Spain.
Is this madman not a sign
Of how nations trade in thought?
Or is he his native land's
Wild and crazy title-page?
Twilight sank before we came
To a wretched old posada
Where podrida—favourite dish!
Steamed within a dirty pot.
There garbanzos did I eat
Huge and hard as musket-balls,
Which not e'en a native Teuton,
Bred on dumplings, could digest.
And my bed was of a piece,
With the cooking. Insects vile
Dotted it. Oh, surely these
Are the grimmest foes of man!
Far more fearful than the wrath
Of a thousand elephants,
Is one small and angry bug
Crawling o'er thy lowly couch.
Helpless thou against its bite—
That is bad enough!—but worse
Evil comes if it be crushed
And its horrid smell released.
All Life's terrors we may taste
In the war with vermin waged,
Vermin well-equipped with stinks,
And in duels with a bug.
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