Atta Troll

by Heinrich Heine

CANTO XVIII 'Twas the night before Saint John's, In the fullness of the moon, When that wild and spectral hunt Fills the Hollow Way of Ghosts. From the window of Uraka's Little cabin I could see All that mighty host of wraiths As it drifted through the gorge. Yea, a goodly place was mine Wherefrom I might well behold The tremendous spectacle Of the raised, carousing dead. Cracking whips, hallo! hurrah! Neigh of horses, bark of dogs, Laughter, blare of huntsmen's horns— How the tumult echoed there! Dashing in advance there came Stags and boars adventurous In a solid pack; behind Charged a wild and merry rout. Huntsmen come from many zones And from many ages too. Charles the Tenth rode close beside Nimrod the Assyrian. High upon their snowy steeds They charged onward. Then on foot Came the whips with hounds in leash And the pages with the links. Many in that maddened horde Seemed familiar—yon knight Gleaming all in golden mail,— Surely was King Arthur's self! And Lord Ogier the Dane In chain-armour shining green, Truly close resemblance bore To some mighty frog forsooth! Many a hero I beheld Of the gleaming world of thought; Wolfgang Goethe straight I knew By the sparkling of his eyes. Being damned by Hengstenberg, In his grave no peace he finds, So with pagan blazonry Gallops down the chase of Life. By the glamour of his smile Did I know the mighty Will Whom the Puritans once cursed Like our Goethe,—yet must he, Luckless sinner, in this host Ride a charger black as coal. Close beside him on an ass Rode a mortal and—great heavens! By the weary mien of prayer And the snowy night-cap too, And the terror of his soul, Francis Horn I recognized. Commentaries he composed On that great and cosmic child, Shakespeare—therefore at his side He must ride through thick and thin. Lo, poor silent Francis rides, He who scarcely dared to walk, He who only stirred himself At tea-tables and at prayers. Surely all the oldish maids Who indulged him in his ease, Will be startled when they hear Of his riding rough and free. When the gallop faster grows, Then great William glances down On his commentator meek Jogging onward on his ass. To the saddle clinging tight, Fainting in his terror sheer, Yet unto his author loyal In his death as in his life. Many ladies there I saw, In that crazy train of ghosts, Many lovely nymphs with forms Slender with the grace of youth. On their steeds they sat astride Mythologically nude! Though their tresses thick and long Fell like cloaks of stranded gold. Garlands rustled on their heads And they swung their laurelled staves, Bending back in reckless ways, Full of joyous insolence. Mediæval maids I saw Buttoned high unto the chin, On their saddles seated slant, Poising falcons on their wrists. Like a burlesque, from behind On their hacks and skinny nags Came a rout of merry wenches, Most extravagantly garbed. And each face, though lovely quite, Bore a trace of impudence; Madly would they shriek and yell, Puffing up their painted cheeks. How this tumult echoed there! Laughter, blare of huntsmen's horns; Neigh of horses, bark of dogs, Crack of whips! hallo! hurrah!

CANTO XIX But like Beauty's clover-leaf, In the very midst arose Three fair women. I shall never Their majestic forms forget! Well I knew the first! Her head Glittered with the crescent moon. Haughty, like some ivory statue Sat the goddess on her steed. And her fluttering tunic fell Loose about her hips and breasts, And the torchlight and the moon Laved with love her snowy limbs. Marble seemed her very face And like marble cold. How dread Was the pallor and the chill Of that stern and noble front! But within her dusky eye Smouldered a mysterious, Cruel and enticing fire Which devoured my poor soul. What a change has come o'er Dian Since in outraged chastity She smote Actæon to a stag As a quarry for his hounds! Doth she now requite this crime In this gallant company, Riding like some ghostly mortal Through the bleak, nocturnal air? Late did passion wake in her But for that the stronger burns, And within her eyes its flames Gleam like fiercest brands of hell. For those vanished times she grieves When the men were beautiful; Now in quantity perchance, She forgets their quality. At her side a fair one rode— Fair, but not by Grecian lines Was she fair; for all her features Shone with wondrous Celtic glow. 'Twas Abunda, fairy queen, Whom to know I could not fail By the sweetness of her smile And the madness of her laugh! Full and rosy was her face, Like the faces limned by Greuze; And from out her heart-shaped mouth Flashed the splendour of her teeth! All the winds made dalliance With her robe of azure blue, And such shoulders never I In my wildest dreams beheld. I was almost moved to leap From the window for a kiss; This had been sheer folly, true, Ending in a broken neck! Ah, and she, she would have laughed If within that awful gulf I had fallen at her feet;— Laughter such as this I know! And the third fair phantom, she Who so moved my errant heart,— Was this but some female fiend Like the other figures twain? Whether devil this or saint Know I not. With women, ah, None can ever know where saint Ends nor where the fiend begins. All the magic of the East Lay within her glowing face, And her dress brought memories Of Scheherazadê's tales. Lips as red as pomegranates And a curved nose lily white, Limbs as slender and as cool As some green oasis-palm. From her palfrey white she leaned, Flanked by giant Moors who trod Close beside the queenly dame Holding up the golden reins. Of most royal blood was she, She the Queen of old Judea, She great Herod's lovely wife, She who craved the Baptist's head. For this crimson crime was she Banned and cursed. Now in this chase Must she ride, a wandering spook, Till the dawn of Judgment Day. Still within her hands she bears That deep charger with the head Of the Prophet, still she kisses— Kisses it with fiery lips. For she loved the Prophet once, Though the Bible naught reveals, Yet her blood-stained love lives on Storied in her people's hearts. How might else a man declare All the longing of this lady? Would a woman crave the head Of a man she did not love? She perchance was slightly vexed With her darling, and was moved To behead him, but when she On the trencher saw his head, Then she wept and lost her wits, Dying in love's madness straight. (What! Love's madness? pleonasm! Love itself is madness still!) Rising nightly from her grave, To this frenzied hunt she hies, In her hands the gory head Which with feline joy she flings High into the air betimes, Laughing like a wanton child, Cleverly she catches it Like some idle rubber ball. As she swept past me she bowed Most coquettishly and looked On me with her melting eyes, So that all my heart was stirred. Thrice that rout raged up and down Past my window, then did she, Ah, most beautiful of shades! Greet me with her precious smile. Even when the pageant dimmed And the tumult silent grew In my brain, that smiling face Shone and beckoned on and on. All that night I tossed and turned My o'erwearied limbs on straw, Musty straw. No feather-beds In Uraka's hut I found! And I mused: what might this mean, This mysterious beckoning? Why, Oh, why, Herodias, Held thy look such tenderness?

CANTO XX Sunrise. Golden arrows dart Through the pallid ranks of mist Till they redden as with wounds And dissolve in shining light. Now hath triumph come to Day And the gleaming conqueror In his blinding glory treads O'er the ridges and the peaks. All the merry bands of birds Twitter in their hidden nests, And the scent of plants arises Like a psalm of odours rare. At the early glint of day Down the valley we had gone. While Lascaro dumb and dour Followed up the bear-tracks dim, I with musings sought to slay Time, but tired soon I grew Of my musings,—drear, ah, drear! Were my thoughts and void of joy. Weary, joyless, down I sank On a bank of softest moss 'Neath a great and kingly ash Where a little spring gushed forth. This with wondrous voice beguiled All my wayward mood until Thought and thinking vanished both In the music of the spring. Mighty longings seized me then, Madness, dreams and death-desires, Longings for those splendid queens Riding in that ghostly throng. Oh, ye lovely shapes of night, Banished by the rose of dawn, Whither, tell me, have ye fled, Whither have ye flown by day? Somewhere 'neath old temple-ruins In the wide Romagna hid, It is said Diana flees The dominion of the Christ. Only in the midnight gloom, Dare she venture forth, but then How she joys the merry chase And the pagan sports of old! Fay Abunda also fears All these sallow Nazarenes, So by day she hides herself Deep in secret Avalon. For this sacred island lies In the still and silent sea Of Romanticism, whither None save wingèd steeds may go. There no anchor Care may drop, Never there do steamships touch, Bringing loads of Philistines With tobacco-pipes, to stare. Never does that dismal, dull Ring of bells this stillness break— That atrocious bumm-bamm sound Which all gentle fairies hate. There, abloom with lasting youth In unbroken joyfulness, Lives that merry-hearted dame, Golden-locked Abunda fair. Laughing there she strolls between Huge sun-flowers drenched with light, Followed by her retinue Of unworldly Paladins. Ah, but thou, Herodias, Say, where art thou? Ah, I know! Thou art dead and buried deep By Jerusholayim's walls! Corpse-like is thy sleep by day In thy marble coffin laid, But at midnight dost thou wake To the crack of whips! hurrah! With Abunda, Dian, too, Dost thou join the headlong plunge And the blithesome hunter rout Fleeing from all cross and care. What companions rare and blithe! Might but I, Herodias, Ride at night through forests dark, I would gallop at thy side! For of all I love thee most! More than any goddess Grecian, More than any northern fay, Do I love thee, Jewess dead! Yea, I love thee most! 'Tis true, By the trembling of my soul! Love me too and be my sweet,— Loveliest Herodias! Love me too and be my love! Fling that gory block-head far With its trencher. Sweeter dishes I shall give thee to enjoy. Am not I thy proper knight Whom thou seekest? What care I If perchance thou'rt dead and damned— Prejudices I have none! Is my own salvation not In a parlous state? And oft Do I question if my life Still be linked with human lives. Take me, take me as thy knight, Thine own cavalier servente; I will bear thy silken robe And each wayward mood of thine. Every night beside thee, love, With this crazy horde I'll ride, And we'll kiss and thou shalt laugh At my quips and merry pranks. I will help thee speed the hours Of the night. And yet by day All my joy shall pass;—in tears I shall sit upon thy grave. Aye, by day will I sit down In the dust of kingly vaults, At the grave of my belovèd By Jerusholayim's walls! Then the grey Jews passing by Will imagine that I mourn The destruction of thy temple And thy gates, Jerusholayim.