CANTO XXIV
In the Vale of Roncesvalles,
On that very spot where erst
Charlemagne's great nephew fell,
Gasping forth his warrior soul,
Fell and perished Atta Troll,
Fell through ambush, even as he
Whom that Judas of the Knights,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.
Oh! that noblest trait in bears—
Conjugal affection—love—
Formed a pitfall which Uraka
In her evil craft prepared.
For so truly mimicked she
Coal-black Mumma's tender growls,
That poor Atta Troll was lured
From the safety of his lair.
On desire's wings he ran
Through the valley, halting oft
By a rock with tender sniff,
Thinking Mumma there lay hid.
There Lascaro lay, alas,
With his rifle. Swift he shot
Through that gladsome heart a ball,
And a crimson stream welled forth.
Twice or thrice he shakes his head
To and fro, at last he sinks
Groaning, seized with ghastly shudders;—
"Mumma!" is his final sob!
Thus our noble hero fell—
Perished thus. Immortal he
Yet shall live in strains of bards,
Resurrected after death.
He shall rise again in song,
And his wide renown shall stalk
In this blunt trochaic verse
O'er the round and living Earth.
In Valhalla's Hall a shaft
Shall King Ludwig build for him,—
In Bavarian lapidary
Style these words be there inscribed:
ATTA TROLL, REFORMER, PURE,
PIOUS: HUSBAND WARM AND TRUE,
BY THE ZEIT-GEIST LED ASTRAY—
WOOD-ENGENDERED SANS-CULOTTE:
DANCING BADLY: YET IDEALS
BEARING IN HIS SHAGGY BREAST:
OFTTIMES STINKING VERY STRONGLY,
TALENT NONE: BUT CHARACTER.
CANTO XXV
Three-and-thirty wrinkled dames,
Wearing on their heads their Basque
Scarlet hoods of ancient style,
Stood beside the village gate.
One of them, like Deborah,
Beat the tambourine and danced
While she sang a hymn in praise
Of the slayer of the bear.
Four strong men in triumph bore
Slaughtered Atta, who erect
In his wicker litter sat
Like some patient at a spa.
To the rear, like relatives
Of the dead, Lascaro came
With Uraka, who abashed,
Nodded to the right and left.
Then the town-clerk at the hall
Spoke as the procession came
To a halt. Of many things
Spoke that dapper little man.
As, for instance, of the rise
Of the navy, of the Press,
Of the sugar-beet debates,
And that hydra, party strife.
All the feats of Louis Philippe
Vaunted he unto the skies,—
Of Lascaro then he spoke
And his great heroic deed.
"Thou Lascaro!" cried the clerk,
As he mopped his streaming brow
With his bright tri-coloured sash—
"Thou Lascaro! thou that hast
"Freed Hispania and France
From that monster Atta Troll,
By both lands shalt be acclaimed the
Pyreneean Lafayette!"
When Lascaro in official
Wise thus heard himself announced
As a hero, then he smiled
In his beard and blushed for joy.
And in stammering syllables
And in broken phrases he
Stuttered forth his gratitude
For the honour shown to him.
Wonder-smitten then stood all
At the unexpected sight,
And in low and timid tones
Thus the ancient women spoke:
"Did you hear Lascaro laugh?
Did you see Lascaro blush?
Did you hear Lascaro speak?
He the witch's perished son!"
On that very day they flayed
Atta Troll. At auction they
Sold his hide. A furrier bid
Just an even hundred francs.
And the furrier decked the skin
Handsomely, and mounted it
All on scarlet. For this work
He demanded twice the cost.
From a third hand Juliet
Then received it. Now it lies
As a rug before her bed
In the city by the Seine.
Oh, how many nights I've stood
Barefoot on the earthly husk
Of my hero great and true,
On the hide of Atta Troll!
Then by sorrow deeply touched
Would I think of Schiller's words:
"That which song would make eternal
First must perish from the Earth."
CANTO XXVI
What of Mumma? Mumma, ah!
Is a woman. Frailty
Is her name! Alas, that women
Should be frail as porcelain!
Now when Fate had parted her
From her great and noble mate,
Did she perish of her woe,
Sinking into hopeless gloom?
Nay, contrarywise, she lived
Merrily as ever—danced
For the public as before,
Eager for their plaudits too.
And at last a splendid place
And support for all her days
Was procured for her in Paris
At the old Jardin-des-Plantes.
There, last Sunday as I strolled
Through that place with Juliet,
Baring Nature's realms to her—
Animal and vegetable,—
Tall giraffes, and cedars brought
Out of Lebanon, the huge
Dromedary, golden pheasants,
And the zebra;—chatting thus,—
We at last stood still and leaned
O'er the rampart of that pit
Where the bears are safely penned—
Heavens! what a sight we saw!
There a huge bear from the wastes
Of Siberia, snowy-white,
Dallied in a love-feast sweet
With a she-bear small and dark.
This was Mumma! This, alas,
Was the mate of Atta Troll!
Well I knew her by the soft
Glances of her dewy eye.
It was she! the daughter dark
Of the Southland! Mumma lives
With a Russian now; she lives
With this savage of the North!
Smirking spake a negro then,
Coming up with stealthy pace:
"Could there be a fairer sight
Than a pair of lovers, say?"
Then I answered him: "Pray, who
Honours me by this address?"
Whereupon he cried amazed:
"Have you quite forgotten me?
"Why I am that Moorish prince
Who beat drums in Freiligrath—
Times were bad—in Germany
I was lonely and forlorn.
"Now as keeper I'm employed
In this garden,—here I find
All the flowers of my native
Tropics,—lions, tigers, too.
"Here I feel content and gay,
Better than at German fairs,
Where each day I beat the drum
And was fed but scantily.
"Late in wedlock was I bound
To a blonde Alsatian cook,
And within her arms I feel
All my native joys again!
"And her feet remind me ever
Of my blessèd elephants,
And her French has quite the ring
Of my sable mother-tongue.
"When she coughs, the rattle fierce
Moves me of that famous drum
Which, bedecked with human skulls,
Drove the snakes and lions far.
"But when moonlight charms her mood,
Like a crocodile she weeps,
Which from out some luke-warm stream
Lifts to gape in cooler air.
"And she cooks me dainty bits.
See, I thrive! I feed again
As upon the Niger I
Fed with gusto African!
"Mark the nicely rounded paunch
I possess! Behold it peeps
From my shirt like some black moon
Stealing forth from whitest clouds."