CANTO I
Ringed about by mountains dark,
Rising peak on sullen peak,
And by furious waterfalls
Lulled to slumber, like a dream
White within the valley lies
Cauterets. Each villa neat
Sports a balcony whereon
Lovely ladies stand and laugh.
Heartily they laugh and look
Down upon the crowded square
Where unto a bag-pipe's drone
He- and she-bear strut and dance.
Atta Troll is dancing there
With his Mumma, dusky mate,
While in wonderment the Basques
Shout aloud and clap their hands.
Stiff with pride and gravity
Dances noble Atta Troll,
Though his shaggy partner knows
Neither dignity nor shame.
I am even fain to think
She is verging on the can-can,
For her shameless wagging hints
Of the gay Grande Chaumière
Even he, the showman brave,
Holding her with loosened chain,
Marks the immorality
Of her most immodest dance.
So at times he lays the lash
Straight across her inky back,
Till the mountains wake and shout
Echoes to her frenzied howls.
On the showman's pointed hat
Six Madonnas made of lead
Shield him from the foeman's balls
Or invasions of the louse.
And a gaudy altar-cloth
From his shoulders hanging down,
Makes a proper sort of cloak,
Hiding pistol and a knife.
In his youth a monk was he,
Then became a robber chief;
Later, in Don Carlos' ranks,
He combined the other two.
When Don Carlos, forced to flee,
Bade his Table Round farewell,
All his Paladins resolved
Straight to learn an honest trade.
Herr Schnapphahnski turned a scribe,
And our staunch Crusader here
Just a showman, with his bears
Trudging up and down the land.
And in every market-place
For the people's pence they dance—
In the square at Cauterets
Atta Troll is dancing now!
Atta Troll, the Forest King,
He who ruled on mountain-heights,
Now to please the village mob,
Dances in his doleful chains.
Worse and worse! for money vile
He must dance who, clad in might,
Once in majesty of terror
Held the world a sorry thing!
When the memories of his youth
And his lost dominions green,
Smite the soul of Atta Troll,
Mournful sobs escape his breast.
And he scowls as scowled the black
Monarch famed of Freiligrath;
In his rage he dances badly,
As the darkey badly drummed.
Yet compassion none he wins,—
Only laughter! Juliet
From her balcony is laughing
At his wild, despairing bounds.
Juliet, you see, is French,
And was born without a soul—
Lives for mere externals—but
Her externals are so fair!
Like a net of tender gleams
Are the glances of her eye,
And our hearts like little fishes,
Fall and struggle in that net.
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