Atta, Troll, who once was dwelling
Like a haughty desert-monarch
On the airy mountain, dances
In a valley to the rabble!
And for filthy lucre merely
He must dance, who formerly
In the majesty of terror
Felt himself so high exalted!
When his younger days recalls he,
His lost lordship of the forest,
Then growl forth despairing noises
From the soul of Atta Troll.
Gloomy looks he, like a swarthy
Moorish prince of Freiligrath;[29]
As the latter drums but badly,
So with rage he badly dances.
But instead of pity, wakes he
Only laughter. Even Juliet
From the balcony laughs downward
At his leaps of desperation.—
Juliet has not in her bosom
Any feelings; French by nation,
Outwardly she lives; her outside
Is delightful and enchanting.
Her sweet looks compose a blissful
Net of rays, within whose meshes
Is our heart fast held in prison,
Like a fish, and gently struggles.
CAPUT II.
That a swarthy Freiligrathian
Moorish prince with anxious longing
On the big drum’s skin should rattle,
Till with violence ’tis broken,
Is a very drum-affecting
And a drumskin-breaking matter—
But just fancy the confusion
When a bear has burst his fetters!