“Pockets! They’re as much ’gainst nature
“As is private property,
“As possession’s rights themselves are—
“Men in fact are but pickpockets!
“Fiercely hate I them! My hatred
“Unto thee, my son, bequeath I;
“Here upon this altar shalt thou
“Swear to man undying hatred!
“Be implacably the death-foe
“Of those wicked vile oppressors
“To the very end of life,—
“Swear it, swear it here, my son!”
And the youngster swore, as once did
Hannibal. The moon, all yellow,
On the stone of blood look’d wildly,
And the pair of misanthropes.
By-and-by we’ll tell the story
How the young bear ever faithful
To his oath remain’d. Our lyre shall
In another Epic praise him.
As respects friend Atta Troll,
We will leave him for the present,
Presently to come across him,
All the surer, with a bullet.
All thy stealthy machinations,
Traitor ’gainst man’s majesty,
Now at length are terminated,
And thy hour will sound to-morrow!
CAPUT XI.
Like some drowsy bayaderes
Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring
In their snowy shirts of clouds,
Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.
Yet they soon become enliven’d
By the sun-god stripping from them
All the veil that’s hanging o’er them
Lighting up their naked beauty!