“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold,
“And from out my skin there mounted,
“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,
“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”—
Thus spake Atta Troll in quivering
Tender grunting tones; a moment
Paused he, full of melancholy—
But his ears with sudden impulse
Prick’d he up, and strangely shook they,
Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,
Trembling, bellowing with rapture:
“Do ye hear that sound, my children?
“Is it not the darling accents
“Of your mother? O, well know I,
“’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!
“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”
Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,
Hasten’d, like a crazy being,
From the cavern to destruction!
Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!
CAPUT XXI
In the vale of Ronceval
On the very spot where whilome
Charlemagne’s unhappy nephew
To the foe his life surrender’d,
There, too, fell poor Atta Troll,
And he fell by cunning, like him
Whom the base equestrian Judas,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.
Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion,
Namely his uxorious feelings,
Was a snare which old Uraca
Cunningly avail’d herself of.
She the growl of swarthy Mumma
Copied with such great perfection,
That poor Atta Troll was tempted
Out of his secure bear’s-cavern.