On the wings of yearning ran he
Through the vale,—oft stood he, gently
Snuffing at a rock in silence,
Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.
Ah! conceal’d there was Lascaro
With his musket, and he shot him
Through the middle of his heart, whence
Gush’d a ruddy stream of blood.
Once or twice his head he waggled,
But at last with heavy groaning
Fell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,
And his latest sigh was—“Mumma.”
Thus the noble hero fell;
Thus he died. And yet immortal
Will he in the poet’s numbers
After death arise in glory.
Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers,
And his glory, grown colossal,
On four-footed solemn trochees
O’er the face of earth stride proudly.
And his tomb Bavaria’s monarch
Will erect in the Walhalla,
Writing on it this inscription,
In true lapidary style:
“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse;
“Devotee; a loving husband;
“Full of sans-culottic notions,
“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.
“Wretched dancer; strong opinions
“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;
“Often stinking very badly;
“Talentless; a character!”
CAPUT XXV.
Three-and-thirty aged women,
Wearing on their heads the scarlet
Old Biscayan caps we read of,
Stood around the village entrance.