Chapter XVI: Part II: 1826 (1)

1. SEA SALUTATION.

Thalatta! Thalatta!
Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!
Hail to thee ten thousand times
From hearts all exulting,
As formerly hail’d thee
Ten thousand Grecian hearts,
Misfortune-contending, homeward-aspiring,
World-renown’d Grecian hearts.

The billows were heaving,
They heaved and they bluster’d,
The sun shed hastily downwards
His light so sportive and rosy-hued;
The sudden-startled flocks of sea-mews
Flutter’d along, loud screaming,
The horses were stamping, the bucklers were ringing,
And afar there resounded triumphantly:
Thalatta! Thalatta!
Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!
Like voices of home thy waters are rushing,
Like visions of childhood saw I a glimmering
Over thy heaving billowy-realm,
And olden remembrance again tells me stories
Of all the darling, beautiful playthings,
Of all the glittering Christmas presents,
Of all the ruddy coral branches,
The gold fish, pearls and colour’d shells
Which thou mysteriously dost keep
Down yonder in bright crystal house.

O how have I languish’d in drear foreign lands!
Like to a wither’d flower
In the tin case of a botanist,
Lay in my bosom my heart;
Methought whole winters long I sat
An invalid, in darksome sick-room,
And now I suddenly leave it,
And with dazzling rays am I greeted
By emerald springtime, the sunny-awaken’d,
And the snowy blossoming trees are all rustling,
And the youthful flowers upon me gaze
With eyes all chequer’d and fragrant;
There’s a perfume and humming and breathing and laughing,
And the birds in the azure heavens are singing--
Thalatta! Thalatta!

Thou valiant retreating heart!
How oft, how bitter-oft, wast thou
Hard press’d by the Northern barbarian women
From large victorious eyes
Shot they their burning arrows;
With words both crooked and polish’d
They threatened to cleave my breast,
With cuniform billets-doux harass’d they
My poor distracted brain--
In vain I held my shield to resist them,
The arrows whizz’d and the blows crash’d heavily,
And by the Northern barbarian women
Back to the sea was I driven,
And freely breathing I hailèd the sea,
The darling life-saving sea,
Thalatta! Thalatta!

2. THUNDERSTORM.

Heavily lies on the ocean the storm,
And through the darksome wall of clouds
Quivers the forkèd lightning flash,
Suddenly gleaming and suddenly vanishing,
Like a thought from the head of Cronion.
Over the desert, far-heaving water
Afar the thunders are rolling,
The snowy billowy horses are springing,
Which Boreas’ self did engender
Out of the beautiful mares of Erichton,
And the seafowl are mournfully fluttering,
Like shadowy corpses by Styx,
By Charon repulsed from his desolate bark.

Poor, but merry little ship,
Yonder dancing the strangest dance!
Æolus sends it his briskest attendants,
Who wildly strike up for the frolicsome dance;
The one is piping, another is blowing,
The third is beating the hollow double-bass--
And the staggering sailor stands at the rudder,
And on the compass is steadily looking,
That trembling soul of the vessel,
And raises his hands in entreaty to heaven;
“O rescue me, Castor, thou hero gigantic,
And thou, knight of the ring, Polydeuces!”

3. THE SHIPWRECKED ONE.

Hope and love! All crumbled to atoms,
And I myself, like to a corpse
Thrown up by the growling sea,
Lie on the strand,
The dreary, naked strand.
Before me, the watery waste is heaving
Behind me lie but sorrow and misery,
And over me high are passing the clouds,
The formless grey-hued daughters of air,
Who out of the sea, in misty buckets,
Draw up the water,
And wearily drag it and drag it,
Then spill it again in the sea,
A mournful and tedious business,
And useless as e’en my own life.
The billows murmur, the sea-mews are screaming,
Olden remembrances over me drift,
Dreams long forgotten and images perish’d,
Painfully sweet come to light.

In the North a woman is living,
A beauteous woman, royally fair.
Her slender figure, like a tall cypress,
By an alluring white robe is embraced;
Her dark and flowing tresses,
Like to a blissful night, are streaming
Down from her lofty, braid-crownèd head,
And dreamily-sweetly form ringlets
Over her sweet pale face;
And out of her sweet pale face,
Large and o’erpowering, beams an eye
Like a black sun in radiance.

O thou black sun, how often,
Enchantingly often, I drank from thee
Wild flames of inspiration,
And stood and reel’d, all drunk with fire,--
Then hover’d a mild and dovelike smile
Round the high-contracted haughty lips,
And the high-contracted haughty lips
Breath’d forth words as sweet as moonlight,
And tender as the rose’s fragrance--
And then my spirit ascended,
And flew, like an eagle, straight up into heaven!

Peace, ye billows and sea-mews!
All is now over, happiness, hope,
Hope, ay, and love! I lie on the shore,
A lonely and shipwreckèd man,
And press my countenance glowing
Deep in the humid sand.

4. SUNSET.

The beauteous sun
Hath calmly descended down to the sea;
The heaving waters already are dyed
By dusky night;
Nought but the evening’s red
With golden light still spreadeth o’er them,
And the rushing force of the flood
’Gainst the shore presseth the snowy billows
Which merrily, hastily skip,
Like wool-cover’d flocks of lambkins
Whom the singing sheep-boy at even
Homeward doth drive.

“How fair is the sun!”--
So spake, after long silence, my friend,
Who with me wander’d along the strand,
And half in sport and half in sad earnest
Assured he me that the sun was only
A lovely woman,[26] whom the old sea-god
Out of convenience married;
All the day long she joyously wander’d
In the high heavens, deck’d out with purple,
And glitt’ring with diamonds,
And all-beloved and all-admired
By every mortal creature,
And every mortal creature rejoicing
With her sweet glances’ light and warmth;
But in the evening, impell’d all-disconsolate.
Once more returneth she home
To the moist house and desert arms
Of her grey-headed spouse.

“Believe me”--here added my friend,
With laughter and sighing and laughter again:
“They’re living below in the tenderest union!
“Either they’re sleeping or quarrelling fiercely,
“So that up here e’en the ocean is roaring,
“And the fisherman hears in the rush of the waves
“How the old man’s abusing his wife:
“‘Thou round wench of the universe!
“Beaming coquettish one!
“‘All the day long thou art glowing for others,
“‘At night for me thou art frosty and tired.’
“After this curtain lecture
“As a matter of course the proud sun
“Bursts into tears, lamenting her misery,
“And cries so sadly and long, that the sea-god
“Suddenly springs from his bed all distracted,
“And hastily swims to the surface of ocean,
“To recover his breath and his senses.
“I saw him myself, in the night just past,
“Rising out of the sea as high as his bosom;
“A jacket of yellow flannel he wore,
“And a lily-white nightcap,
“And a face all wither’d and dry.”

5. THE SONG OF THE OCEANIDES.

Shadows of evening o’er ocean are falling,
And lonely, with none but his lonely soul with him,
Sits there a man on the dreary strand,
And looks, with death-chilly look, up on high
Tow’rd the spacious, death-chilly vault of heaven,
And looks on the spacious billowy main,
And over the spacious billowy main
Like airy sailors, his signs are floating,
Returning again despondingly,
For they have found fast closèd the heart
Wherein they fain would anchor--
And he groans so loud, that the snowy sea-mews,
Startled away from their sandy nests,
Flutter around him in flocks,
And he speaks unto them these laughing words:

“Ye black-leggèd birds,
“With snowy pinions o’er the sea fluttering,
“With crooked beaks the sea-water sucking up,
“And train-oily seal’s flesh devouring,
“Your life is bitter as is your food!
“But I, the happy one, taste nought but sweetness!
“I taste the rose’s sweet exhalation,
“The moonlight-nourished bride of the nightingale;
“I taste, too, the sweetness of all things:
“Loving and being loved!

“She loves me! she loves me! the beauteous maiden!
“Now stands she at home in her house’s high balcony,
“And looks in the twilight abroad, o’er the highway,
“And darkens, and for me doth yearn--I assure you!
“In vain she looketh around and she sigheth,
“And sighing descends she down to the garden,
“And wanders in fragrance and moonlight,
“And speaks to the flowers and telleth them
“How I, the beloved one, so precious am,
“So worthy of love--I assure you!
“And then in bed, in slumber, in dream,
“My darling form around her sports blissfully,
“And then at morning at breakfast
“Upon her glistening bread and butter
“Sees she my countenance smiling,
“And she eats it for love--I assure you!”

Thus is he boasting and boasting,
And betweentimes the sea-mews are screaming,
Like old ironical chuckling;
The mists of twilight rise up on high;
Out of the violet clouds, all-gloomily,
Peepeth the grass-yellow moon;
High are roaring the billows of ocean,
And from the depths of the high-roaring sea,
Mournful as whispering gales of wind,
Soundeth the song of the Oceanides,
The beauteous compassionate sea-nymphs,
And loudest of all the voice so enthralling
Of Peleus’ spouse, the silvery-footed one,
And they’re sighing and singing:

“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!
“Thou sorrow-tormented one!
“Cruelly murder’d are all thy bright hopes,
“Thy bosom’s frolicsome children,
“And ah! thy heart, thy Niobe-heart
“Through grief turn’d to stone!
“Within thy head ’tis now night,
“And through it are flashing the lightnings of frenzy
“And thou boastest of sorrow!
“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!
“Headstrong art thou as thy forefather,
“The lofty Titan, who heavenly fire
“Stole from the gods and gave unto mortals,
“And, vulture-tormented, chain’d to the rock,
“Defied e’en Olympus, defied, groaning loudly,
“So that in ocean’s far depths did we hear it,
“And to him came with a comforting song.
“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!
“But thou art more powerless even than he,
“And thou would’st do well to honour the deities,
“And patiently bear the burden of sorrow,
“And patiently bear with it, long, ay, full long,
“Till Atlas himself his patience hath lost,
“And the heavy world from his shoulders throws off
“Into eternal night.”

Thus sounded the song of the Oceanides,
The beauteous compassionate water-nymphs,
Till still louder billows at last overpower’d it--
Then went the moon in the rear of the clouds,
And night ’gan to yawn,
And long I sat in the darkness, with weeping.

6. THE GODS OF GREECE.

Full-blossoming moon! In thy fair light
Like liquid gold, the ocean gleams:
Like daylight’s clearness, yet charm’d into twilight,
Over the strand’s wide plain all is lying;
In the starless clear azure heavens
Hover the snowy clouds,
Like colossal figures of deities
Of glittering marble.

No, ’tis not so, no clouds can they be!
’Tis they themselves, the Gods of old Hellas,
Who once so joyously ruled o’er the world,
But now, tormented and perish’d,
Like monster spectres are moving along
Over the midnight heaven.

Wond’ring and strangely blinded, observed I
The airy pantheon,
The solemnly mute and fearfully moving
Figures gigantic.

He yonder’s Cronion, the monarch of heaven;
Snow-white are the locks of his head,
Locks so famous for shaking Olympus;
He holds in his hand his extinguishèd bolt,
And in his face lie misfortune and grief,
And yet without change his olden pride.
Those times indeed were better, O Zeus,
When thou didst take pleasure divinely
In youths and in nymphs and in hecatombs!
But even the Gods can reign not for ever,
The younger press hard on their elders,
As thou didst once on thy grey-headed father
And all thy Titan uncles hard press,
Jupiter Parricida!
Thee, too, I recognise, haughty Here!
Spite of all thy jealous anxiety,
Hath another thy sceptre obtain’d,
And thou art no longer the queen of the heavens,
And fixed is now thy beaming eye,
And powerless lie thy lily-white arms,
And never more thy vengeance can reach
The God-impregnated virgin,
And the wonder-working son of the deity.
Thee, too, I recognise, Pallas Athene!
With shield and wisdom couldest thou not
Avert the destruction of deities?
Thee, too, I recognise, thee, Aphrodite!
Erst the golden one! now the silver one!
True thou’rt still deck’d with the charms of thy girdle,
Yet I secretly tremble at thought of thy beauty,
And would I enjoy thy bountiful charms,
Like heroes before me, of fear I should die;
To me thou appearest the goddess of corpses,
Venus Libitina!
No longer with love is tow’rd thee looking,
Yonder, the terrible Ares;
And sadly is looking Phœbus Apollo,
The stripling. His lyre is silent
That sounded so joyous at feasts of the Gods.
Still sadder appeareth Hephaestus,
And truly, the lame one! no longer
Fills he the office of Hebe,
And busily pours, in the Gods’ congregation,
The nectar delicious--And long is extinguish’d
The inextinguishable laughter of deities.

O ye Gods, I never could love you,
For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians,
And e’en the Romans I greatly hate.
Yet holy compassion and shuddering pity
Stream through my heart,
When I now behold you on high,
Godheads deserted,
Dead and night-wandering shadows,
Misty and weak, scared by the very wind--
And when I bethink me how airy and cowardly
The godheads are, who overcame you,
The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads.
The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness,
Then over me steals a glorious resentment,
And fain would I break the new-born temples,
And fight on your side, ye ancient deities,
For you, and your good ambrosial rights,
And before your lofty altars,
The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming,
Fain would I kneel down and pray,
And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.--

For evermore, ye ancient deities,
Have ye been wont, in the combats of mortals,
To join yourselves to the side of the victor,
And therefore is man more high-minded than ye,
And in combats of deities deem I it right
To take the part of the vanquish’d deities.

* * * * *

Thus did I speak, and visibly redden’d
Yon pale cloudy figures on high,
And on me they gazed like dying ones,
Sorrow-illumined, and suddenly vanish’d.
The moon, too, hid herself
Behind the clouds that darkly came over her;
High up roarèd the sea,
And then triumphantly stood in the heavens
The stars all-eternal.

7. QUESTIONS.

By the sea, by the desert night-cover’d sea
Standeth a youth,
His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings,
And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:

“O answer me life’s hidden riddle,
“The riddle primeval and painful,
“Over which many a head has been poring,
“Heads in hieroglyphical nightcaps,
“Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets,
“Heads in perukes, and a thousand other
“Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals--
“Tell me what signifies man?
“From whence doth he come? And where doth he go?
“Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”

The billows are murm’ring their murmur eternal,
The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying,
The stars are twinkling, all listless and cold,
And a fool is awaiting an answer.

8. THE PHŒNIX.

There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward,
He flies tow’rd the east,
Tow’rd the eastern garden-home,
Where the spices so fragrant are growing,
And palms are waving and wells are cooling--
And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singeth
She loves him, she loves him!
His image she bears in her little bosom,
And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden,
Nor knows it herself!
But in her vision, before her he stands,
She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands,
And calls on his name,
And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled,
And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement--
She loves him! she loves him!

9. ECHO.

’Gainst the mast reclining, and high on the lofty deck
Stood I and heard I the song of the bird.
Like black-green steeds, with silvery manes,
The white and curling billows were springing;
Like flocks of swans were sailing past us,
With glittering sails, the men of Heligoland,
The nomads bold of the Baltic.
Over my head, in the azure eterne,
Snowy clouds were fluttering on,
While sparkled the sun everlasting,
The rose of the heavens, the fiery-blooming one,
Who joyfully mirror’d himself in the ocean;
And heaven and ocean and with them my heart
In echo resounded:
She loves him! She loves him!

10. SEA-SICKNESS.

The dark-grey clouds of the afternoon
Deeper are sinking fast over the sea,
Which darkly seemeth to rise to meet them,
And between them the ship drives on.

Sea-sick sit I unmoved by the mast,
And make observations respecting myself,
Primeval, ash-grey observations,
Which Father Lot of old did make
When he had drunk too much of the grape,
And afterwards found himself amiss.
At times I bethink me of olden stories:
How cross-mark’d pilgrims of olden days
In stormy journeys the comforting image
Religiously kiss’d of the Holy Virgin;
How knights, when sick in such sea-misery,
The darling glove of their worshipp’d mistress
Press’d to their lips and then were comforted--
But I am sitting, and chew with vexation
An ancient herring, the comforter salty
After hard drinking or indigestion!

All this time the ship is fighting
With the furious, heaving flood;
Now like a rearing battle-steed stands it
On its hinder part, so that the rudder cracks;
Now it plunges headforward down again
In the howling abyss of the waters;
Again, as though carelessly love-faint,
Thinks it to lay itself down
On the black breast of the billow gigantic,
Who mightily onward roars,
And sudden, a desolate ocean-waterfall,
In snowy curlings plunges down headlong,
And covers me over with foam.

All this swaying and hov’ring and tossing
Is quite unendurable!
In vain doth my eye keep watch and seek for
The German coast. But, alas, nought but water!
Evermore water, fast-moving water!

As the winter-wanderer at evening
Longs for a comforting warm cup of tea,
So now doth long my heart for thee,
My German Fatherland!
For ever may thy sweet soil be cover’d
With whims and hussars and horrible verses,
And lukewarm slender treatises;
For ever may thy stately zebras
Feed upon roses instead of on thistles;
For ever may thy noble baboons
In idle adornment trick themselves out,
And think themselves better than all the other
Lowminded heavy and lumbering cattle;
For ever may thy assemblage of snails
Look on themselves as immortal,
Because they creep so slowly along,
And may they daily collect men’s opinions
Whether the cheesemite belongs to the cheese?
And hold for a long time grave consultations
How the Egyptian sheep to improve,
So that their wool may be better in quality,
And the shepherd may shear them like all other sheep,
Without a distinction--
For evermore may folly and wrong
Cover thee, Germany, utterly!
Still am I yearning for thee,
For thou art _terra firma_ at least!

11. IN HARBOUR.

Happy the man who arrives safe in harbour,
And behind him hath left the ocean and tempests,
And now so warmly and quietly sits,
In the townhall-cellar of Bremen!
See how the world is truly and lovingly
In the bumper fully depicted,
And how the heaving microcosm
Sunnily flows to the thirsty heart!
All I discern in the glass,
Olden and new traditions of nations,
Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,[27]
Citron forests and watch-parades,
Berlin and Schilda and Tunis and Hamburg,
But most of all the form of my loved one,
That angel-head on the Rhenish wine’s gold ground.

O, how fair, how fair art thou, loved one!
Thou art a very rose,
Not like the rose of fair Schiras,
The nightingale’s bride, of whom Hafis once sang;
Not like the rose of Sharon,
The sacred and red one, the prophet-honour’d one;
But thou’rt like the rose in the cellar at Bremen![28]
That is the rose of all roses,
The older she grows, the fairer she blossoms,
And her heavenly fragrance hath gladden’d my bosom,
Hath served to inspire me, served to enchant me.
And did the head of the cellar of Bremen
Not hold me fast, yes fast by my hair,
I surely had tumbled!

The worthy man! we sat together,
And drank like brethren,
We spoke of lofty mysterious things,
We sigh’d and sank in the arms of each other,
And he did convert me to love’s religion,
I drank to the health of my bitterest enemies,
And every wretched poet I pardoned
As I myself for pardon would hope;
I wept with devotion, and lastly
The doors of the place were unto me open’d
Where the twelve apostles, the sacred tuns,
Silently preach, though understood plainly
By every nation.

True men indeed!
In wooden coats, from without all-invisible,
Inwardly are they more radiant and fairer
Than all the haughty priests of the temple,
And Herod’s satellites cringing and courtiers,
All glitt’ring in gold and clothèd in purple;
Ever my wont is to say
Not amongst the mere common people,
No, in the best and politest society,
Constantly lived the monarch of heaven.

Hallelujah! How sweetly wave round me
The palm-trees of Bethel!
How fragrant the myrrh is of Hebron!
How Jordan is roaring, and reeling with rapture,
While my immortal soul also is reeling,
And I reel with it, and whilst thus reeling,
I’m brought up the stairs and into the daylight
By the worthy head of the cellar of Bremen.

Thou worthy head of the cellar of Bremen!
See where sit on the roofs of the houses
The angels, all well-drunken and singing;
The glowing sun high up in the heavens
Is nought but the red and drunken nose
Which the World-Spirit sticks out,
And round the World-Spirit’s red nose
Whirleth the whole of the drunken world.

12. EPILOGUE.

As on the plain shoot up the wheatstalks
So do the thoughts in the spirit of man
Grow up and waver;
But the gentle thoughts of the poet
Are as the red and blue-colour’d flowers
Merrily blooming between them.

Red and blue-colour’d flowers!
The surly reaper rejects you as useless,
Wooden flails all-scornfully thresh you,
Even the needy traveller,
Whom your sight rejoices and quickens,
Shaketh his head,
And calleth you pretty weeds;
But the rustic virgin,
The twiner of garlands,
Doth honour and pluck you,
And with you decketh her beauteous locks,
And thus adorn’d, makes haste to the dance,
Where pipes and fiddles sweetly are sounding,
Or to the silent beech-tree,
Where the voice of the loved one still sweeter doth sound
Than pipes or than fiddles.

MONOLOGUE.

(From Book “Le Grand.”)

In olden legends, golden castles stood
Where harps were sounding, beauteous maidens danced,
And spruce attendants flash’d, and jessamine
And rose and myrtle shed their fragrance round--
And yet one single word of disenchantment
Made all this splendour in a moment vanish,
And nought remain’d behind but olden ruins
And croaking birds of night and drear morass.
So have I, too, with but one single word,
All Nature’s blooming glories disenchanted.
There lies she now, as lifeless, cold, and pale
As some bedizen’d regal corpse might be,
Whose cheekbones have been colour’d red by art,
And in whose hand a sceptre hath been placed.
His lips however wither’d look and yellow,
For they forgot to dye them red as well;
And mice are springing o’er his regal nose,
And ridicule the pond’rous golden sceptre.

ATTA TROLL,

A SUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

CAPUT I.

Hemm’d close in by gloomy mountains
Proudly o’er each other rising,
Lull’d to sleep by wildly-dashing
Cataracts, like some fair vision,

In the valley lies the charming
Cauterets. Its snow-white houses
All have balconies; upon them
Stand fair ladies, laughing loudly.

Laughing loudly, downward look they
On the chequer’d noisy market,
Where there dance a male and female
Bear, to sound of bagpipe-music.

Atta Troll and his dear wife ’tis
(Her they call the swarthy Mumma),
Who are dancing, and with wonder
The Biscayans are rejoicing.

Stately, and with solemn grandeur,
Dances noble Atta Troll;
Yet his shaggy partner’s wanting
Both in dignity and manners.

Yes, I have a shrewd suspicion
That she is too much accustom’d
To the vulgar shameless dances
At the Grand’-Chaumière at Paris.

E’en the excellent bear-leader,
Who with chain conducts the couple
Seems the immorality
Of her dance to notice plainly.

And he oft bestows upon her
With his whip fast-falling lashes,
And the swarthy Mumma howls then,
And awakes the mountain echoes.

This bear-leader six Madonnas
Wears upon his pointed hat,
To protect his head from bullets
Or from lice perchance it may be.

O’er his shoulder there is hanging,
Many-hued, an altar covering,
Doing office as a mantle;
Knife and pistol lurk beneath it.

He had been a monk when younger,
Then became a robber-captain;
Then, to join the two vocations,
Took the service of Don Carlos.

When Don Carlos had to scamper
With the knights of his round table,
And his paladins were driven
To pursue some honest calling,

(Thus Schnapphahnski turn’d an author)
Then our knight became bear-leader,
And across the country travell’d
Leading Atta Troll and Mumma.

And in sight of all the people,
In the market, they must dance now;
Atta Troll must in the market
Of this city dance in fetters!

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!

Both the music and the laughter
Straight are hush’d; with screams of terror
Rush the people from the market,
Pale as death turn all the ladies.

Yes, from out his slavish fetters
Atta Troll has freed himself
Suddenly, and springing wildly,
Through the narrow streets he hastens--

(Each one civilly makes way),
Up the rocks he nimbly clambers,
Then looks down, as if in scorn,--then
Vanishes within the mountains.

On the empty market stand now
Swarthy Mumma, and bear-leader
All alone. In angry fury
On the ground his hat he flingeth,

Trampling on it,--the Madonnas
Trampling also, tears the covering
From his ugly naked body,
Swears at such ingratitude,

Such black bear’s ingratitude!
For he constantly had treated
Atta Troll in friendly fashion,
And instructed him in dancing.

All he had to him was owing,
E’en his very life. In vain they
Offer’d him a hundred dollars
For the skin of Atta Troll!

Then upon the poor black Mumma,
Who, a form of silent sorrow,
On her hinder paws imploring,
Stood before the much enraged one,

Fell the much enraged one’s fury
With redoubled strength. He beats her,
Calls her even Queen Christina,
Madame Muñoz and Putana.--

All this happen’d in a beauteous
Sultry summer afternoon,
And the night which then succeeded
To that day was quite superb.

Almost half that night consumed I
On the house’s balcony;
Juliet was beside me standing,
Gazing on the stars above us.

Sighing said she: “Ah, in Paris
“Fairest are the stars of all,
“When they on a winter evening
“In the street mud are reflected!”

CAPUT III.

Summer-night’s dream! All-fantastic,
Aimless is my song. Yes, aimless
As our love and as our living,
As Creator and creation!

His own will alone obeying,
Galloping along or flying,
Revels in the realms of fable
My belovèd Pegasus.

He’s no serviceable, virtuous
Carthorse of the citizens,
Nor a battle-steed of party,
With pathetic neighs and stamping!

Golden-mounted are the hoofs all
Of my white and wingèd charger,
Cords of pearls the guiding reins are,
And at will I let him wander.

Bear me whereso’er thou wouldest!
Over steep and merry hill-paths,
Where cascades with mournful shrieking
Warn ’gainst madness’s abysses!

Bear me on through silent valleys,
Where the solemn oaks are standing,
While primeval sweet traditions
From their knotted roots have birth!

Let me drink there, while I moisten
My dim eyes,--ah, now I languish
For the sparkling wondrous water
That imparts both sight and knowledge!

All my blindness goes! my gaze
Pierces to the deepest rock-cleft,
To the cave of Atta Troll,
And I understand his language!

Strange ’tis how familiar to me
This bear-language now appeareth!
In my dear home have I never
Heard those sounds in earlier days?

CAPUT IV.

Ronceval, thou noble valley!
Whensoe’er I hear thy name,
That blue flower so long departed
O’er my bosom sheds its fragrance!

Then the glitt’ring dream-world rises
Which for thousand years had faded,
And the mighty spirit-eyes
Gaze upon me, till I’m awe-struck!

Rattling sounds awake. There struggle
Saracen and Frankish knight;
As though bleeding and despairing
Ring Orlando’s bugle-notes

In the vale of Ronceval,
Hard beside Orlando’s gap--
Christen’d thus, because the hero,
Seeking how to force a passage,

With his trusty sword Duranda
Struck with such death-dealing fury
On the wall of rock, that plainly
To this day are seen its traces--

There within a gloomy hollow,
Close surrounded by a thicket
Of wild fir-trees, safely hidden,
Lies the cave of Atta Troll.

In the bosom of his fam’ly
Rests he after all the hardships
Of his flight and the distresses
Of his public show and travels.

Sweet the meeting! all his young ones
Found he in that happy cavern
Where with Mumma he begot them,--
Four his sons, and daughters two.

Well-lick’d maidens were the latter,
Fair their hair, like parsons’ daughters
Brown the youths, the youngest only
With the single ear is black.

Now this youngest was the darling
Of his mother, who when playing
Happen’d once to bite his ear off,
And for very love she ate it.

He’s a very genial stripling,
At gymnastics very clever,
And he turns a somersault
Like the posture-master Massmann.

Sprig of autochthonic humour,
He his mother-tongue loves only,
And has never learnt the jargon
Of the Grecian and the Roman.

Fresh and free and good and merry,
Soap he holds in detestation,
(Luxury of modern washing,)
Like the posture-master Massmann.

But our young friend is most genial
Where upon the tree he clambers,
Which along the steepest rock-side
From the deep abyss upriseth,

And extendeth to the summit,
When the family at night-time
Gather all around their father,
Toying in the evening coolness.

Then the old one loves to tell them
What he in the world has witness’d;
How he many men and cities
Had beheld, and greatly suffer’d,

Like Laertes’ noble offspring,
But in one thing still unlike him,--
Namely, that his wife went with him,
His dear black Penelope.

Atta Troll then also tells them
Of the wondrous approbation
That he, by his skill in dancing,
Had acquired in ev’ry quarter.

He assured them young and old
Had exultingly admired him,
When he danced upon the market
To the sweet notes of the bagpipe.

In particular the ladies,
Those dear connoisseurs of all things,
Had with vehemence applauded,
And had ogled him with favour.

O the vanity of Artists!
Our old dancing bear with simpers
Calls to mind the time when late he
To the public show’d his talent.

Overcome by self laudation,
He would fain by act exhibit
That he’s no mere boaster only,
But a really first-rate dancer.

From the ground then sudden springs he,
On his hinder paws upstanding,
And, as formerly, he dances
The gavotte, his favourite dance.

Mute, with muzzles gaping open,
The young bears look on with wonder,
While their father in the moonlight
Capers here and there thus strangely.

CAPUT V.

In the cavern, by his young ones,
Sick at heart, upon his back lies
Atta Troll, while thoughtful sucks he
At his paws, and sucks, and growls:

“Mumma, Mumma, swarthy jewel,
“Whom I out of life’s wide ocean
“Once did fish, in life’s wide ocean
“Once again I now have lost thee!

“Shall I ne’er again behold thee,
“Or beyond the grave p’rhaps only,
“Where, set free from earthly trammels,
“Thy dear soul is glorified?

“Would that I, alas! could once more
“Lick thy well-belovèd muzzle,
“My dear Mumma, which so sweetly
“Stroked me over, as with honey!

“Would that I again could snuffle
“That sweet smell, thy own peculiar,
“O my dear and swarthy Mumma,
“Charming as the scent of roses!

“But, alas! my Mumma’s pining
“In the fetters of those rascals,
“Who, the name of men adopting,
“Deem themselves creation’s masters.

“Death and hell! These men unworthy
“Aristocracy’s arch-emblems,
“Look down on the an’mal kingdom
“Proudly and disdainfully.

“Take away our wives and children,
“Fetter us, ill-treat us, even
“Kill us, for the sake of selling
“Our poor hide and our poor carcass!

“And they think themselves permitted
“Wicked deeds like this to practise
“‘Gainst us bears especially,
“And the rights of man they call it!

“Rights of man indeed! Fine rights these.
“Tell me who bestow’d them on you?
“Nature certainly ne’er did so,
“For she’s not unnatural!

“Rights of man indeed! Who gave you
“This great privilege, I wonder?
“Reason certainly ne’er did so,
“For she’s not unreasonable!

“Men, pray are ye any better
“Than we others, just for eating
“All your dinners boil’d or roasted?
“In a raw state we eat ours,

“Yet is the result the same
“To us both.--No, food can never
“Make one noble; he is noble
“Who both nobly feels and acteth.

“Men, pray are ye any better
“Just because the arts and science
“With success ye follow? We now
“Never give ourselves the trouble.

“Are there not such things as learnèd
“Dogs, and horses too, who reckon
“Just like councillors of Commerce?
“Do not hares the drum play finely?

“Are not many beavers adepts
“In the art of hydrostatics?
“Were not clysters first invented
“By the cleverness of storks?

“Write not asses criticisms?
“Are not apes all good comedians?
“Is there any greater mimic
“Than Batavia, long tail’d monkey?

“Are not nightingales good singers?
“And is Freiligrath no poet,
“Who can sing of lions better
“Than his countryman the Camel?

“I myself the art of dancing
“Have advanced as much as Raumer
“That of writing. Writes he better
“Than I dance,--yes, I the bear?

“Men, why are ye any better
“Than we others? Upright hold ye,
“It is true, your heads, but in them
“Low-born thoughts are ever creeping.

“Men, pray are ye any better
“Than are we, because your skin is
“Smooth and glist’ning? This advantage
“Ye but share with every serpent.

“Human race, two leggèd serpents!
“Well I see the reason why ye
“Breeches wear; with foreign wool ye
“Hide your serpent-nakedness!

“Children, guard yourselves against these
“Hairless and misshapen creatures!
“My dear daughters, never marry
“Any monster that wears breeches!”

More than this I’ll not report now,
How the bear in his wild mania
For equality, kept reasoning
All about the human race.

For, to say the truth, I also
Am a man, and never will I
Tell again such foolish libels,
Which are, after all, offensive.

Yes, I am a man, and better
Than the other sucking creatures,
And the interests of the race
Ne’er will I renounce promoting.

In the fight with other creatures
Faithfully I’ll ever struggle
For humanity,--the holy
Rights of man that he is born to.

CAPUT VI.

Yet perchance ’tis beneficial
For us men, who form the higher
Kind of livestock, to discover
How they reason down below us.

Yes, below us, in the gloomy
Mournful spheres of fellowship,
In the beasts’ inferior strata,
Brood resentment, misery, pride.

That which natural hist’ry ever,
Equally with common custom,
Has for centuries admitted
Is denied with impious muzzle.

That false doctrine by the aged
In the young ones’ ears is grumbled
Which assails both cultivation
And humanity on earth.

“Children!” Atta Troll thus growl’d,
As he hither roll’d and thither
On his carpet-wanting couch:
“Unto us belongs the Future!

“If each bear but thought as I do,
“If all beasts but thought so too,
“With united forces would we
“Take up arms against the tyrants.

“Then the bear would form alliance
“With the horse, the elephant
“Twine his trunk in loving fashion
“Round the valiant ox’s horn.

“Bear and wolf of every colour,
“Goat and monkey, e’en the hare
“For a time would work in common,
“And our triumph would be certain.

“Union, union is the’ essential
“Requisite; alone, we’re conquer’d
“Easily, but join’d together
“We would overreach the tyrants.

“Union! union! and we’ll triumph,
“And Monopoly’s vile sway
“Be o’erthrown, and we’ll establish
“A just kingdom for us beasts,

“Full equality for all, then,
“Of God’s creatures, irrespective
“Of their faith, or skin, or odour,
“Be its fundamental maxim!

“Strict equality! Each donkey
“Be entitled to high office;
“On the other hand, the lion
“Carry to the mill the sack.

“As respects the dog, indeed he
“Is a very servile rascal,
“Since for centuries has man
“Like a dog ne’er ceased to treat him.

“Yet in our free state we’ll give him
“Once again his olden rights,
“His prescriptive birthright, and he
“Soon again will be ennobled.

“Yes, the Jews shall then enjoy too
“All the rights of citizens,
“And by law be made the equals
“Of all other sucking creatures.

“Only dancing in the market
“For the Jew shall not be lawful;
“This amendment I insist on
“In the interest of my art.

“For a sense of style, of rigid
“Plastic art in motion’s wanting
“To that race, who really ruin
“What there is of public taste.”

CAPUT VII.

Gloomy, in his gloomy cavern,
Squats, in his belov’d home-circle,
Atta Troll, the misanthrope,
And he shows his teeth, and growls thus:

“Men, the pert and vulgar fellows!
“Smile away! From all your smiling
“And from your offensive yoke too
“Shall the coming day release us!

“I am always most offended
“By that sour-sweet kind of quiv’ring
“Round the mouth,--these smiles of man
“Find I really past all bearing!

“When I in his pallid visage
“See display’d that fatal quiv’ring,
“All my entrails in my body
“Turn right round with indignation.

“More impertinently even
“Than by words, a man lays open
“By his smile the deepest hidden
“Insolence of his vile spirit.

“They are always smiling! Even
“When by decency is needed
“Real solemnity of feature,--
“E’en in love’s most solemn moment!

“They are always smiling! Even
“When they’re dancing. In this manner
“They degrade this noble science,
“Which should be a kind of worship.

“Yes, the dance throughout all ages
“Was a pious act of faith;
“Solemnly around the altar
“Turn’d the priests in mystic circle.

“Thus in olden time King David
“Danced before the ark of cov’nant;
“Dancing was an act of worship,
“Was a prayer upon the legs!

“I have ever understood thus
“Dancing, when upon the market
“To the people I was dancing,
“Who with their applause repaid me.

“This applause, I must confess it,
“Often made me feel quite happy;
“For extorting admiration
“From one’s foes is very sweet!

“But in their enthusiasm
“Still they smile. The art of dancing
“Powerless is to make them better,
“And they frivolous remain.”

CAPUT VIII.

Many a very virtuous burgher
Smells but badly, whilst the servants
Of a king with ambergris
Or else lavender are scented.

Virgin spirits may be met with
Which of green soap bear the odour,
Whilst the criminal with rose-oil
May have wash’d himself demurely.

Do not therefore turn your nose up,
Gentle reader, if the cave of
Atta Troll may not remind you
Of Arabia’s sweetest spices.

Tarry in that reeking circle,
’Mid those miserable stenches,
Where to his young son the hero
As from out a cloud thus speaks:

“Child, my child, thou youngest offspring
“Of my loins, now place thy one ear
“Close beside thy father’s muzzle,
“And suck in my solemn words!

“Guard against man’s ways of thinking,
“They destroy both soul and body;
“‘Mongst all men there’s no such thing as
“Any ordinary man.

“E’en the Germans, once so noble,
“E’en the very sons of Tuisco,
“Our own primitive relations,
“They too have degenerated.

“They’ve become now faithless, godless,
“Even preaching atheism--
“Child, my child, be on thy guard,
“‘Gainst both Feuerbach and Bauer![30]

“Never be an Atheist,
“Monster void of all respect for
“The Creator--a Creator
“’Twas who made this universe!

“High above us, sun and moon
“And the stars too (both the tail-less
“And all those with tails provided)
“Are reflections of His power.

“Down below us, land and sea
“Are the echo of His glory,
“And each living creature praises
“Evermore His excellencies.

“E’en the smallest silver-louse that
“In the aged pilgrim’s beard
“In life’s pilgrimage is sharer,
“Sings the great Eternal’s praises!

“In yon starry bright pavilion,
“On the golden seat of power,
“World-directing and majestic,
“Sits a mighty polar bear.

“Free from spot and snow-white glitt’ring
“Is his skin; his head is cover’d
“With a crown of diamonds,
“Which illumines all the heavens.

“In his face is harmony,
“And the silent deeds of thinking;
“If he signs but with his sceptre,
“All the spheres resound with singing.

“At his feet bear-saints are sitting
“Piously, who meekly suffer’d
“While on earth, and in their paws they
“Hold the palms of martyrdom.

“Ofttimes one amongst them rises,
“Then another,--by the Spirit
“Seeming mov’d, and straightway dance they
“Their most solemn sacred dance--

“Sacred dance, where mercy’s radiance
“Renders talent quite superfluous,
“And the soul for very rapture
“From the skin attempts to leap!

“O shall I, unworthy Troll,
“E’er partake this great salvation?
“And from earth’s debasing sorrows
“To the realms of bliss soar upwards?

“O shall I, all-drunk with heaven,
“In the stars’ pavilion yonder,
“With the palm and with the glory,
“Dance before the Master’s throne?”

CAPUT IX.

Like the tongue as red as scarlet,
Which a swarthy Freiligrathian
Moorish prince with scornful fury
From his sullen mouth protruded,

So the moon from out the gloomy
Clouds of heaven advanced. Afar off
Cataracts are roaring, sleepless
And morosely through the night.

Atta Troll upon the summit
Of his fav’rite rock stands lonely,
Lonely, and to the abyss
Downward howls he in the nightwind:

“Yes, I am a bear, I am so,--
“Him ye christen shaggy bear,
“Growler, Isegrim, and Bruin,
“And heav’n knows how many others.

“Yes, I am a bear, I am so,
“The uncouth and boorish creature,
“I’m the awkward dromedary
“Of your scorn and cruel laughter.

“I’m the butt of all your wit,
“I’m the bugbear, with whose terrors
“Ye at night your children frighten,
“Human children, when they’re naughty.

“I’m the joke of all your idle
“Nurs’ry stories, well I know it,
“And I now proclaim it loudly
“To man’s paltry world below.

“Hear it, hear; a bear am I,
“My descent I’m not ashamed of,
“But am proud of it, as though I
“Sprang from Moses Mendelssohn!”

CAPUT X.

Two dark figures, wild and surly,
And upon their all-fours gliding,
Force their way across the gloomy
Grove of firs at midnight’s hour.

This is Atta Troll, the father,
And his son, young master one-ear.
Where the wood grows somewhat lighter
By the stone of blood they halted.

“This old stone”--growl’d Atta Troll,--
“Is the altar where the Druids
“In the days of superstition
“Human sacrifices offer’d.

“O their cruelty accursèd!
“All the hair upon my back
“Bristles when I think upon it;
“Blood was pour’d out to God’s honour!

“Now these men are more enlighten’d,
“And no longer kill each other
“Merely in excessive zeal
“For the interests of heaven.

“’Tis no longer pious fancies,
“Madness, nor enthusiasm,
“But mere vanity and self-love
“Makes them now commit their murders.

“On the good things of the earth
“Eagerly they’re ever seizing;
“’Tis an endless round of fighting,
“For himself each person stealeth!

“Yes! the heritage of all
“Is the individual’s booty;
“Of the rights, then, of possession
“Speaks he, thinking of his own!

“Of his own! Possession’s rights too!
“O, the cruel theft, the lying!
“None but man could have invented
“Such commingled fraud and madness.

“Private property was never
“Made by Nature; pocketless,
“With no pockets in our skins, we
“Ev’ry one the world first entered.

“Not a single one amongst us
“At his birth had such a pocket
“In his body’s outer skin,
“Where he might conceal his robb’ries.

“Man alone, that smooth-skinn’d being,
“Who with foreign wool so nicely
“Clothes himself, had e’er the sharpness
“To provide himself with pockets.

“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!

Early in the morn I started
With Lascaro on our journey
Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday
We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.

So they call the bridge which leadeth
Out of France and into Spain,
To the land of west barbarians,
Who’re a thousand years behind us,--

Yes, a thousand years behind us
In all modern civ’lisation;
My barbarians to the eastward
But a hundred years behind are.

Slowly, almost trembling, left I
France’s sacred territory,
Blessèd fatherland of freedom
And the women that I love!

On the middle of the bridge
A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry
Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,
Misery in his eyes was lurking.

An old crazy mandoline
With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;
Shrill the discord which re-echoed
From the rocks, as in derision.

Oftentimes his figure bent he
Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,
Tinkling harder then than ever,
While the following words he sang:

“In the middle of my bosom
“Stands a little golden table;
“Round the little golden table
“Stand four little golden chairs.

“On the golden chairs are sitting
“Little ladies, golden arrows
“In their hair,--at cards they’re playing,
“But ’tis only Clara wins.

“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;
“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,
“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,
“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”

Wand’ring onward, to myself I
Spoke: “’Tis singular that madness
Sits and sings upon yon bridge,
That from France to Spain leads over.

“Is this madman but the emblem
“Of the interchange ’mongst nations
“Of their thoughts? or his own country’s
“Wild and crazy title-page?”

We arrived not until evening
At the wretched small posada,
Where an olla-podrida
In a dirty dish was smoking.

There I swallow’d some garbanzos,
Heavy, large as musket-bullets,
Indigestible to Germans,
Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.

Fit companion to the cooking
Was the bed. With insects pepper’d
It appear’d. The bugs, alas! are
Far the greatest foes of man.

Fiercer than the wrath of thousand
Elephants, I find the hatred
Of one tiny little bug,
When across my bed it crawleth.

One must let them bite in quiet,--
This is bad enough,--still more ’tis
If one crushes them. The stink then
Keeps one all night long in torment.

Yes, the fiercest earthly trouble
Is the fight with noxious vermin,
Who a stench employ as weapons,--
Is a duel with a bug!

CAPUT XII.

How they rave, the race of poets,
E’en the tame ones, singing ever
And exclaiming: “Nature’s surely
“The Creator’s mighty temple--

“Is a temple all whose glories
“To our Maker’s fame bear witness,
“Sun and moon and stars all hanging
“In its cupola as lamps.”

Well and good, my worthy people!
Yet confess that in this temple
Are the stairs uncomfortable,
Bad and inconvenient stairs!

All this up-and-down-stairs going,
Mountain-climbing and this jumping
Over rocks is very tiring
To the legs as well as spirit.

Close beside me walk’d Lascaro,
Pale and lanky, like a taper;
Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,
He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.

Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man,
Dead long since, but yet his mother
Old Uraca’s magic science
Kept him living in appearance.--

That accursèd temple-staircase!
It exceeds my comprehension
How my neck escaped from breaking,
Stumbling o’er a precipice.

How the cataracts were shrieking!
How the tempest flogg’d the fir-trees
Till they howl’d! The clouds began too
Crashing suddenly--bad weather!

In a little fishing cottage
By the Lac-de-Gobe soon found we
Shelter and some trout for luncheon;
Most delicious were the latter.

In an arm-chair was reclining,
Ill and grey, the ferryman;
On him his two pretty nieces,
Like a pair of angels, waited.

Stoutish angels, rather Flemish,
Seeming from a frame descended
Of a Rubens; gold their tresses,
Full of health their eyes, and liquid.

Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,
With a secret slyness in them;
Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,
Giving pleasure to the fancy.

Dear, affectionate young creatures,
Keeping up a sweet discussion,
As to which drink would be relish’d
Most of all by their sick uncle.

If the one the cup should bring him
Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms,
Then the other hastes to feed him
With an elder-flow’r decoction.

“I’ll not drink of either of them,”
“Cried impatiently the old man;
“Fetch some wine, that I may offer
“To my guests some better drink!”

Whether it was wine they gave me
At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really
Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick
By the name of Mum they’d call it.

Of the very best black goat-skin
Was the wine-skin, stinking foully;
Yet the old man drank with pleasure,
And he seem’d quite well and joyous.

He recounted the achievements
Of the smugglers and banditti
Merrily and freely living
In the Pyrenean forests.

Many old traditions also
Well he knew: amongst the others
Were the battles of the giants
With the bears in times primeval.

Yes, the bears then and the giants
Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry
Of these mountains and these valleys,
Ere by man they were discover’d.

But when man arrived, the giants
Fled away from out the country
Stupified, for little brains
Are contain’d in heads gigantic.

And ’tis said the silly fellows,
On arriving at the ocean,
And observing how the heavens
In its azure depths were mirror’d,

Cleverly supposed the ocean
To be heaven, and plunged down in it,
Full of godlike confidence,
And were drown’d, the whole together

As respects the bears, however,
They are gradually being
Kill’d by man, their numbers yearly
In the mountain still decreasing.

“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man,
“One gives place unto another,
“And when men are put an end to,
“Then the dwarfs will be the masters.

“Yes, the clever little people,
“Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,
“‘Mongst the golden mines of riches
“Digging and collecting nimbly.

“How they from their hiding-places
“With their small sly heads keep peeping!
“Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,
“And then trembled at the future;

“At the power their gold will give them;
“Ah, I fear lest our descendants
“Fly for refuge, like the stupid
“Giants, to the watery heaven!”

CAPUT XIII.

In the black and rocky caldron
Rest the waters deep of ocean;
Stars, all pale and melancholy,
Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.

Night and silence. Oars are moving.
Like a splashing wondrous secret
Floats the bark. The old man’s nieces
Play the part of ferrymen,

Joyously and nimbly rowing;
Ofttimes glisten in the darkness
Their stout naked arms, illumined
By the stars,--their great blue eyes, too.

By my side Lascaro sitting
Is as pale and mute as usual,
And the fearful thought shoots through me:
Is he but a very corpse then?

I myself,--am I dead also,
And embarking on my journey
With my ghostly comrades by me
To the chilly realm of shadows?

And this lake, can it be Styx’s
Gloomy flood? Has Proserpina,
In default of Charon’s presence,
Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?

No! I am not yet departed
And extinguish’d; in my spirit
Is the living flame of life still
Glowing, blazing and exulting.

And these maidens, gaily pulling
At their oars, and o’er me splashing
With the water dripping from them,
Full of merriment and laughter,--

These two fresh and sprightly damsels
Are most certainly not ghostly
Chambermaids in hell residing,
Waiting-maids of Proserpina!

That I might be fully certain
Of their upper-worldliness,
And by practical experience
Ascertain my own existence,

Hastily my lips applied I
To their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,
And then framed this syllogism:
Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!

When we reach’d the shore, again I
Kiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;
In this coin, and no other,
Would they take the passage-money.