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As the n.o.ble negro king Of our Freiligrath protrudes From his dusky mouth his long Scarlet tongue in scorn and rage,--
Even so the moon now peers Out of darkling clouds. The sad, Sleepless waterfalls forever Roar into the brooding night.
Atta Troll upon the crest Of his well-beloved cliff Stands alone, and now he howls Down the wind and the abyss:
"Yea, a bear am I--even he, Even he whom you have named Bruin, growler, s.h.a.g-coat too, And such other t.i.tles vile.
"Yea, a bear am I--that same Boorish animal you know; That gross, trampling brute am I Of your sly and crafty smiles!
"Of your wit am I the mark; I'm the bugbear--him with whom Every wicked child you frighten In the silence of the night.
"Yea, I am that clumsy b.u.t.t Of your nursery tales--aloud Will I shout that name forever Through the scurvy world of men.
"Oyez! Oyez! I'm a bear Unashamed of my descent, Just as proud as if my forbear Had been Moses Mendelsohn."
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CANTO X
Lo, two figures, wild and sullen, Gliding, sliding on all fours, Break a path at dead of night Through a wood of gloomy pines.
It is Atta Troll the Sire, One-Ear too, his youngest son, And they halt within a clearing By a stone of b.l.o.o.d.y rites.
"This same stone," growled Atta Troll, "Is a shrine where Druids once Slaughtered wretched human wights In dark Superst.i.tion's days.
"Oh! what frightful horrors these!
When I think of them, my fur Lifts along my back! To praise G.o.d they drenched the soil in blood!
"Certes, men have now become More enlightened. Now no more Do they slaughter in their zeal For celestial interests.
"'Tis no longer holy rage, Ecstasy nor madness sheer, But self-love alone that urges Them to slaughter and to crime.
"Now for worldly goods they strive, Day by day and year by year.
It is one eternal war; Each goes robbing for himself.
"When the common goods of all Fall into the hands of one, Straight of Rights of Property He will prate and Owners.h.i.+p.
"Property! Just Owners.h.i.+p?
Property is theft! O lies!
Craft and folly!--such a mixture Man alone would dare invent.
"Never yet did Nature make Properties, for pocketless We are born into the world-- Who hath pockets in his pelt?
"None of us was ever born With such little sacks devised In our outer hides and skins To enable us to steal!
"Only man, that creature smooth Who in alien wool is garbed Artfully, in artful wise Made himself such pockets too.
"Pockets! as unnatural As is property itself, Or that law of have-and-hold.
Men are only pocket-thieves!
"Flamingly I hate them! Thee All my hatred I bequeath.
Oh, my son, upon this shrine Shalt thou swear eternal hate!
"Be the mortal foeman thou Of th' oppressor, unforgiving To thy very end of days!
Swear it--swear it here, my son!"
And the youngster swore as once Hannibal. The moonbeams bleak Yellowed on the bloodstone h.o.a.ry And that brace of misanthropes.
Later shall our harp record How the young bear kept his faith And his plighted oath,--for him Shall our epic strings be strung.
With regard to Atta Troll, Let us leave him for a s.p.a.ce, So we may the surer smite Him with our unerring ball.
Traitor to Humanity!
Thou art judged, the sentence writ.
Of _lese-majeste_ thou'rt guilty, And to-morrow sees the chase.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CANTO XI
Like to sleepy dancing-girls Lift the mountains white and cold, Standing in their skirts of mist Flaunted by the winds of morn.
Yet full soon their b.r.e.a.s.t.s shall glow To the sun-G.o.d's burning kiss, He shall tear the clinging veils And illume their beauty nude.
In the early dawn had I With Lascaro sallied forth On a bear-hunt and the noon Saw us at the Pont d'Espagne.
Thus is named the bridge that leads From the land of France to Spain, To barbarians of the West, Centuries behind the times.
Full ten centuries they lie From all modern thought removed, And my own barbarians Of the East--not more than two.
Lingering and loth I left The all-hallowed soil of France, Left great Freedom's motherland And the women that I love.
Midmost of the Pont d'Espagne Sat a Spaniard. Misery Lurked within his tattered cape; Misery lurked within his eyes.
With his bony fingers he Plucked an ancient mandolin Full of discord shrill which echoed Mockingly from out the gulch.
Then betimes he leaned aslant O'er the depths and laughed aloud, Tinkled then in maddest wise As he sang his little song:
"In my very heart of heart There's a tiny golden table, And about this golden table Four small golden chairs are set.
