Is a woman. Frailty Is her name! Alas, that women Should be frail as porcelain!

Now when Fate had parted her From her great and n.o.ble mate, Did she perish of her woe, Sinking into hopeless gloom?

Nay, contrarywise, she lived Merrily as ever--danced For the public as before, Eager for their plaudits too.

And at last a splendid place And support for all her days Was procured for her in Paris At the old Jardin-des-Plantes.

There, last Sunday as I strolled Through that place with Juliet, Baring Nature's realms to her-- Animal and vegetable,--

Tall giraffes, and cedars brought Out of Lebanon, the huge Dromedary, golden pheasants, And the zebra;--chatting thus,--

We at last stood still and leaned O'er the rampart of that pit Where the bears are safely penned-- Heavens! what a sight we saw!

There a huge bear from the wastes Of Siberia, snowy-white, Dallied in a love-feast sweet With a she-bear small and dark.

This was Mumma! This, alas, Was the mate of Atta Troll!

Well I knew her by the soft Glances of her dewy eye.

It was she! the daughter dark Of the Southland! Mumma lives With a Russian now; she lives With this savage of the North!

Smirking spake a negro then, Coming up with stealthy pace: "Could there be a fairer sight Than a pair of lovers, say?"

Then I answered him: "Pray, who Honours me by this address?"

Whereupon he cried amazed: "Have you quite forgotten me?

"Why I am that Moorish prince Who beat drums in Freiligrath-- Times were bad--in Germany I was lonely and forlorn.

"Now as keeper I'm employed In this garden,--here I find All the flowers of my native Tropics,--lions, tigers, too.

"Here I feel content and gay, Better than at German fairs, Where each day I beat the drum And was fed but scantily.

"Late in wedlock was I bound To a blonde Alsatian cook, And within her arms I feel All my native joys again!

"And her feet remind me ever Of my blessed elephants, And her French has quite the ring Of my sable mother-tongue.

"When she coughs, the rattle fierce Moves me of that famous drum Which, bedecked with human skulls, Drove the snakes and lions far.

"But when moonlight charms her mood, Like a crocodile she weeps, Which from out some luke-warm stream Lifts to gape in cooler air.

"And she cooks me dainty bits.

See, I thrive! I feed again As upon the Niger I Fed with gusto African!

"Mark the nicely rounded paunch I possess! Behold it peeps From my shirt like some black moon Stealing forth from whitest clouds."

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CANTO XXVII

(To August Varnhagen von Ense)

"Heavens! where, dear Ludoviso, Did you steal this crazy stuff?"

With these words did Cardinal D'Este Ariosto greet

When that poet read his work On Orlando's madness. This He unto His Eminence Humbly sought to dedicate.

Yes, Varnhagen, dear old friend, Yes, I see these very words Tremble on thy lips, that same Faint and devastating smile.

Sometimes o'er a book thou laughest, Then again in earnestness Thy high forehead wrinkles o'er As old memories come to thee.

Hark unto the dreams of youth!

Such Chamisso dreamed with me, And Brentano, Fouque, too, In blue nights beneath the moon.

Comes no sound of saintly chimes From that vanished forest fane, And no tinkling of the gay Unforgotten cap-and-bells?

Through the choir of nightingales Rumbles now the growl of bears, Low and fierce, and changes then To the gibbering of ghosts!

Madness in the guise of sense, Wisdom with a broken spine!

Dying sobs which suddenly Into hollow laughter pa.s.s!

Aye, my friend, such strains arise From the dream-time that is dead, Though some modern trills may oft Caper through the ancient theme.

Spite of waywardness thou'lt find Here and there a note of pain;-- To thy well-proved mildness now Do I recommend my song!

'Tis, perchance, the final strain Of the pure and free Romance:-- In to-day's wild battle-clash, Miserably it must end.

Other times and other birds!

Other birds and other songs!

What a chattering as of geese That had saved a capitol!

What a chirping!--sparrows these Penny tapers in their claws, Yet have they a.s.sumed the ways Of Jove's eagle with the bolt.

What a cooing! Turtle-doves, Cloyed with love, now long to hate, And thenceforth in place of Venus'

They would drag Bellona's car!

What a buzz that shakes the skies!-- These must be the great May-beetles Of the nation's dawning Spring, With a Viking fury seized!

Other times and other birds!

Other birds and other songs;-- These, perchance, might yield delight Were I blest with other ears!

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