CANTO III

Dream of summer nights! How vain Is my fond fantastic song.

Quite as vain as Love and Life, And Creator and Creation.

Subject to his own sweet will, Now in gallop, now in flight, So my Pegasus, my darling, Revels through the realms of myth.

Ah, no plodding cart-horse he!

Harnessed up for citizens, Nor a ramping party-hack Full of showy kicks and neighs.

For my little winged steed's Hoofs are shod with solid gold And his bridle, dragging free, Is a rope of gleaming pearls.

Bear me wheresoe'er thou wouldst-- To some lofty mountain-trail Where the torrents toss and shriek Warnings over folly's gulf.

Bear me through the silent vales Where the solemn oaks arise From whose twisted roots there well Ancient springs of fairy lore.

There, oh, let me drink--mine eyes Let me lave--Oh, how I thirst For that flashing wonder-spring, Full of wisdom and of light.

All my blindness flees. My glance Pierces to the dimmest cave, To the lair of Atta Troll, And his speech I understand!

Strange it is--this bearish speech Hath a most familiar ring!

Once, methinks, I heard such tones In my own dear native land.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO IV

Roncesvalles, thou n.o.ble vale!

When thy golden name I hear, Then the lost blue flower blooms Once again within my heart!

All the glittering world of dreams Rises from its h.o.a.ry gulf, And with great and ghostly eyes Stares upon me till I quake!

What a stir and clang! The Franks Battle with the Saracens, While a thin, despairing wail Pours like blood from Roland's horn.

In the Vale of Roncesvalles, Close beside great Roland's Gap-- So 'twas named because the Knight Once to clear himself a path.

Now this youngest was the pet Of his mother. Once in play Chewing off his tiny ear-- She devoured it for love.

A most genial youth is he, Clever in gymnastic tricks, Throwing somersaults as clever As dear Ma.s.smann's somersaults.

Blossom of the pristine cult, For the mother-tongue he raves, Scorning all the senseless jargon Of the Romans and the Greeks.

"Fresh and pious, gay and free,"

Hating all that smacks of soap Or the modern craze for baths-- Verily like Ma.s.smann too!

Most inspired is this youth When he clambers up the tree Which from out the hollow gorge Rears itself along the cliff,

Rears and lifts unto the crest Where at night this jolly band Squat and loll about their sire In the twilight dim and cool.

Gladly there the father bear Tells them stories of the world, Of strange cities and their folk, And of all he suffered too,

Suffered like Ulysses great-- Differing slightly from this brave Since his black Penelope Never parted from his side.

Loudly too prates Atta Troll Of the mighty meed of praise Which by practice of his art He had wrung from humankind.

Young and old, so runs his tale, Cheered in wonder and in joy, When in market-squares he danced To the bag-pipe's pleasant skirl.

And the ladies most of all-- Ah, what gentle connoisseurs!-- Rendered him their mad applause And full many a tender glance.

Artists' vanity! Alas, Pensively the dancing-bear Thinks upon those happy hours When his talents pleased the crowd.

Seized with rapture self-inspired, He would prove his words by deeds, Prove himself no boaster vain But a master in the art.

Swiftly from the ground he springs, Stands on hinder paws erect, Dances then his favourite dance As of old--the great Gavotte.

Dumb, with open jaws the cubs Gaze upon their father there As he makes his wondrous leaps In the moonshine to and fro.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO V

In his cavern by his young, Atta Troll in moody wise Lies upon his back and sucks Fiercely at his paws, and growls:

"Mumma, Mumma, dusky pearl That from out the sea of life I had gathered, in that sea I have lost thee once again!

"Shall I never see thee more?

Shall it be beyond the grave Where from earthly travail free Thy bright spirit spreads its wings?

"Ah, if I might once again Lick my darling Mumma's snout-- Lovely snout as dear to me As if smeared with honey-dew.

"Might I only sniff once more That aroma sweet and rare Of my dear and dusky mate-- Scent as sweet as roses' breath!

"But, alas! my Mumma lies In the bondage of that tribe Which believes itself Creation's Lords and bears the name of Man!

"Death! d.a.m.nation! that these men-- Cursed arch-aristocrats!

Should with haughty insolence Look upon the world of beasts!

"They who steal our wives and young, Chain us, beat us, slaughter us!-- Yea, they slaughter us and trade In our corpses and our pelts!

"More, they deem these hideous deeds Justified--particularly Towards the n.o.ble race of bears-- This they call the Rights of Man!