Atta Troll Part 12

But these stuffed birds standing guard On a board above my head, These grim birds tormented me Far beyond all other things!

Slowly, gruesomely they moved Their accursed wings and bent Low to me with monstrous bills, Bills like human noses huge.

Where had I such noses seen?

Well, mayhap in Hamburg once, Or in Frankfort's ghetto dim; Memory smote me harshly then.

But at last did slumber quite Overcome me and in place Of such waking phantoms crept Wholesome and unbroken dreams.

And within my dream the hut Quickly to a ball-room changed, High on lofty pillars borne And illumed by chandeliers.

There invisible musicians Played from "Robert le Diable"

That atrocious dance of nuns As I promenaded there.

But at last the portals wide Open and with stately step Slowly in the hall appear Guests most wonderful and strange.

Every one a bear or spectre!

Striding upright every bear Leads an apparition wrapped In a white and gleaming shroud.

Coupled in this wise, each pair Up and down began to waltz Through the hall. O strangest sight!

Fit for laughter and for fear!

How those plump old animals Panted in the paces set By those filmy shapes of air Whirling gracefully and light!

Pitiless, the harried beasts Thus were borne along until Their deep panting overdroned Even the orchestral ba.s.s!

When betimes the couples crashed In collision, then each bear Gave the pus.h.i.+ng spectre straight Hearty kicks upon the rump.

Sometimes in the tumult too When the cerements fell away From each white and m.u.f.fled head,-- Lo! a grinning skull appeared!

But at last with shattering blare Yelled the horns, the cymbals clashed And the thunder of the drums Brought about the gallopade.

But the end of this, alas, Came not to my dreams. For, lo, One most clumsy bear trod full On my corns--I shrieked and woke!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XXII

Phoebus in his solar coach, Whipping up his steeds of flame, Had traversed the middle part Of his journey through the skies,

Whilst in sleep I lay a-dream With the goblins and the bears Winding like mad arabesques Through my slack and heated brain.

When I wakened it was noon, And I found myself alone, Since my hostess and Lascaro For the chase had left at dawn.

There was no one save the pug In the hovel. There he stood By the hearth beside the pot Holding in his paws a spoon.

Clever pug! well disciplined!

Lest the steaming soup boil over, Swift he stirred it round and round, Skimming off the foam and sc.u.m.

But--am I bewitched too?

Or does fever smoulder still In my brain? For scarce can I Trust my ears. The pug-dog speaks!

Aye, he speaks in homely strains Of the Swabian dialect, Deeply sunk in thought, he cries, As it were within a dream:

"Woe is me--a Swabian bard, Banned in exile must I grieve In a pug-dog's cursed shape Guardian of a witch's pot.

"What a base and hideous crime Is this sorcery! My fate Ah, how tragic! I, a man, In the body of a dog!

"Had I but remained at home With my jolly comrades true-- No vile sorcerers are they!

And their spells no man need fear.

"Had I but remained at home At Karl Meyer's--with the sweet Noodles of the Vaterland And good honest metzel-soup!

"Of homesickness I shall die!

Might I only spy the smoke Rising from old Stuttgart's flues When the precious dumplings seethe."

Pity seized me when I heard This sad story, and I sprang From my couch and took a seat By the fireplace and spake:

"n.o.ble poet, tell what chance Brought thee to this beldam's hut.

Why, oh why, in cruel wise, Wast thou changed into a dog?"

But the pug exclaimed in joy: "What! You are no Frenchman then?

But a German, and you've heard All my hapless monologue?

"Ah, dear countryman, 'twas ill That old Kolle, Councillor, When at eve we sat and argued At the inn o'er pipe and mug,

"Should have harped on the idea That by travel only might One attain such culture broad, As by travel he attained!

"Now, so I might shed the rude Husk that on my manners lay, Even as Kolle, and attain Polish from the world at large,

"To my home I bade farewell, And in quest of culture came To the Pyrenees at last, And Uraka's little hut.

"And a reference I brought From Justinus Kerner too!

Never did I dream my friend Stood in league with such a witch!

"Friendly was Uraka's mood, Till at last with horrid shock, Lo, I found her friendliness Had to fiery pa.s.sion grown.

"Yes, within that withered breast l.u.s.t blazed up in monstrous wise, And at once this vicious crone Sought to drag me down to sin.

"Yet I prayed: 'Oh, pardon, ma'am!

Do not fancy I am one Of those wanton Goethe Bards,-- I belong to Swabia's school.

"'Sweet Morality's our Muse And the drawers she wears are made Of the stoutest leather--Oh!