Classic Poem

CAPUTXI

Ranged like bayaderes in slumber,
Clad in white and filmy garments
By the winds of morning ruffled,
Lie the mountains drear and chilly.

But the sun-god, rising golden,
Wakes them gaily with his greeting,
And their cloudy raiment scatters.
Till they shine in naked beauty.

At the dawn of day I started,
Started hunting with Lascaro
For the bear. 'Twas noon already
When we reached the Pont-d'Espagne:

When we reached the bridge that crosses
Into Spain, into the country
Of those savage West-barbarians
Who, in social modes and customs,

Lag a thousand years behind —
In the Fatherland we others,
We barbarians of the East,
Have but lingered for a hundred.

With a doubting foot and fearful
I forsook the soil of France,
France, the home of light and freedom
And of women that I love.

On the bridge an aged Spaniard
Sat in squalor; want was peeping
Through the tatters of his mantle,
There was famine in his eye.

And he strummed with bony fingers
On a mandoline — an old one —
Till the discords shrilled and clamoured
Through the deep, re-echoing gorges.

And he leaned at times and nodded,
Laughing down to the abysses;
Then would strum the wilder, singing
To his music strange this song:

" There's a little golden table,
And it stands within my heart;
And around the golden table
Are four little golden chairs.

" On the golden chairs are seated
Little ladies playing cards,
Golden arrows in their chignons;
And my Clara always wins,

" Plays and wins with roguish laughter.
Ah! my Clara, none but thee
In my heart could be the victor,
All the trumps are in thy hand. " —

As I passed I murmured, musing,
" Strange that madness should be singing
On the bridge that crosses over
To the land of Spain from France!

" Is yon crazy fool an emblem
Of what follows when the nations
Try to interchange ideas? —
Or his country's title-page? "

To the dusk the day was darkening
When we reached the mean Posada.
There we found the Spanish hotch-potch
In the dirty vessel steaming.

And my supper was of chick-peas,
Heavy, big, like rifle bullets,
Taxing even the digestion
Of a German reared on dumplings.

Fitting sequel to the cooking
Was the bed with insects peppered —
Ah! the foes most dire and deadly
Of the human race are bugs.

What are elephants, a thousand,
In comparison, for fury,
With a single little bug
Crawling, creeping on the blanket?

If you let him meekly bite you
'Tis an evil — but a greater
'Tis to crush him, for he'll plague you
All the night long with his odour.

Yes, there's nothing in the world
Worse than fighting filthy vermin,
With their stench alone for weapon —
Oh, the duel with a bug!