Classic Poem

CAPUT II

That a Moorish prince, created
By our Freiligrath, his yearning
On the kettle-drum should rattle
Till it loudly snaps asunder:

To the drum 'tis most affecting,
To the drum 'tis deeply moving —
But conceive the consternation
When a bear has burst his fetters!

Dumb the laughter, dumb the music;
From the market-place the people
Fly and scurry, shrieking wildly;
Pale and speechless are the ladies.

Yes, the fetters that enslaved him,
Atta Troll at last has riven.
Through the narrow streets he rushes;
Bounding, rushing in his frenzy —

(None so rude as to delay him) —
Up the rocky steep he clambers,
Glances downward, as if mocking,
And is lost among the mountains.

On the market-place forsaken
Stands alone the swarthy Mumma
With her leader. In his fury
To the ground his cap he dashes,

And he tramples the Madonnas
Under foot! He tears the cover
From his hideous naked body;
The ingratitude he curses,

Black and cruel, of the ingrate
Atta Troll; for as a comrade
And a friend has he not used him,
And instructed him in dancing?

All he has, to him he owes it,
Even his life! A hundred thalers
He was offered, offered vainly,
For the skin of Atta Troll!

On the black and wretched Mumma,
Who, a form of silent sorrow,
On her hinder paws imploring,
Stands before him in his passion,

Falls at length his rage and fury
Doubly heavy; and he beats her.
Even names her Queen Christina,
Madame Munos, and Putana. —
'Twas an afternoon of summer
Warm and lovely when it happened,
And the summer night that followed
Fell serenely and superbly.

Half the night I lingered sweetly
On the balcony with Juliet,
With my Juliet gazing upward
To the golden stars above her.

And she sighed, and said, " In Paris,
Ah! the stars are surely fairest:
Of a winter evening mirrored
In the streets and in the puddles. "