Classic Poem

CAPUTXXI

Argonauts without a ship,
Launched afoot upon the mountains,
And, in lieu of golden fleece,
Aiming only at a bear-skin —

We are poor and paltry devils,
Of the modern cut heroic,
And no classic bard will ever
In his song immortalize us.

Yet we none the less encountered
Many a peril! What a deluge
Overwhelmed us on the summit,
Far from trees and hackney-coaches.

What a storm! The floods were loosened,
And the rain came down in buckets!
Such a shower-bath on Colchis
Surely never wetted Jason.

" An umbrella! " loud I shouted.
" Six-and-thirty kings and kingdoms
For the use of an umbrella! "
And the rain still pelted on.

Long the night had seen us toiling
When we reached the witch's cottage,
Very cross and deadly weary,
Like a pair of dripping poodles.

On the fire-lit hearth Uraka
Sat industriously combing
At her pug obese, ungainly;
But she speedily dismissed him

To attend to our requirements,
And my bed was shortly ready.
Then she loosed my espardilloes,
That uncomfortable foot-gear;

And she helped me with undressing:
Drew my trousers off that clung
To my legs, as close and faithful
As the friendship of a fool.

" Now, a dressing-gown! " I shouted,
(On my back my shirt was steaming),
" Six-and-thirty kings and kingdoms
For a dressing-gown — a dry one! "

For a space I stood and shivered
On the hearth, with teeth that chattered,
Till, bewildered by the firelight,
On the straw at last I sank.

Sleep I could not, but kept blinking
At the witch beside the chimney,
On whose lap her son was leaning
With his shoulder while she stripped him.

By her side the pug ungainly
Stood erect upon his haunches,
With his forepaws very deftly
Holding up a little goblet,

While Uraka from the goblet
Took a reddish fat, and rubbed it
On the ribs and on the shoulders
Of her son with trembling haste.

As she rubbed she crooned and murmured,
Crooned a lullaby to soothe him,
Through her nose, while up the chimney
Leapt the flames and crackled weirdly.

Like a corpse, so thin and yellow,
Lay the son against the mother,
Sad as death, with eyes unseeing
Widely open, pale and stony.

Can the man be dead indeed, then?
Does the love maternal nightly
To enchanted life restore him
With this potent magic ointment?

Strange the wakeful sleep of fever!
Weary limbs in leaden fetters,
And the senses overwrought,
And so horribly awake!

How I suffer from the odour
Of those pungent herbs and simples!
I have smelt the like already,
But in vain I wonder where.

How I fear the wind that's howling
In the chimney! — like the sighing
Of poor parched and withered ghosts —
And the voices seem familiar.

But my torment was the greatest
From the birds that, stuffed and life-like,
On a shelf were ranged above me
Near the place where I was lying.

With a slow and horrid motion
Of the wings they stooped towards me,
Craning down towards my pillow
With their beaks like human noses.

Ah, such noses! Where already
Have I seen such beaks? At Hamburg?
Or at Frankfort in the Ghetto?
Reminiscence dim, unhappy!

Sleep completely overpowered me
In the end, and, in the place of
Wakeful fantasies of fever,
Came a deep and healthy dream.

In my dream the wretched hovel
All at once became a ball-room
Carried high on lofty columns,
And by candelabra lighted.

There invisible musicians
Played, from Robert-le-Diable ,
The abandoned wanton dances
Of the nuns. I was alone.

But at last the doors were opened,
And, advancing up the ball-room,
Pacing solemnly and slowly,
Entered guests the most amazing.

All were either bears or spirits;
Every bear was walking upright
With a spectre for his partner
Whitely muffled in her shroud.

Paired together thus, they started,
To and fro they waltzed and whirled.
'Twas a curious sight, provoking
Both to terror and to laughter!

To keep step and dance in rhythm
With those white and airy figures
Who so lightly swayed and circled,
Was a bitter task for bears.

But the wretched beasts were driven,
Forced inexorably onward,
Till the double-bass orchestral
By their snorting was outrumbled.

Now and then the waltzing couples
Would collide; on which the bear
Would kick out against the spectre
That had jostled him in passing.

In the tumult of the dancing
Oft some bear would pull the cerement
From the face of his companion,
And disclose a grinning death's-head;

Till the trumpets and the cymbals
Blared and crashed at last together,
And the drums boomed out their thunder,
And the gallopade began.

But the dream was never ended,
For a bear uncouth and clumsy
On my corns so rudely trampled,
That I shouted and awoke.