Classic Poem

CAPUTXXIII

From the witch's care uncanny
We descended to the hollow.
On the Positive we planted
Once again our feet securely.

Hence ye ghosts! Ye midnight faces!
Forms of air, and dreams of fever!
We will sensibly devote us
To the death of Atta Troll.

In the hole beside the young ones
Lies the father lapped in slumber:
Snores the snore of honest virtue,
And at last awakens yawning.

Perched beside him, Master One-Ear
At his furry head keeps scratching,
Like a rhyme-pursuing poet;
With his claws he marks the scansion.

Atta Troll's beloved daughters,
On their backs beside the father,
Lie in slumber, softly dreaming —
Lilies innocent, four-footed.

Ah, what fond and tender fancies
Fill the budding souls with yearning —
Souls of bears so white and virgin?
Tear-bedewed their gentle eyes are.

The most deeply thrilled and shaken
Is the youngest. Blissful leaping
Of the heart she feels already —
Foretaste sweet of Cupid's power.

Yes, the little god transfixed her
With his arrow through the fur,
When she saw the fate-decreed one,
Who — ye heavens! — is a man,

And no other than Schnapphahnski.
As he fled for life one morning
From the foe, he chanced to pass her,
Hot of foot upon the mountain.

Heroes fallen on misfortune
Always wake a woman's pity.
On our hero's face were graven
Pallid want and gloomy sorrow.

All his military chest —
Two-and-twenty silver groschen —
All he brought to Spain was forfeit,
And the spoil of Espartero.

Nothing saved! His very watch
Left behind at Pampeluna
In a pawn-shop, though an heirloom
Very precious, solid silver.

So with long-legged speed he passed her;
Never dreamed that he was winning
Something better than a battle,
More than victory — a heart!

Luckless bear! She loves and pines for
The hereditary foe!
Did her father guess the secret,
How terrific were his growling!

From the aged Edoardo
Who, with civic pride transported,
Stabbed Emilia Galotti,
Atta Troll would take example.

He would sooner slay his daughter,
With his claws himself destroy her,
Than paternally resign her
To the arms of even a prince!

But his mood is for the moment
Soft and tender; far from prompting
To the crushing of a rosebud,
Ere the stormy winds have stripped it.

In the cavern, by his children,
Pensive, mild, lies Atta Troll.
Yearning fills him — solemn omen —
For the land of the hereafter!

With a sigh he murmurs, " Children, " —
And the sudden tears well over —
" Now my pilgrimage is ended
On the earth, and we must part.

" For I dreamed this noon while sleeping,
Dreamed a dream of solemn import;
To my soul the blissful foretaste
Of approaching death was granted.

" I am far from superstitious —
Am no foolish bear — yet many
Are the things 'twixt earth and heaven
That no thinker can unravel.

" While the world and fate I pondered,
Yawning wearily, I slept;
And I dreamed that I was lying
With a spreading tree above me.

" Yes, I dreamed that purest honey
From the branches green was dropping:
That it glided down my muzzle,
And I felt a wondrous bliss.

" Blinking upward in my rapture,
I could see that on the topmost
Of the boughs were seven bears,
Little bears that slid and gambolled.

" They were tender, dainty creatures,
And their coats were red as roses,
With a fluffy, silky something
Like a wing upon the shoulders.

" Yes, those little bears like roses
Were adorned with silken wings,
And they sang a song celestial
With their sweet and flute-like voices!

" While they sang, my skin grew icy,
But my soul from out my body
Like a flame to heaven mounted,
With a bright and burning glory. "

Thus with tremulous emotion
Softly grunted Atta Troll;
Sat a moment sad and silent;
Then he pricked excited ears,

And began to quiver strangely;
From his couch he sprang, and shaking
With his joy, for joy he bellowed,
" Did ye hear that sound, my children?

" Was not that the voice beloved
Of your mother? Oh, I know it,
Know the growling of my Mumma,
Of my own, my swarthy Mumma! "

Atta Troll, when he had spoken,
Darted headlong from the cavern
Like a madman, to his ruin!
Ah, he rushed upon his doom!