Classic Poem

CAPUTXXV

Three-and-thirty aged women,
On their heads the old Biscayan
Hood of scarlet, stood with welcome
At the entrance to the village.

One like Deborah was dancing,
On the tambourine was smiting —
Hymned the praises of Lascaro,
Of the mighty bear-destroyer.

Four robust and stalwart natives
Bore the slaughtered bear in triumph,
On his haunches seated upright
Like a patient at the baths.

And behind him like relations
Of the dead there came Lascaro,
With Uraka nodding greetings
Right and left, though much embarrassed.

The assistant Mayor gave them
Quite a speech before the town-hall,
Where the proud procession halted.
He discoursed on many subjects;

For example, on the increase
And importance of the navy;
On the press, the beetroot question,
And the curse of party-spirit.

After copiously expounding
Louis Philippe's many merits,
He proceeded to the bear
And Lascaro's great achievement.

" Thou, Lascaro! " cried the speaker,
As he wiped his sweating forehead
With his Spanish sash tricoloured,
" Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!

" Who hast France and Spain delivered
From the fear of Atta Troll,
Both the lands acclaim thee hero,
Pyrenean Lafayette! "

When Lascaro heard his prowess
Thus officially exalted,
In his beard for satisfaction
Laughing low, he blushed for pleasure,

And in words abrupt and broken
That came stumbling o'er each other,
He expressed himself as grateful
For the proud, prodigious honour.

All with wonder and amazement
Viewed the spectacle unwonted,
And the aged women murmured
In alarm beneath their breath,

" Why, Lascaro has been laughing!
Why, Lascaro has been blushing!
Why, Lascaro has been speaking!
He, the witch's son, the dead man! " —

As for Atta Troll, they skinned him,
And they sold his hide by auction;
It was purchased by a furrier
For a hundred francs that day.

Very handsomely he dressed it;
With a scarlet border trimmed it;
And disposed of it for double
The amount that he had given.

Then my Juliet, as owner,
Came the third in the succession.
In her room it lies at Paris,
As a rug beside her bed.

Oh, at night how often barefoot
On the brown and mortal cover
Of my hero I have trodden,
On the skin of Atta Troll;

And, when sorrowfully musing,
Have recalled the words of Schiller:
" What in song shall be immortal,
First must perish from the earth. "