Atta Troll Part 11

Fay Abunda also fears All these sallow Nazarenes, So by day she hides herself Deep in secret Avalon.

For this sacred island lies In the still and silent sea Of Romanticism, whither None save winged steeds may go.

There no anchor Care may drop, Never there do steamships touch, Bringing loads of Philistines With tobacco-pipes, to stare.

Never does that dismal, dull Ring of bells this stillness break-- That atrocious b.u.mm-bamm sound Which all gentle fairies hate.

There, abloom with lasting youth In unbroken joyfulness, Lives that merry-hearted dame, Golden-locked Abunda fair.

Laughing there she strolls between Huge sun-flowers drenched with light, Followed by her retinue Of unworldly Paladins.

Ah, but thou, Herodias, Say, where art thou? Ah, I know!

Thou art dead and buried deep By Jerusholayim's walls!

Corpse-like is thy sleep by day In thy marble coffin laid, But at midnight dost thou wake To the crack of whips! hurrah!

With Abunda, Dian, too, Dost thou join the headlong plunge And the blithesome hunter rout Fleeing from all cross and care.

What companions rare and blithe!

Might but I, Herodias, Ride at night through forests dark, I would gallop at thy side!

For of all I love thee most!

More than any G.o.ddess Grecian, More than any northern fay, Do I love thee, Jewess dead!

Yea, I love thee most! 'Tis true, By the trembling of my soul!

Love me too and be my sweet,-- Loveliest Herodias!

Love me too and be my love!

Fling that gory block-head far With its trencher. Sweeter dishes I shall give thee to enjoy.

Am not I thy proper knight Whom thou seekest? What care I If perchance thou'rt dead and d.a.m.ned-- Prejudices I have none!

Is my own salvation not In a parlous state? And oft Do I question if my life Still be linked with human lives.

Take me, take me as thy knight, Thine own _cavalier servente_; I will bear thy silken robe And each wayward mood of thine.

Every night beside thee, love, With this crazy horde I'll ride, And we'll kiss and thou shalt laugh At my quips and merry pranks.

I will help thee speed the hours Of the night. And yet by day All my joy shall pa.s.s;--in tears I shall sit upon thy grave.

Aye, by day will I sit down In the dust of kingly vaults, At the grave of my beloved By Jerusholayim's walls!

Then the grey Jews pa.s.sing by Will imagine that I mourn The destruction of thy temple And thy gates, Jerusholayim.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XXI

Shipless Argonauts are we, Foot loose in the mighty hills, But instead of golden fleece We seek Bruin's s.h.a.ggy hide.

Naught but sorry devils twain, Heroes of a modern cut, And no cla.s.sic bard will ever Make us live within his song!

Even though we suffered dire Hardships! What torrential rains Fell upon us at the peak Where was neither tree nor cab!

Cloudbursts! Heaven's d.y.k.es were down!

And in bucketsful it poured-- Jason, lost on Colchis bleak, Suffered no such shower-bath!

"Six-and-thirty kings I'll give Just for one umbrella now!"

So I cried. Umbrella none Was I offered in that flood.

Weary unto death and glum, Wet as drowned rats, we came Back unto the witch's hut In the middle of the night.

There beside the glowing hearth Sat Uraka with a comb, Toiling o'er her swollen pug;-- Him she quickly flung aside

As we entered. First my couch She prepared, then bent to loose From my feet the _espardillos_,-- Footgear comfortless and rude!

Helped me to disrobe,--she drew Off my pantaloons which clung To my legs as close and tight As the friendship of a fool.

"Oh, a dressing-gown! I'd give Six-and-thirty kings," I cried, "For a dry one!"--as my shirt, Wringing wet, began to steam.

Shivering, with chattering teeth, There I stood beside the hearth, Till the fire drowsed me quite, Then upon the straw I sank.

Sleepless but with blinking eyes Peered I at the witch who crouched By the fire with her son's Body spread upon her lap.

Upright at her side the pug Stood, and in his clumsy paws, Very cleverly and tight, Held aloft a little jar.

From this did Uraka take Reddish fat and salved therewith Swift Lascaro's ribs and breast With her thin and trembling hands.

And she hummed a lullaby In a high and nasal tone As she rubbed him with the salve 'Midst the crackling of the fire.

Sere and bony like a corpse Lay the son upon the lap Of his mother; opened wide Stared his pale and tragic eyes.

Is he really dead, this man?

Kept alive by mother-love?

Nightly by the witch-fat potent Salved into a magic life?

Oh, that strange, strange fever-sleep!

In which all my limbs grew stiff As if fettered, yet each sense, Overwrought, waked horribly!

How that smell of h.e.l.lish herbs Plagued me! Musing in my woe, Long I thought where had I once Smelled such odours?--but in vain.

How the wind within the flue Wrought me terror! Like the sobs Of some parched soul it rang-- Or some well-remembered voice!