Atta Troll Part 6

"Seated on these golden chairs, Little dames with darts of gold In their hair are playing cards-- Clara wins at every game.

"Yes, she wins and smiles in glee.

Clara, oh, within my heart, Thou can'st never fail to win, For thou holdest all the trumps!"

On I wandered and I spoke Thus unto myself. How strange!

Lunacy itself sits there Singing on the road to Spain.

Is this madman not a sign Of how nations trade in thought?

Or is he his native land's Wild and crazy t.i.tle-page?

Twilight sank before we came To a wretched old _posada_ Where _podrida_--favourite dish!

Steamed within a dirty pot.

There _garbanzos_ did I eat Huge and hard as musket-b.a.l.l.s, Which not e'en a native Teuton, Bred on dumplings, could digest.

And my bed was of a piece, With the cooking. Insects vile Dotted it. Oh, surely these Are the grimmest foes of man!

Far more fearful than the wrath Of a thousand elephants, Is one small and angry bug Crawling o'er thy lowly couch.

Helpless thou against its bite-- That is bad enough!--but worse Evil comes if it be crushed And its horrid smell released.

All Life's terrors we may taste In the war with vermin waged, Vermin well-equipped with stinks, And in duels with a bug.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XII

How they rave, the blessed bards-- Even the tamest! how they sing,-- How they do protest that Nature Is a mighty fane of G.o.d!

One great fane whose splendours all Of the Maker's glory tell; Sun and moon and stars they vow Hang as lamps within the dome.

Yet concede, most worthy folk, That this mighty temple hath Most uncomfortable stairs, Stairs most villainously bad!

All this climbing up and down, Escalading, jumping o'er Boulders--how it tires me Both in spirit and in legs!

By my side Lascaro strode, Like a taper long and pale-- Never speaks he, never laughs-- He the witch's lifeless son.

For they say Lascaro died Many years ago--his mother's,-- Old Uraka's,--magic draughts Gave to him a seeming life.

These confounded temple steps!

How it chanced that I escaped With whole vertebrae will puzzle Me until my dying day.

How the torrents foamed and roared!

Through the pines how lashed the wind Till they groaned! Then suddenly Burst the clouds! O weather vile!

In a fisherman's poor hut Close by Lac de Gaube we gained Shelter and a mess of trout-- Dish divine and glorious!

In his padded arm-chair there Sat the ancient ferryman, Ill and grey. His nieces sweet Like two angels tended him.

Plumpest angels, Flemish quite, As if out of Rubens' frame They had leaped, with golden locks, Sparkling eyes of limpid blue,

Dimples in each ruddy cheek Where bright mischief peered and hid, And with limbs robust and lithe, Waking both desire and fear.

Sweet and bonny creatures they Who disputed prettily Which might prove the sweetest draught To their ancient, ailing charge.

If one proffers him a brew Made of linden-flower tea, Then the other tempts him with Possets made of elder-blooms.

"I will swallow none of this!"

Cried the greyhead, sorely tried, "Bring me wine so that my guest May have worthy drink with me!"

If this stuff was really wine Which I drank at Lac de Gaube-- Who can tell? My countrymen Would have dubbed it sweetish beer.

Vilely smelled the wine-skin too, Fashioned from a black goat's hide.

But the old man drank and drank And grew jubilant and gay.

Of banditti tales he told And of smugglers, merry men Who still ply their goodly trades Freely in the Pyrenees.

Many ancient stories, too, He recited, as of wars 'Twixt the giants and the bears In the grey primeval days.

For it seems the bears and ogres Waged a war for mastery Of these ranges and these vales Long ere man came wandering in.

Startled then at sight of men All the giants fled the land;-- Only tiny brains were housed In their huge, unwieldy heads!

It is also said these dolts, When they reached the ocean-sh.o.r.e Where the azure skies lay gla.s.sed In the watery plains below,

Fondly fancied that the sea Must be Heaven. In they plunged All in reckless confidence, And in watery graves were gulfed.

Now the bears are slain by man, And each year their number grows Smaller, smaller, till at last None shall roam within the hills.

"And," the old man cackled, "thus On this Earth must one yield room To the other--after man We shall have a reign of dwarfs.

"Tiny and most clever wights Toiling in the bowels of Earth, Busy little folk that gather Riches from Earth's golden veins.

"I have seen their rounded heads Peering out of rabbit-holes In the moonlight--and I shook As I thought of coming days.

"Yes, I dread the golden power Of these mites. Our sons, I fear, Will like stupid giants plunge Straight into some watery heaven."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XIII