r you see,
First I am no spotless maid,
"And, still more impossible,
Secondly, I ne'er could read
Any one of Pfizer's poems
And not fall asleep at once."
[Illustration]
CANTO XXIII
From this eerie witch-menage
To the valley down we went,
And once more our feet took hold
On the good and solid Earth.
Spectres hence! Hence, gibbering masks!
Shapes of air and fever-dreams!--
Once again, most sensibly
Let us deal with Atta Troll.
In the cavern with his young
Bruin lies in slumber wrapt,
Snoring like an honest soul,
Then he stretches, yawns and wakes.
And young One-Ear crouches down
At his side, his head he rakes
Like a poet seeking rhymes,
And upon his paws he scans.
Close beside the father lie
Atta Troll's beloved girls,
Pure, four-footed lilies they,
Stretched in dreams upon their backs.
Ah, what tender thoughts must glow
In the budding souls of these
Snow-white virgin bearesses
With their soft and dewy eyes?
And the youngest of them all
Seems most deeply stirred. Her heart,
Smitten by Dan Cupid's shaft,
Quivers with a blissful throe.
Yea, this godling's arrow pierced
Through and through her furry pelt
When she saw him first--Oh, heavens!
'Tis a mortal man she loves!
Man it is--Schnapphahnski named,
Who one day in mad retreat
Passed her as she wandered through
The dim passes of the hills.
Woes of heroes move the fair,
And within our hero's face,
Quite as usual, sorrow lowered,
Pallid care and money-need.
Spent were all his funds of war!
Two-and-twenty silver groats
Taken unto Spain by him
Espartero seized as spoil.
Aye, his very watch was gone!
This in Pampeluna's pawnshop
Lay in bondage. 'Twas a rich
Heirloom all of silver made.
Little thought he as he ran
On his long legs through the woods,
He had won a greater thing
Than a fight--a loving heart!
Yes, she loves him--him the born
Enemy of bears she loves!
Hapless maid! If but your sire
Knew it--oh! what rage were his!
Just like Odoardo old
Who in honest burgess-pride
Stabbed Emilia Galotti--
Even so would Atta Troll
Rather slay his darling lass,
Slay her
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