ne of the most important poets who have arisen in
Germany since the Revolution of 1830. His first collection of poems came
to my notice rather late, namely just at the time when I was composing
"Atta Troll." The fact that the Moorish Prince affected me so comically
was no doubt due to my particular mood at that time. Moreover, this work
of his is usually vaunted as his best. To such readers as may not be
acquainted with this production--and I doubt not such may be found in
China and Japan, and even along the banks of the Niger and Senegal--I
would call attention to the fact that the Blackamoor King, who at the
beginning of the poem steps from his white tent like an eclipsed moon,
is beloved by a black beauty over whose dusky features nod white ostrich
plumes. But, eager for war, he leaves her, and enters into the battles
of the blacks, "where rattles the drum decorated with skulls," but,
alas! here he finds his black Waterloo, and is sold by the victors unto
the whites. They take the noble African to Europe and here we find him
in a company of itinerant circus folk who intrust him with the care of
the Turkish drum at their performances. There he stands, dark and
solemn, at the entrance to the ring, and drums. But as he drums he
thinks of his erstwhile greatness, remembers, too, that he was once an
absolute monarch on the far, far banks of the Niger, that he hunted
lions and tigers:_

_"His eye grew moist; with hollow thunder_
_He beat the drum, till it sprang in sunder."_

HEINRICH HEINE

Written at Paris, 1846

[Illustration: ATTA TROLL]

_Out of the gleaming, shimmering tents of white_
_Steps the Prince of the Moors in his armour bright--_
_So out of the slumbering clouds of night,_
_The moon in its dark eclipse takes flight._

"The Prince of Blackamoors,"
by Ferdinand Freiligrath.

[Illustration]

CANTO I

Ringed about by mountains dark,
Rising peak on sullen peak,
And by furious waterfalls
Lulled to slumber, like a dream

White within the valley lies
Cauterets. Each villa neat
Sports a balcony whereon
Lovely ladies stand and laugh.

Heartily they laugh and look
Down upon the crowded square
Where unto a bag-pipe's drone
He- and she-bear strut and dance.

Atta Troll is dancing there
With his Mumma, dusky mate,
While in wonderment the Basques
Shout aloud and cla