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d loth I left The all-hallowed soil of France, Left great Freedom's motherland And the women that I love. Midmost of the Pont d'Espagne Sat a Spaniard. Misery Lurked within his tattered cape; Misery lurked within his eyes. With his bony fingers he Plucked an ancient mandolin Full of discord shrill which echoed Mockingly from out the gulch. Then betimes he leaned aslant O'er the depths and laughed aloud, Tinkled then in maddest wise As he sang his little song: "In my very heart of heart There's a tiny golden table, And about this golden table Four small golden chairs are set. "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 title-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-balls, 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. [Illustration] [Illustration] 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 God! One great fane whose splendours all Of the Maker's glory tell; Sun and moon and stars they vow
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