Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ATTA TROLL; A SUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM: CAPUT 23, by HEINRICH HEINE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ATTA TROLL; A SUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM: CAPUT 23, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: From the witch's entertainment
Last Line: Ah, he rush'd to meet his doom!
Subject(s): Caves; Love; Witchcraft & Witches; Caverns


FROM the witch's entertainment
To the valley we descended,
And our footsteps to the region
Of the Positive return'd.

Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres!
Airy figures! Fev'rish visions!
We find rational employment
Once again with Atta Troll.

In the cavern, by his young ones,
Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,
With the snore of conscious virtue,
And at length he wakes with gaping.

Near him squats young Master One-ear
And his head he's gently scratching,
Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,
And upon his paws he's scanning.

Likewise by their father's side
On their backs are dreaming lying
Innocent four-footed lilies,
Atta Troll's beloved daughters.

Say, what tender thoughts are pining
In the softly blooming spirits
Of these snowy young bear-virgins?
Moist with tears their eyes are glist'ning.

Most of all appears the youngest
Deeply moved. Within her bosom
She a blissful twinge is feeling,
And to Cupid's might succumbs she.

Yes, that little god's sharp arrow
Through her thick skin penetrated
When she saw Him -- O, good heavens
Him she loves, a living man is!

Is a man, yelept Schnapphahnski; --
Whilst before his foes retreating
He arrived by chance one morning
At the mountain in his flight.

Woes of heroes touch all women,
And within our hero's features
Were depicted want of money,
Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.

All his military chest,
Two-and-twenty silver groschen,
Which he had when Spain he enter'd,
Was the prey of Espartero.

E'en his watch was not preserved him,
But remain'd at Pampeluna
In a pawn-shop. 'Twas an heirloom,
Costly and of genuine silver.

And with long legs swiftly ran he,
But unconsciously whilst running
Won he something that's far better
Than the best of fights, -- a heart!

Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe!
O thou most unhappy bearess!
If thy father knew the secret,
He would growl in frightful fashion.

As the aged Odoardo
Stabb'd Emilia Galotti
In his pride of citizenship,
So would also Atta Troll

Sooner have destroy'd his daughter,
Yes, with his own paws destroy'd her
Than permitted her to tumble
In the arms of any monarch

Yet he at this very moment
Is of tender disposition,
With no wish to crush a rosebud
Ere the hurricane has stripp'd it.

Tenderly lies Atta Troll
In the cavern, by his young ones.
O'er him creep, like death's forebodings,
Mournful yearnings for the future.

"Children," sigh'd he, as his great eyes
Suddenly 'gan dripping, "children,
"All my earthly pilgrimage
"Is accomplish'd, we must part now.

"For to-day at noon whilst sleeping
"Came a vision full of meaning,
"And my soul enjoy'd the blissful
"Foretaste of an early death.

"Now, I'm far from superstitious,
"I'm no giddy bear, -- yet are there
"Certain things 'twixt earth and heaven
"Unaccountable to thinkers.

"Over world and fate whilst poring,
"Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,
"And I dreamt that I was lying
"Underneath a mighty tree.

"From the branches of this tree there
"Trickled down some whitish honey,
"Gliding in my open muzzle,
"And I felt a sweet enjoyment.

"As I blissfully peer'd upwards,
"Saw I on the very tree-top
"Seven tiny little bears
"Sliding up and down the branches.

"Tender, pretty little creatures,
"With a skin of rose-red colour,
"While, like silk, from their dear shoulders
"Hung a something, like two pinions.

"Yes, those rose-red little bears
"Were adorn'd with silken pinions,
"And with sweet celestial voices,
"Sounding like a flute's notes, sang they!

"As they sang, my skin turn'd ice-cold,
"And from out my skin there mounted,
"Like a soaring flame, my spirit,
"Radiantly to heaven ascending." --

Thus spake Atta Troll in quivering
Tender grunting tones; a moment
Paused he, full of melancholy --
But his ears with sudden impulse

Prick'd he up, and strangely shook they,
Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,
Trembling, bellowing with rapture:
"Do ye hear that sound, my children?

"Is it not the darling accents
"Of your mother? O, well know I,
"'Tis the roaring of my Mumma!
"Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!"

Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,
Hasten'd, like a crazy being,
From the cavern to destruction!
Ah, he rush'd to meet his doom!





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