Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ATTA TROLL; A SUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM: CAPUT 18, by HEINRICH HEINE



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ATTA TROLL; A SUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM: CAPUT 18, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: And it was the time of full moon
Last Line: Cracking whips and shouts and halloing
Subject(s): Arthurian Legend; Beauty; Death; Arthur, King; Dead, The


AND it was the time of full moon
On St. John the Baptist's evening,
When the wild hunt's apparition
Rush'd along the Spirit-Hollow.

From the window of Uraca's
Witchlike hut I excellently
Could observe the spirit-army
As it sped along the valley.

Capital the place I stood in
For observing what was passing;
I enjoy'd a full sight of the
Grave-arisen dead men's pastime.

Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing,
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
How they joyously re-echoed!

On in front by way of vanguard
Ran the wondrous game they hunted,
Stag and sow, in herds enormous,
With the pack of hounds behind them.

Huntsmen out of every region
And of every age were gather'd,
Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,
For example, rode Charles X --.

High upon their snowy horses
On they rush'd; on foot there follow'd
The piqueurs, the leashes holding,
And the pages with the torches.

Many in the wild procession
Seem'd to me well-known. The horseman
In the golden glist'ning armour, --
Was he not the great King Arthur?

And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,
Wore he not his green and glancing
Coat of ringed mail, that gave him
All the' appearance of a frog?

In the long train also saw I
Many intellectual heroes;
There I recognized our Wolfgang,
By his eyes' exceeding lustre.

Being damn'd by Hengstenberg,
In his grave he cannot slumber,
But his earthly love for hunting
With the heathen throng continues.

By his mouth's sweet smile I also
Knew again the worthy William,
Whom the Puritans had likewise
Cursed with bitterness; this sinner

Needs must join at night that savage
Army, on a black steed mounted;
On an ass, and close beside him
Rode a man, -- and, O good heavens,

By his weary, praying gestures,
By his pious snow-white nightcap,
By his grief of soul, I straightway
Knew our old friend, Francis Horn!

Just for writing commentaries
On the world-child Shakespear, must he
After death, poor fellow, with him
Ride amidst the wild hunt's tumult!

Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,
Who to walk was well-nigh frighten'd;
Who ne'er moved, except when praying,
Or when chatting o'er the tea-tray!

Would not all the aged maidens,
Long accustomed to caress him,
Shudder if they came to hear that
Francis was a savage huntsman!

When he breaks into a gallop,
The great William with derision
Looks on his poor commentator
Who at donkey's pace goes after,

Helplessly and wildly clinging
To the pommel of his donkey,
Yet in death as well as lifetime
Following faithfully his author.

Many ladies saw I also
In the spirits' wild procession,
Many beauteous nymphs amongst them
With their slender, youthful figures.

They astraddle sat their horses,
Mythologically naked;
Yet their long and curling tresses
Fell low down, like golden mantles.

Garlands on their heads they carried,
And with saucy backward-bending
Supercilious wanton postures
Leafy wands kept ever swinging.

Hard beside them saw I certain
Closely-button'd dames on horseback
On their ladies' saddles sitting
With their falcons on their fists.

As in parody behind them
On their knackers, lanky ponies,
Rode a troop of gay bedizen'd
Women, looking like comedians.

Full of beauty were their features,
But perchance a little bold;
Madly were they shouting with their
Cheeks so full and wanton-painted.

How they joyously re-echoed,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Cracking whips and shouts and halloing





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