_Another word. Need I lay any special emphasis upon the fact that the parodying of one of Freiligrath's poems, which here and there somewhat saucily titters from the lines of "Atta Troll," in no wise constitutes a disparagement of that poet? I value him highly, especially at present, and account him one 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 clap their hands. Stiff with pride and gravity Dances noble Atta Troll, Though his shaggy partner knows Neither dignity nor shame.