Room enough is his, I trow! Up the jagged cliffs he climbs, Flings down one contemptuous look, Then is lost within the hills. Lone within the market-place Mumma and her master stand-- Raging, now he grasps his hat, Cursing, casts it on the earth, Tramples on it, kicks and flouts The Madonnas, tears the cloak Off his foul and naked back, Yells and blasphemes horribly 'Gainst the base ingratitude Of the race of sable bears. Had he not been kind to Troll? Taught him dancing free of charge? Everything this monster owed him, Even life. For some had bid, All in vain! three hundred marks For the hide of Atta Troll. Like some carven form of grief There the poor black Mumma stands On her hind feet, with her paws Pleading with the raging clown. But on her the raging clown Looses now his twofold wrath; Beats her; calls her Queen Christine, Dame Muñoz--Putana too.... All this happened on a fair Sunny summer afternoon. And the night which followed, ah! Was superb and wonderful. Of that night a part I spent On a small white balcony; Juliet was at my side And we viewed the passing stars. "Fairer far," she sighed, "the stars Which in Paris I have seen, When upon a winter's night In the muddy streets they shine." [Illustration] CANTO III Dream of summer nights! How vain Is my fond fantastic song. Quite as vain as Love and Life, And Creator and Creation. Subject to his own sweet will, Now in gallop, now in flight, So my Pegasus, my darling, Revels through the realms of myth. Ah, no plodding cart-horse he! Harnessed up for citizens, Nor a ramping party-hack Full of showy kicks and neighs. For my little wingèd steed's Hoofs are shod with solid gold And his bridle, dragging free, Is a rope of gleaming pearls. Bear me wheresoe'er thou wouldst-- To some lofty mountain-trail Where the torrents toss and shriek Warnings over folly's gulf. Bear me through the silent vales Where the solemn oaks arise From whose twisted roots there well Ancient springs of fairy lore. There, oh, let me drink--mine eyes Let me lave--Oh, how I thirst For that flashing wonder-spring, Full of wisdom and of light. All my blindness flees. My glance Pierces to the dimmest cave, To the lair of Atta Troll, And his speech I understand! Strange it is--this bearish speech Hath a most familiar ring! Once, methinks, I heard such tones In my own dear native land. [Illustration] CANTO IV Roncesvalles, thou noble vale! When thy golden name I hear, Then the lost blue flower blooms Once again within my heart!