With his trusty sword Duranda Struck with such death-dealing fury On the wall of rock, that plainly To this day are seen its traces-- There within a gloomy hollow, Close surrounded by a thicket Of wild fir-trees, safely hidden, Lies the cave of Atta Troll. In the bosom of his fam’ly Rests he after all the hardships Of his flight and the distresses Of his public show and travels. Sweet the meeting! all his young ones Found he in that happy cavern Where with Mumma he begot them,-- Four his sons, and daughters two. Well-lick’d maidens were the latter, Fair their hair, like parsons’ daughters Brown the youths, the youngest only With the single ear is black. Now this youngest was the darling Of his mother, who when playing Happen’d once to bite his ear off, And for very love she ate it. He’s a very genial stripling, At gymnastics very clever, And he turns a somersault Like the posture-master Massmann. Sprig of autochthonic humour, He his mother-tongue loves only, And has never learnt the jargon Of the Grecian and the Roman. Fresh and free and good and merry, Soap he holds in detestation, (Luxury of modern washing,) Like the posture-master Massmann. But our young friend is most genial Where upon the tree he clambers, Which along the steepest rock-side From the deep abyss upriseth, And extendeth to the summit, When the family at night-time Gather all around their father, Toying in the evening coolness. Then the old one loves to tell them What he in the world has witness’d; How he many men and cities Had beheld, and greatly suffer’d, Like Laertes’ noble offspring, But in one thing still unlike him,-- Namely, that his wife went with him, His dear black Penelope. Atta Troll then also tells them Of the wondrous approbation That he, by his skill in dancing, Had acquired in ev’ry quarter. He assured them young and old Had exultingly admired him, When he danced upon the market To the sweet notes of the bagpipe. In particular the ladies, Those dear connoisseurs of all things, Had with vehemence applauded, And had ogled him with favour. O the vanity of Artists! Our old dancing bear with simpers Calls to mind the time when late he To the public show’d his talent. Overcome by self laudation, He would fain by act exhibit That he’s no mere boaster only, But a really first-rate dancer. From the ground then sudden springs he, On his hinder paws upstanding, And, as formerly, he dances The gavotte, his favourite dance. Mute, with muzzles gaping open, The young bears look on with wonder, While their father in the moonlight Capers here and there thus strangely. CAPUT V.