By-and-by we’ll tell the story How the young bear ever faithful To his oath remain’d. Our lyre shall In another Epic praise him. As respects friend Atta Troll, We will leave him for the present, Presently to come across him, All the surer, with a bullet. All thy stealthy machinations, Traitor ’gainst man’s majesty, Now at length are terminated, And thy hour will sound to-morrow! CAPUT XI. Like some drowsy bayaderes Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring In their snowy shirts of clouds, Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning. Yet they soon become enliven’d By the sun-god stripping from them All the veil that’s hanging o’er them Lighting up their naked beauty! Early in the morn I started With Lascaro on our journey Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday We arrived at Pont d’Espagne. So they call the bridge which leadeth Out of France and into Spain, To the land of west barbarians, Who’re a thousand years behind us,-- Yes, a thousand years behind us In all modern civ’lisation; My barbarians to the eastward But a hundred years behind are. Slowly, almost trembling, left I France’s sacred territory, Blessèd fatherland of freedom And the women that I love! On the middle of the bridge A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle, Misery in his eyes was lurking. An old crazy mandoline With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he; Shrill the discord which re-echoed From the rocks, as in derision. Oftentimes his figure bent he Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter, Tinkling harder then than ever, While the following words he sang: “In the middle of my bosom “Stands a little golden table; “Round the little golden table “Stand four little golden chairs. “On the golden chairs are sitting “Little ladies, golden arrows “In their hair,--at cards they’re playing, “But ’tis only Clara wins. “As she wins, she laughs with slyness; “Ah! within my bosom, Clara, “Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner, “For thou holdest nought but trumps.” Wand’ring onward, to myself I Spoke: “’Tis singular that madness Sits and sings upon yon bridge, That from France to Spain leads over. “Is this madman but the emblem “Of the interchange ’mongst nations “Of their thoughts? or his own country’s “Wild and crazy title-page?” We arrived not until evening At the wretched small posada, Where an olla-podrida In a dirty dish was smoking. There I swallow’d some garbanzos, Heavy, large as musket-bullets, Indigestible to Germans, Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d. Fit companion to the cooking Was the bed. With insects pepper’d It appear’d. The bugs, alas! are Far the greatest foes of man.