“Yes, those rose-red little bears “Were adorn’d with silken pinions, “And with sweet celestial voices, “Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they! “As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold, “And from out my skin there mounted, “Like a soaring flame, my spirit, “Radiantly to heaven ascending.”-- Thus spake Atta Troll in quivering Tender grunting tones; a moment Paused he, full of melancholy-- But his ears with sudden impulse Prick’d he up, and strangely shook they, Whilst from off his couch upsprang he, Trembling, bellowing with rapture: “Do ye hear that sound, my children? “Is it not the darling accents “Of your mother? O, well know I, “’Tis the roaring of my Mumma! “Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!” Atta Troll, these words pronouncing, Hasten’d, like a crazy being, From the cavern to destruction! Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom! CAPUT XXI In the vale of Ronceval On the very spot where whilome Charlemagne’s unhappy nephew To the foe his life surrender’d, There, too, fell poor Atta Troll, And he fell by cunning, like him Whom the base equestrian Judas, Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed. Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion, Namely his uxorious feelings, Was a snare which old Uraca Cunningly avail’d herself of. She the growl of swarthy Mumma Copied with such great perfection, That poor Atta Troll was tempted Out of his secure bear’s-cavern. On the wings of yearning ran he Through the vale,--oft stood he, gently Snuffing at a rock in silence, Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there. Ah! conceal’d there was Lascaro With his musket, and he shot him Through the middle of his heart, whence Gush’d a ruddy stream of blood. Once or twice his head he waggled, But at last with heavy groaning Fell he down, and wildly gasp’d he, And his latest sigh was--“Mumma.” Thus the noble hero fell; Thus he died. And yet immortal Will he in the poet’s numbers After death arise in glory. Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers, And his glory, grown colossal, On four-footed solemn trochees O’er the face of earth stride proudly. And his tomb Bavaria’s monarch Will erect in the Walhalla, Writing on it this inscription, In true lapidary style: “Atta Troll; a bear of impulse; “Devotee; a loving husband; “Full of sans-culottic notions, “Thanks to the prevailing fashion. “Wretched dancer; strong opinions “Bearing in his shaggy bosom; “Often stinking very badly; “Talentless; a character!” CAPUT XXV. Three-and-thirty aged women, Wearing on their heads the scarlet Old Biscayan caps we read of, Stood around the village entrance. One, like Deborah, amongst them Beat the tambourine, and danced too, And she sang a song of triumph O’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.