No More Learning

Yes, 'tis said, he is a dead one,
Long defunct, although his mother,
Old Uraka, by enchantments
Keeps him living to appearance.

In the little fishing cottage,
On the Lac-de-Gobe we met with
Shelter and some trout for dinner;
And they tasted quite delicious.

If the stuff I drank was really
Wine, at this same Lac-de-Gobe,
I know not. I think in Brunswick
They would simply call it swipes.


VII

From the sunny golden background
Smile the violet mountain peaks,
On the ridge there clings a village,
Like a boldly ventured birds'-nest.

Having climbed there, 'twas apparent
That the old ones wing had taken,
And behind were tarrying only
All the young brood, not yet fledged.

Nearly all that day I lingered
With the children, and we chatted
Quite familiar. They were curious
Who I was, what I was doing?

"Germany, dear friends"--so said I--
"Is the land where I was born;
Bears live there in any number,
And I took to hunting bears.

"There I drew the skin for many
Over very bearish ears;
And between them I was sometimes
Roughly by their bear claws handled.

"But with merely unlicked blockheads
Every day to be contending
In my well-loved home, at last I
Found to be too much for me.

"So at last have journeyed hither,
Seeking out some better sport;
I intend to try my prowess
On the mighty Atta Troll. "


VIII

Like a narrow street the valley,
And its name is Spectre Hollow;
Rugged crags rise up abruptly
Either side of giddy heights.

On a dizzy, steep projection,
Peeping downwards, like a watch-tower,
Stands Uraka's daring cottage;
Thither I Lascaro followed.

With his mother he took counsel,
Using secret signs as language,
How might Atta Troll be tempted,
How he might be put to death.
For right well had we his traces
Followed up. And now no longer
Dare escape be thought of. Numbered
Are thy days, O Atta Troll!

What Uraka as her lawful
Business followed, that was honest;
For she dealt in mountain simples
And she also sold stuffed birds.

Full of all these natural wonders
Was the hut. The smell was dreadful
Of the henbane, cuckoo-flowers,
Dandelion and deadmen's fingers.

Vultures, too, a large collection,
Carefully arranged on all sides,
With the wings at full extended
And the most enormous beaks.

Was't the odour of the foolish
Plants which stupefied my senses?
Strange sensations crept about me
At the sight of all these birds.


IX

Argonauts without a ship,
Who on foot the mountain traverse,
And instead of golden fleeces
Only look to win a bear-skin

Ah, we are but sorry devils!
Heroes of a modern pattern,
And there's not a classic poet
Would in song immortalise us!

And for all that we have suffered
Mighty hardships! What a shower
Overtook us on the summit,
And no tree and no _fiacre_!

Tired to death, and out of humour,
Like two well-drenched poodles, once more,
Very late at night, we clambered
To the witch's hut above.

Shivering, and with teeth a-chatter,
Near the hearth I stood awhile;
Then, as though the warmth o'ercame me,
Sank at last upon the straw.

How the roaring of the chimney
Terrified me.