Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ATTA TROLL; A SUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM: CAPUT 1, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Hemm'd close in by gloomy mountains
Last Line: Like a fish, and gently struggles.
Subject(s): Freiligrath, Ferdinard (1810-1876); Moors (people)


HEMM'D close in by gloomy mountains
Proudly o'er each other rising,
Lull'd to sleep by wildly-dashing
Cataracts, like some fair vision,

In the valley lies the charming
Cauterets. Its snow-white houses
All have balconies; upon them
Stand fair ladies, laughing loudly.

Laughing loudly, downward look they
On the chequer'd noisy market,
Where there dance a male and female
Bear, to sound of bagpipe-music.

Atta Troll and his dear wife 'tis
(Her they call the swarthy Mumma),
Who are dancing, and with wonder
The Biscayans are rejoicing.

Stately, and with solemn grandeur,
Dances noble Atta Troll;
Yet his shaggy partner's wanting
Both in dignity and manners.

Yes, I have a shrewd suspicion
That she is too much accustom'd
To the vulgar shameless dances
At the Grand'-Chaumiere at Paris.

E'en the excellent bear-leader,
Who with chain conducts the couple
Seems the immorality
Of her dance to notice plainly.

And he oft bestows upon her
With his whip fast-falling lashes,
And the swarthy Mumma howls then,
And awakes the mountain echoes.

This bear-leader six Madonnas
Wears upon his pointed hat,
To protect his head from bullets
Or from lice perchance it may be.

O'er his shoulder there is hanging,
Many-hued, an altar covering,
Doing office as a mantle;
Knife and pistol lurk beneath it.

He had been a monk when younger,
Then became a robber-captain;
Then, to join the two vocations,
Took the service of Don Carlos.

When Don Carlos had to scamper
With the knights of his round table,
And his paladins were driven
To pursue some honest calling,

(Thus Schnapphahnski turn'd an author
Then our knight became bear-leader,
And across the country travell'd
Leading Atta Troll and Mumma.

And in sight of all the people,
In the market, they must dance now;
Atta Troll must in the market
Of this city dance in fetters!

Atta Troll, who once was dwelling
Like a haughty desert-monarch
On the airy mountain, dances
In a valley to the rabble!

And for filthy lucre merely
He must dance, who formerly
In the majesty of terror
Felt himself so high exalted!

When his younger days recals he,
His lost lordship of the forest,
Then growl forth despairing noises
From the soul of Atta Troll.

Gloomy looks he, like a swarthy
Moorish prince of Freiligrath;
As the latter drums but badly,
So with rage he badly dances.

But instead of pity, wakes he
Only laughter. Even Juliet
From the balcony laughs downward
At his leaps of desperation. --

Juliet has not in her bosom
Any feelings; French by nation,
Outwardly she lives; her outside
Is delightful and enchanting.

Her sweet looks compose a blissful
Net of rays, within whose meshes
Is our heart fast held in prison,
Like a fish, and gently struggles.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net