Roncesvalles, thou noble vale!
When thy golden name I hear,
Then the lost blue flower blooms
Once again within my heart!
All the glittering world of dreams
Rises from its hoary gulf,
And with great and ghostly eyes
Stares upon me till I quake!
What a stir and clang! The Franks
Battle with the Saracens,
While a thin, despairing wail
Pours like blood from Roland's horn.
In the Vale of Roncesvalles,
Close beside great Roland's Gap--
So 'twas named because the Knight
Once to clear himself a path.
Now this youngest was the pet
Of his mother. Once in play
Chewing off his tiny ear--
She devoured it for love.
A most genial youth is he,
Clever in gymnastic tricks,
Throwing somersaults as clever
As dear Massmann's somersaults.
Blossom of the pristine cult,
For the mother-tongue he raves,
Scorning all the senseless jargon
Of the Romans and the Greeks.
"Fresh and pious, gay and free,"
Hating all that smacks of soap
Or the modern craze for baths--
Verily like Massmann too!
Most inspired is this youth
When he clambers up the tree
Which from out the hollow gorge
Rears itself along the cliff,
Rears and lifts unto the crest
Where at night this jolly band
Squat and loll about their sire
In the twilight dim and cool.
Gladly there the father bear
Tells them stories of the world,
Of strange cities and their folk,
And of all he suffered too,
Suffered like Ulysses great--
Differing slightly from this brave
Since his black Penelope
Never parted from his side.
Loudly too prates Atta Troll
Of the mighty meed of praise
Which by practice of his art
He had wrung from humankind.
Young and old, so runs his tale,
Cheered in wonder and in joy,
When in market-squares he danced
To the bag-pipe's pleasant skirl.
And the ladies most of all--
Ah, what gentle connoisseurs!--
Rendered him their mad applause
And full many a tender glance.
Artists' vanity! Alas,
Pensively the dancing-bear
Thinks upon those happy hours
When his talents pleased the crowd.
Seized with rapture self-inspired,
He would prove his words by deeds,
Prove himself no boaster vain
But a master in the art.
Swiftly from the ground he springs,
Stands on hinder paws erect,
Dances then his favourite dance
As of old--the great Gavotte.
Dumb, with open jaws the cubs
Gaze upon their father there
As he makes his wondrous leaps
In the moonshine to and fro.
[Illustration]