As the noble negro king
Of our Freiligrath protrudes
From his dusky mouth his long
Scarlet tongue in scorn and rage,--
Even so the moon now peers
Out of darkling clouds. The sad,
Sleepless waterfalls forever
Roar into the brooding night.
Atta Troll upon the crest
Of his well-beloved cliff
Stands alone, and now he howls
Down the wind and the abyss:
"Yea, a bear am I--even he,
Even he whom you have named
Bruin, growler, shag-coat too,
And such other titles vile.
"Yea, a bear am I--that same
Boorish animal you know;
That gross, trampling brute am I
Of your sly and crafty smiles!
"Of your wit am I the mark;
I'm the bugbear--him with whom
Every wicked child you frighten
In the silence of the night.
"Yea, I am that clumsy butt
Of your nursery tales--aloud
Will I shout that name forever
Through the scurvy world of men.
"Oyez! Oyez! I'm a bear
Unashamed of my descent,
Just as proud as if my forbear
Had been Moses Mendelsohn."
[Illustration]