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r you see, First I am no spotless maid, "And, still more impossible, Secondly, I ne'er could read Any one of Pfizer's poems And not fall asleep at once." [Illustration] CANTO XXIII From this eerie witch-menage To the valley down we went, And once more our feet took hold On the good and solid Earth. Spectres hence! Hence, gibbering masks! Shapes of air and fever-dreams!-- Once again, most sensibly Let us deal with Atta Troll. In the cavern with his young Bruin lies in slumber wrapt, Snoring like an honest soul, Then he stretches, yawns and wakes. And young One-Ear crouches down At his side, his head he rakes Like a poet seeking rhymes, And upon his paws he scans. Close beside the father lie Atta Troll's beloved girls, Pure, four-footed lilies they, Stretched in dreams upon their backs. Ah, what tender thoughts must glow In the budding souls of these Snow-white virgin bearesses With their soft and dewy eyes? And the youngest of them all Seems most deeply stirred. Her heart, Smitten by Dan Cupid's shaft, Quivers with a blissful throe. Yea, this godling's arrow pierced Through and through her furry pelt When she saw him first--Oh, heavens! 'Tis a mortal man she loves! Man it is--Schnapphahnski named, Who one day in mad retreat Passed her as she wandered through The dim passes of the hills. Woes of heroes move the fair, And within our hero's face, Quite as usual, sorrow lowered, Pallid care and money-need. Spent were all his funds of war! Two-and-twenty silver groats Taken unto Spain by him Espartero seized as spoil. Aye, his very watch was gone! This in Pampeluna's pawnshop Lay in bondage. 'Twas a rich Heirloom all of silver made. Little thought he as he ran On his long legs through the woods, He had won a greater thing Than a fight--a loving heart! Yes, she loves him--him the born Enemy of bears she loves! Hapless maid! If but your sire Knew it--oh! what rage were his! Just like Odoardo old Who in honest burgess-pride Stabbed Emilia Galotti-- Even so would Atta Troll Rather slay his darling lass, Slay her
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