Canto Iv

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.