Chapter 9

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."