{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_2430/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_2430","id":"gutenberg_2430","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2430","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Danish literature","Danish poetry -- Translations into English"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1913 Jarrold and Sons edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\nROMANTIC BALLADS,\nTRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH;\nAND\nMISCELLANEOUS PIECES;\n\n\nBY\n\nGEORGE BORROW.\n\n* * * * *\n\n   Through gloomy paths unknown--\n      Paths which untrodden be,\n   From rock to rock I roam\n      Along the dashing sea.\n\n   BOWRING.\n\n* * * * *\n\nNORWICH:\nPRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY JARROLD AND SONS.\n1913\n\nContents.\n\nPreface\n\nLines from Allan Cunningham to George Borrow\n\nThe Death-raven.  From the Danish of Oehlenslaeger\n\nFridleif and Helga.  From the Danish of Oehlenslaeger\n\nSir Middel.  From the Old Danish\n\nElvir-shades.  From the Danish of Oehlenslaeger\n\nThe Heddybee-spectre.  From the Old Danish\n\nSir John.  From the Old Danish\n\nMay Asda.  From the Danish of Oehlenslaeger\n\nAager and Eliza.  From the Old Danish\n\nSaint Oluf.  From the Old Danish\n\nThe Heroes of Dovrefeld.  From the Old Danish\n\nSvend Vonved.  From the Old Danish\n\nThe Tournament.  From the Old Danish\n\nVidrik Verlandson.  From the Old Danish\n\nElvir Hill.  From the Old Danish\n\nWaldemar's Chase\n\nThe Merman.  From the Old Danish\n\nThe Deceived Merman.  From the Old Danish\n\nMiscellanies.\n\nCantata\n\nThe Hail-storm.  From the Norse\n\nThe Elder-witch\n\nOde.  From the Gaelic\n\nBear song.  From the Danish of Evald\n\nNational song.  From the Danish of Evald\n\nThe Old Oak\n\nLines to Six-foot Three\n\nNature's Temperaments.  From the Danish of Oehlenslaeger\n\nThe Violet-gatherer.  From the Danish of Oehlenslaeger\n\nOde to a Mountain-torrent.  From the German of Stolberg\n\nRunic Verses\n\nThoughts on Death.  From the Swedish of C. Lohman\n\nBirds of Passage.  From the Swedish\n\nThe Broken Harp\n\nScenes\n\nThe Suicide's Grave.  From the German\n\n\n\n\nThe Original Title Page.\n200 copies by subscription\n\n\n{i:S. Wilkin 1826 title page: tp1.jpg}\n\n\n\n\nThe London (John Taylor) Title Page.\n300 copies including those bearing the imprint of\nWightman & Cramp.\n\n\n{i:John Taylor 1826 title page: tp2.jpg}\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThe ballads in this volume are translated from the Works of OEHLENSLAEGER,\n(a poet who is yet living, and who stands high in the estimation of his\ncountrymen,) and from the KIAEMPE VISER, a collection of old songs,\ncelebrating the actions of the ancient heroes of Scandinavia.\n\nThe old Danish poets were, for the most part, extremely rude in their\nversification.  Their stanzas of four or two lines have not the full\nrhyme of vowel and consonant, but merely what the Spaniards call the\n\"assonante,\" or vowel rhyme, and attention seldom seems to have been paid\nto the number of _feet_ on which the lines moved along.  But, however\ndefective their poetry may be in point of harmony of numbers, it\ndescribes, in vivid and barbaric language, scenes of barbaric grandeur,\nwhich in these days are never witnessed; and, which, though the modern\nmuse may imagine, she generally fails in attempting to pourtray, from the\nviolent desire to be smooth and tuneful, forgetting that smoothness and\ntunefulness are nearly synonymous with tameness and unmeaningness.\n\nI expect shortly to lay before the public a complete translation of the\nKIAEMPE VISER, made by me some years ago; and of which, I hope, the\nspecimens here produced will not give an unfavourable idea.\n\nIt was originally my intention to publish, among the \"Miscellaneous\nPieces,\" several translations from the Gaelic, formerly the language of\nthe western world; the noble tongue\n\n   \"A labhair Padric' nninse Fail na Riogh.\n   'San faighe caomhsin Colum naomhta' n I.\"\n\n   Which Patrick spoke in Innisfail, to heathen chiefs of old\n   Which Columb, the mild prophet-saint, spoke in his island-hold--\n\nbut I have retained them, with one exception, till I possess a sufficient\nquantity to form an entire volume.\n\n\n\n\nFROM ALLAN CUNNINGHAM,\nTO GEORGE BORROW,\n\n\n_On his proposing to translate the_ '_Kiaepe Viser_.'\n\nSing, sing, my friend; breathe life again\nThrough Norway's song and Denmark's strain:\nOn flowing Thames and Forth, in flood,\nPour Haco's war-song, fierce and rude.\nO'er England's strength, through Scotland's cold,\nHis warrior minstrels marched of old--\nCalled on the wolf and bird of prey\nTo feast on Ireland's shore and bay;\nAnd France, thy forward knights and bold,\nRough Rollo's ravens croaked them cold.\nSing, sing of earth and ocean's lords,\nTheir songs as conquering as their swords;\nStrains, steeped in many a strange belief,\nNow stern as steel, now soft as grief--\nWild, witching, warlike, brief, sublime,\nStamped with the image of their time;\nWhen chafed--the call is sharp and high\nFor carnage, as the eagles cry;\nWhen pleased--the mood is meek, and mild,\nAnd gentle, as an unweaned child.\nSing, sing of haunted shores and shelves,\nSt. Oluf and his spiteful elves,\nOf that wise dame, in true love need,\nWho of the clear stream formed the steed--\nHow youthful Svend, in sorrow sharp,\nThe inspired strings rent from his harp;\nAnd Sivard, in his cloak of felt,\nDanced with the green oak at his belt--\nOr sing the Sorceress of the wood,\nThe amorous Merman of the flood--\nOr elves that, o'er the unfathomed stream,\nSport thick as motes in morning beam--\nOr bid me sail from Iceland Isle,\nWith Rosmer and fair Ellenlyle,\nWhat time the blood-crow's flight was south,\nBearing a man's leg in its mouth.\nThough rough and rude, those strains are rife\nOf things kin to immortal life,\nWhich touch the heart and tinge the cheek,\nAs deeply as divinest Greek.\nIn simple words and unsought rhyme,\nGive me the songs of olden time.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH-RAVEN.\nFROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.\n\n\nThe silken sail, which caught the summer breeze,\nDrove the light vessel through the azure seas;\nUpon the lofty deck, Dame Sigrid lay,\nAnd watch'd the setting of the orb of day:\nThen, all at once, the smiling sky grew dark,\nThe breakers rav'd, and sinking seem'd the bark;\nThe wild Death-raven, perch'd upon the mast,\nScream'd 'mid the tumult, and awoke the blast.\n\nDame Sigrid saw the demon bird on high,\nAnd tear-drops started in her beauteous eye;\nHer cheeks, which late like blushing roses bloom'd,\nHad now the pallid hue of fear assum'd:\n\"O wild death-raven, calm thy frightful rage,\nNor war with one who warfare cannot wage.\nTame yonder billows, make them cease to roar,\nAnd I will give thee pounds of golden ore.\"\n\n\"With gold thou must not hope to pay the brave,\nFor gold I will not calm a single wave,\nFor gold I will not hush the stormy air,\nAnd yet my heart is mov'd by thy despair;\nGive me the treasure hid beneath thy belt,\nAnd straight yon clouds in harmless rain shall melt,\nAnd down I'll thunder, with my claws of steel.\nUpon the merman clinging to your keel.\"\n\n\"What I conceal'd beneath my girdle bear,\nIs thine--irrevocably thine--I swear.\nThou hast refus'd a great and noble prey,\nTo get possession of my closet key.\nLo! here it is, and, when within thy maw,\nMay'st thou much comfort from the morsel draw!\"\nThe polish'd steel upon the deck she cast,\nAnd off the raven flutter'd from the mast.\n\nThen down at once he plung'd amid the main,\nAnd clove the merman's frightful head in twain;\nThe foam-clad billows to repose he brought,\nAnd tam'd the tempest with the speed of thought;\nThen, with a thrice-repeated demon cry,\nHe soar'd aloft and vanish'd in the sky:\nA soft wind blew the ship towards the land,\nAnd soon Dame Sigrid reach'd the wish'd-for strand.\n\nOnce, late at eve, she play'd upon her harp,\nClose by the lake where slowly swam the carp;\nAnd, as the moon-beam down upon her shone,\nShe thought of Norway, and its pine-woods lone.\n\"Yet love I Denmark,\" said she, \"and the Danes,\nFor o'er them Alf, my mighty husband, reigns.\"\nThen 'neath her girdle something mov'd and yearn'd,\nAnd into terror all her bliss was turn'd.\n\n\"Ah! now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . \"\nLong sat she, then, and neither spoke nor stirr'd.\nFaint, through the mist which rob'd the sky in gray,\nThe pale stars glimmer'd from the milky way.\n\"Ah! now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . \"\nShe strove in vain to breathe another word.\nAbove her head, its leaf the aspen shook--\nMoist as her cheek, and pallid as her look.\n\nFull five months pass'd, ere she, 'mid night and gloom,\nBrought forth with pain an infant from her womb:\nThey baptiz'd it, at midnight's murky hour,\nLest it should fall within the demon's power.\nIt was a boy, more lovely than the morn,\nYet Sigrid's heart with bitter care was torn.\nDeep in a grot, through which a brook did flow,\nWith crystal drops they sprinkled Harrald's brow.\n\nHe grew and grew, till upon Danish ground\nNo youth to match the stripling could be found;\nHe was at once so graceful and so strong--\nHis look was fire, and his speech was song.\nWhen yet a child, he tam'd the battle steed,\nAnd only thought of war and daring deed;\nBut yet Queen Sigrid nurs'd prophetic fears,\nAnd when she view'd him, always swam in tears.\n\nOne evening late, she lay upon her bed,\n(King Alf, her noble spouse, was long since dead)\nShe felt so languid, and her aching breast\nWith more than usual sorrow was oppress'd.\nAh, then she heard a sudden sound that thrill'd\nHer every nerve, and life's warm current chill'd:--\nThe bird of death had through the casement flown,\nAnd thus he scream'd to her, in frightful tone:\n\n\"The wealthy bird came towering,\nCame scowering,\nO'er hill and stream.\n'Look here, look here, thou needy bird,\nHow gay my feathers gleam.'\n\n\"The needy bird came fluttering,\nCame muttering,\nAnd sadly sang,\n'Look here, look here, thou wealthy bird,\nHow loose my feathers hang.'\n\n\"Remember, Queen, the stormy day,\nWhen cast away\nThou wast so nigh:--\nThou wast the needy bird that day,\nAnd unto me didst cry.\n\n\"Death-raven now comes towering,\nComes scowering,\nO'er hill and stream;\nBut when wilt thou, Dame Sigrid fair,\nThy plighted word redeem.\"\n\nA hollow moan from Sigrid's bosom came,\nWhile he survey'd her with his eye of flame:\n\"Fly,\" said she; \"demon monster, get thee hence!\nMy humble pray'r shall be my son's defence.\"\nShe cross'd herself, and then the fiend flew out;\nBut first, contemptuously he danc'd about,\nAnd sang, \"No pray'r shall save him from my rage;\nIn Christian blood my thirst I will assuage.\"\n\nYoung Harrald seiz'd his scarlet cap, and cried,\n\"I'll probe the grief my mother fain would hide;\"\nThen, rushing into her apartment fair,\n\"O mother,\" said he, \"wherefore sitt'st thou there,\nFar from thy family at dead of night,\nWith lips so mute, and cheeks so ghastly white?\nTell me what lies so heavy at thy heart;\nGrief, when confided, loses half its smart.\"\n\n\"O Harrald,\" sigh'd she, yielding to his pray'r,\n\"Creatures are swarming in the earth and air,\nWho, wild with wickedness, and hot with wrath,\nWage war on those who follow virtue's path.\nOne of those fiends is on the watch for thee,\nArm'd with a promise wrung by him from me:\nHis blood-shot eyes in narrow sockets roll,\nAnd every night he leaves his mirksome hole.\n\n\"He was a kind of God, in former days;\nKings worshipp'd him, and minstrels sang his praise;\nBut when Christ's doctrine through the dark North flam'd,\nHis, and all evil spirits' might was tam'd.\nHe now is but a raven; yet is still\nFull strong enough to work on thee his will:\nLost is the wretch who in his power falls--\nVainly he shrieks, in vain for mercy calls.\"\n\nShe whisper'd to him then, with bloodless lip,\nWhat had befallen her on board the ship;\nBut youthful Harrald listen'd undismay'd,\nAnd merely gripp'd the handle of his blade.\n\"My son,\" she murmur'd, when her tale was told,\n\"Fear withers me, but thou look'st blythe and bold.\"\nThe youth uplifted then his sparkling eye,\nAnd said, whilst gazing on the moon-lit sky,\n\n\"Once, my dear mother, at the close of day,\nAmong tall flowers in the grove I lay,\nSoft sang the linnets from a thousand trees,\nAnd, sweetly lull'd, I slumber'd by degrees.\nThen, heaven's curtain was, methought, undrawn,\nAnd, clad in hues that deck the brow of morn,\nAn angel slowly sank towards the earth,\nWhich seem'd to hail him with a smile of mirth.\n\n\"He rais'd his hand, and bade me fix my eye\nUpon a chain which, hanging from the sky,\nEmbrac'd the world; and, stretching high and low,\nClink'd, as it mov'd, the notes of joy and wo:\nThe links that came in sight were purpled o'er\nFull frequently with what seem'd human gore;\nOf various metals made, it clasp'd the mould,--\nSteel clung to silver, iron clung to gold.\n\n\"Then said the angel, with majestic air,--\n'The chain of destiny thou seest there.\nAccept whate'er it gives, and murmur not;\nFor hard necessity has cast each lot.'\nHe vanish'd--I awoke with sudden start,\nBut that strange dream was graven on my heart.\nI go wherever fate shall please to call,--\nWithout God's leave, no fly to earth can fall.\"\n\nIt thunders--and from midnight's mirky cloud,\nComes peal on peal reverberating loud:\nThe froth-clad breakers cast, with sullen roar,\nA Scottish bark upon the whiten'd shore.\nStraight to the royal palace hasten then\nA lovely maid and thirty sea-worn men.\nMinona, Scotland's princess, Scotland's boast,\nThe storm has driven to the Danish coast.\n\nOft, while the train hew timber in the groves,\nMinona, arm in arm, with Harrald roves.\nWarm from his lip the words of passion flow;\nPure in her eyes the flames of passion glow.\nOne summer eve, upon a mossy bank,\nMouth join'd to mouth, and breast to breast, they sank:\nThe moon arose in haste to see their love,\nAnd wild birds carroll'd from the boughs above.\n\nBut now the ship, which seem'd of late a wreck,\nFloats with a mast set proudly on her deck.\nMinona kisses Harrald's blooming face,\nWhilst he attends her to the parting place.\nHis bold young heart beats high against his side--\nShe sail'd away--and, like one petrified,\nFull long he stood upon the shore, to view\nThe smooth keel slipping through the waters blue.\n\nMonths pass, and Sigrid's sorrow disappears;\nThe wild death-raven's might no more she fears;\nA gentle red bedecks her cheek again,\nAnd briny drops her eye no longer stain.\n\"My Harrald stalks in manly size and strength;\nSwart bird of darkness, I rejoice at length;\nIf thy curst claw could hurt my gallant son,\nLong, long, ere this, the deed would have been done.\"\n\nBut Harrald look'd so moody and forlorn,\nAnd thus his mother he address'd one morn:\n\"Minona's face is equall'd by her mind;\nMethinks she calls me from her hills of wind?\nGive me a ship with men and gold at need,\nAnd let me to her father's kingdom speed;\nI'll soon return, and back across the tide\nBring thee a daughter, and myself a bride.\"\n\nDame Sigrid promis'd him an answer soon,\nAnd went that night, when risen was the moon,\nDeep through the black recesses of the wood,\nTo where old Bruno's shelter'd cabin stood.\nShe enter'd--there he sat behind his board,\nHis woollen vestment girded by a cord;\nThe little lamp, which hung from overhead,\nGleam'd on the Bible-leaves before him spread.\n\n\"Hail to thee, Father!--man of hoary age,\nThy Queen demands from thee thy counsel sage.\nYoung Harrald to a distant land will go,\nAnd I his destiny would gladly know:\nThou read'st the stars,--O do the stars portend\nThat he shall come to an untimely end?\nTake from his mother's heart this one last care,\nAnd she will always name thee in her pray'r.\"\n\nThe hermit, rising from his lonely nook,\nWith naked head, and coldly placid look,\nWent out and gaz'd intently on the sky,\nWhose lights were letters to his ancient eye.\n\"The stars,\" said he, \"in friendly order stand,\nOne only, flashes like an angry brand:--\nThy Harrald, gentle Queen, will not be slain\nUpon the _Earth_, nor yet upon the _Main_.\"\n\nWhile thus the seer prophetically spoke,\nA flush of joy o'er Sigrid's features broke:\n\"He'll not be slain on ocean or on land,\"\nShe said, and kiss'd the hermit's wrinkled hand;\n\"Why then, I'm happy, and my son is free\nTo mount his bark, and gallop through the sea:\nUpon the grey stone he will sit as king,\nWhen, in the grave, my bones are mouldering.\"\n\nThe painted galley floats now in the creek--\nFlags at her mast, and garlands at her beak;\nHigh on the yard-arm hoisted is the sail,\nHalf spread it flutters in the evening gale.\nThe night before he goes, young Harrald stray'd\nInto the wood where first he saw his maid:\nBurning impatience fever'd all his blood,\nHe wish'd for wings to bear him o'er the flood.\n\nThen sigh'd the wind among the bushy grounds,\nFar in the distance rose the yell of hounds:\nThe flame-wisps, starting from the sedge and grass,\nHung, 'mid the vapours, over the morass.\nUp to him came a beldame, wildly drest,\nBearing a closely-folded feather-vest:\nShe smil'd upon him with her cheeks so wan,\nGave him the robe, and was already gone.\n\nYoung Harrald, though astonish'd, has no fears;\nThe mighty garment in his hand he rears:\nOf wond'rous lovely feathers it was made,\nWhich once the roc and ostrich had array'd.\nHe wishes much to veil in it his form,\nAnd speed as rapidly as speeds the storm:\nHe puts it on, then seeks the open plain,--\nTakes a short flight, and flutters back again.\n\n\"Courage!\" he cried, \"I will no longer stay;\nScotland shall see me, ere the break of day.\"\nThen like a dragon in the air he soars,\nStartled from slumber, in his wake it roars.\nHis wings across the ocean take their flight;\nGroves, cities, hills, have vanish'd from his sight,--\nSee! there he goes, lone rider of the sky,\nMiles underneath him, black the billows lie.\n\nHe hears a clapping on the midnight wind:\nSpeed, Harrald, speed! the raven is behind.\nFlames from his swarthy-rolling eye are cast:--\n\"Ha! Harrald,\" scream'd he, \"have we met at last?\"\nFor the first time, the youth felt terror's force;\nPale grew his cheek, as that of clammy corse,\nChill was his blood, his nervous arm was faint,\nWhile thus he stammer'd forth his lowly plaint:\n\n\"I see it is in vain to strive with fate;\nThank God, my soul is far above thy hate;\nBut, ere my mortal part thou dost destroy,\nLet me one moment of sweet bliss enjoy:\nThe fair unmatch'd Minona is my love,\nFor her I travell'd, fool-like, here above:\nLet me fly to her with my last farewell,\nAnd I am thine, ere morning decks the fell.\"\n\nFirmly the raven holding him in air,\nSurvey'd his prize with fiercely-rabid glare:\n\"Now is the time to wreak on thee my lust;\nYet thou shalt own that I am good and just.\"\nThen from its socket, Harrald's eye he tore,\nAnd drank a full half of the hero's gore:--\n\"Since I have mark'd thee, thou art free to go;\nBut loiter not when thou art there below.\"\n\nYoung Harrald sinks with many a sob and tear,\nDown from the sky to nature's lower sphere:\nHe rested long beneath the poplar tall,\nWhich grew up, under the red church's wall.\nThen, rising slow, he feebly stagger'd on,\nTill his Minona's bower he had won.\nTrembling and sad he stood beside the door--\nPale as a spectre, and besprent with gore!\n\n\"Minona, come, ere Harrald's youthful heart\nIs burst by love and complicated smart.\nSoon will his figure disappear from earth,\nYet we shall meet in heaven's halls of mirth:\nMinona, come and give me one embrace,\nThat I may instantly my path retrace.\"\nThus warbles he in passion's wildest note,\nWhile death each moment rattles in his throat.\n\nMinona came: \"Almighty God!\" she cried,\n\"My Harrald's ghost has wander'd o'er the tide;\nRed clots of blood his yellow tresses streak,\nDrops of the same are running down his cheek.\"\n\"Minona, love, survey me yet more near,\nIt is no shadow which accosts thee here;\nPlace thy warm hand upon my heart, and feel\nWhether it beats for thee with slacken'd zeal.\"\n\nAt once the current of her tears she stopp'd,\nHis arm upheld her, or the maid had dropp'd;\nThe roses faded from her face away,\nAnd on her head the raven locks grew gray.\nAll he had borne, and what he yet must bear,\nHe murmurs to her whilst she trembles there:\nThe hero then with dying ardour press'd,\nFor the last time, his bosom to her breast.\n\n\"Farewell!  Minona, all my fears are flown,\nAnd if I grieve, it is for thee alone:\nGive me a kiss, and give me too a smile,\nAnd let not tears that parting look defile.\nNow will I drink the bitter draught of death,\nAnd yield courageously my forfeit breath:--\nFarewell! may heaven take thee in its care,\"\nHe said, and mounted swiftly in the air.\n\nShe gaz'd; but he had vanish'd from her view;\nShe stood forsaken in the damp and dew,\nThen dark emotion quiver'd in her eye,\nAnd thus she pray'd, with hands uplifted high:\n\"Thou who wert vainly tempted in the wild,\nThou who wert always charitably mild,\nThou who mad'st Peter walk on billows blue,\nEnable me my Harrald to pursue.\"\n\nSunken already was the morning star,\nThe song of nightingales was heard afar,\nThe red sun peep'd above the mountain's brow,\nAnd flowers scented all the vale below.\nThere came a youthful maiden, gaily drest,\nBearing upon her back a feather-vest;\nFondly she kiss'd Minona's features wan,\nGave her the robe, and then at once was gone.\n\nAnd straight Minona clothes in it her limbs,\nAnd soaring upward through the ether swims:\nTo moan and sob, her madden'd breast disdains,\nToo big for such low comfort are its pains.\nThe fowls that meet her in yon airy fields,\nShe clips in pieces with an axe she wields;\nEach clanging pinion ceaselessly she plies,\nBut cannot meet the raven or his prize.\n\nShe hears a faint shriek in the air below,\nAnd, swift as eagle pounces on his foe,\nDown, down, she dropp'd, and lighted on the shore,\nWhich far and wide was wet with Harrald's gore.\nShe smil'd so ruefully, but still was mute--\nHis good right hand was lying at her foot:\nThat pledge of truth, in love's unclouded day,\nWas the sole remnant of the demon's prey.\n\nDeep in her breast she hid the bloody hand,\nAnd bade adieu, for ever, to the land:\nAgain she scower'd through the airy path,\nHer eyeballs terrible with madden'd wrath:\nThe raven-sorcerer at length she spied,\nAnd soon her steel was with his hot blood dyed:\nThe huge black body, piecemeal, found a grave\nAmid the bosom of the briny wave.\n\nThe ocean billows fret and foam no more,\nBut softly rush towards the pebbled shore,\nOn which the lindens stand, in many a group,\nWith leafy boughs that o'er the waters droop.\nThere floats one single cloudlet in the blue,\nClose where the pale moon shows her face anew:\nIt is Minona dying there that flies,--\nShe sinks not!--no--she mounts unto the skies.\n\n\n\n\nFRIDLEIF AND HELGA.\nFROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.\n\n\nThe woods were in leaf, and they cast a sweet shade;\nAmong them walk'd Helga, the beautiful maid.\n\nThe water is dashing o'er yon little stones;\nShe sat down beside it, and rested her bones.\n\nShe sat down, and soon, from a bush that was near,\nSir Fridleif approach'd her with sword and with spear:\n\n\"Ah, pity me, Helga, and fly me not now,\nI live, only live, on the smile of thy brow:\n\n\"In thy father's whole garden is found not a rose,\nWhich bright as thyself, and as beautiful grows.\"\n\n\"Sir Fridleif, thy words are but meant to deceive,\nYet tell me what brings thee so late here at eve.\"\n\n\"I cannot find rest, and I cannot find ease,\nThough sweet sing the linnets among the wild trees;\n\n\"If thou wilt but promise, one day to be mine,\nNo more shall I sorrow, no more shall I pine.\"\n\nShe sank in his arms, and her cheeks were as red\nAs the sun when he sinks in his watery bed;\n\nBut soon she arose from his loving embrace;\nHe walk'd by her side, through the wood, for a space.\n\n\"Now listen, young Fridleif, the gallant and bold,\nTake off from my finger this ring of red gold,\n\nTake off from my finger this ring of red gold,\nAnd part with it not, till in death thou art cold.\"\n\nSir Fridleif stood there in a sorrowful plight,\nSalt tears wet his eyeballs, and blinded his sight.\n\n\"Go home, and I'll come to thy father with speed,\nAnd claim thee from him, on my mighty grey steed.\"\n\nSir Fridleif, at night, through the thick forest rode,\nHe fain would arrive at his lov'd one's abode;\n\nHis harness was clanking, his helm glitter'd sheen,\nHis horse was so swift, and himself was so keen:\n\nHe reach'd the proud castle, and jump'd on the ground,\nHis horse to the branch of a linden he bound;\n\nHe shoulder'd his mantle of grey otter skin,\nAnd through the wide door, to Sir Erik went in.\n\n\"Here sitt'st thou, Sir Erik, in scarlet array'd;\nI've wedded thy daughter, the beautiful maid.\"\n\n\"And who art thou, Rider? what feat hast thou done?\nNo nidering coward shall e'er be my son.\"\n\n\"O far have I wander'd, renown'd is my name,\nThe heroes I conquer'd wherever I came:\n\n\"Han Elland, 't is true, long disputed the ground,\nBut yet he receiv'd from my hand his death-wound.\"\n\nSir Erik then alter'd his countenance quite,\nAnd out hurried he, in the gloom of the night.\n\n\"Fill high, little Kirstin, my best drinking cup,\nAnd be the brown liquor with poison mixt up.\"\n\nShe gave him the draught, and returning with speed,\n\"Young gallant,\" said he, \"thou must taste my old mead.\"\n\nSir Fridleif unbuckled his helmet and drank;\nSweat sprung from his forehead--his features grew blank.\n\n\"I never have drain'd, since the day I was born,\nA bitterer draught, from a costlier horn:\n\n\"My course is completed, my life is summ'd up,\nFor treason I smell in the dregs of the cup.\"\n\nSir Erik then said, while he stamp'd on the ground,\n\"Young knight, 't is thy fortune to die like a hound.\n\n\"My best belov'd friend thou didst boast to have slain,\nAnd I have aveng'd him by giving thee bane:\n\n\"Not Helga, but Hela, {f:1} shall now be thy bride;\nDark blue are her cheeks, and she looks stony-eyed.\"\n\n\"Sir Erik, thy words are both witty and wise,\nAnd hell, when it has thee, will have a rich prize!\n\n\"Convey unto Helga her gold ring so red;\nBe sure to inform her when Fridleif is dead;\n\n\"But flame shall give water, and marble shall bleed,\nBefore thou shalt win by this treacherous deed:\n\n\"And I will not die like a hound, in the straw,\nBut go, like a hero, to Odin and Thor.\"\n\nHe cut himself thrice, with his keen-cutting glaive,\nAnd went to Valhalla, {f:2} the way of the brave.\n\nThe knight bade his daughter come into the room:\n\"Look here, my sweet child, on thy merry bridegroom.\"\n\nShe look'd on the body, and gave a wild start;\n\"O father, why hadst thou so cruel a heart?\"\n\nShe moan'd and lamented, she rav'd and she curst;\nShe look'd on her love, till her very eyes burst.\n\nAt midnight, Sir Erik was standing there mute,\nWith two pallid corses beside his cold foot:\n\nHe stood stiff and still; and when morning-light came,\nHe stood, like a post, without life in his frame.\n\nThe youth and the maid were together interr'd,\nSir Erik could not from his posture be stirr'd:\n\nHe stood there, as stiffly, for thirty long days,\nAnd look'd on the earth with a petrified gaze.\n\n'T is said, on the night of the thirtieth long day,\nTo dust and to ashes he moulder'd away.\n\n\n\n\nSIR MIDDEL.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nSo tightly was Swanelil lacing her vest,\nThat forth spouted milk, from each lily-white breast;\nThat saw the Queen-mother, and thus she begun:\n\"What maketh the milk from thy bosom to run?\"\n\"O this is not milk, my dear mother, I vow;\nIt is but the mead I was drinking just now.\"\n\"Ha! out on thee minion! these eyes have their sight;\nWould'st tell me that mead, in its colour, is white?\"\n\"Well, well, since the proofs are so glaring and strong,\nI own that Sir Middel has done me a wrong.\"\n\"And was he the miscreant? dear shall he pay,\nFor the cloud he has cast on our honour's bright ray;\nI'll hang him up; yes, I will hang him with scorn,\nAnd burn thee to ashes, at breaking of morn.\"\nThe maiden departed in anguish and wo,\nAnd straight to Sir Middel it lists her to go;\nArriv'd at the portal, she sounded the bell,\n\"Now wake thee, love, if thou art living and well.\"\nSir Middel he heard her, and sprang from his bed;\nNot knowing her voice, in confusion he said,\n\"Away: for I have neither candle nor light,\nAnd I swear that no mortal shall enter this night!\"\n\"Now busk ye, Sir Middel, in Christ's holy name;\nI fly from my mother, who knows of my shame;\nShe'll hang thee up; yes, she will hang thee with scorn,\nAnd burn me to ashes, at breaking of morn.\"\n\"Ha! laugh at her threat'nings, so empty and wild;\nShe neither shall hang me, nor burn thee, my child:\nCollect what is precious, in jewels and garb,\nAnd I'll to the stable and saddle my barb.\"\nHe gave her the cloak, that he us'd at his need,\nAnd he lifted her up, on the broad-bosom'd steed.\nThe forest is gain'd, and the city is past,\nWhen her eyes to the heaven she wistfully cast.\n\"What ails thee, dear maid? we had better now stay,\nFor thou art fatigu'd by the length of the way.\"\n\"I am not fatigu'd by the length of the way;\nBut my seat is uneasy, in truth, I must say.\"\nHe spread, on the cold earth, his mantle so wide;\n\"Now rest thee, my love, and I'll watch by thy side.\"\n\"O Jesus, that one of my maidens were near!\nThe pains of a mother are on me, I fear.\"\n\"Thy maidens are now at a distance from thee,\nAnd thou art alone in the forest with me.\"\n\"'Twere better to perish, again and again,\nThan thou should'st stand by me, and gaze on my pain.\"\n\"Then take off thy kerchief, and cover my head,\nAnd perhaps I may stand in the wise-woman's stead.\"\n\"O Christ, that I had but a draught of the wave!\nTo quench my death-thirst, and my temples to lave.\"\nSir Middel was to her so tender and true,\nAnd he fetch'd her the drink in her gold-spangled shoe.\nThe fountain was distant, and when he drew near,\nTwo nightingales sat there and sang in his ear:\n\"Thy love, she is dead, and for ever at rest,\nWith two little babes that lie cold on her breast.\"\nSuch was their song; but he heeded them not,\nAnd trac'd his way back to the desolate spot;\nBut oh, what a spectacle burst on his view!\nFor all they had told him was fatally true.\nHe dug a deep grave by the side of a tree,\nAnd buried therein the unfortunate three.\nAs he clamp'd the mould down with his iron-heel'd boot\nHe thought that the babies scream'd under his foot:\nThen placing his weapon against a grey stone,\nHe cast himself on it, and died with a groan.\nYe maidens of Norway, henceforward beware!\nFor love, when unbridled, will end in despair.\n\n\n\n\nELVIR-SHADES.\nFROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.\n\n\nA sultry eve pursu'd a sultry day;\nDark streaks of purple in the sky were seen,\nAnd shadows half conceal'd the lonely way;\n\nI spurr'd my courser, and more swiftly rode,\nIn moody silence, through the forests green,\nWhere doves and linnets had their lone abode:\n\nIt was my fate to reach a brook, at last,\nWhich, by sweet-scented bushes fenc'd around,\nDefiance bade to heat and nipping blast.\n\nInclin'd to rest, and hear the wild birds' song,\nI stretch'd myself upon that brook's soft bound,\nAnd there I fell asleep and slumber'd long;\n\nAnd only woke, O wonder, to perceive\nA gold-hair'd maiden, as a snowdrop pale,\nHer slender form from out the ground upheave:\n\nThen fear o'ercame me, and this daring heart\nBeat three times audibly against my mail;\nI wish'd to speak, but could no sound impart.\n\nAnd see! another maid rose up and took\nSome drops of water from the foaming rill,\nAnd gaz'd upon me with a wistful look.\n\nSaid she, \"What brings thee to this lonely place?\nBut do not fear, for thou shalt meet no ill;\nThou steel-clad warrior, full of youth and grace.\"\n\n\"No;\" sang the other, in delightful tone,\n\"But thou shalt gaze on prodigies which ne'er\nTo man's unhallow'd eye have yet been shown.\"\n\nThe brook which lately brawl'd among the trees\nStood still, the murmur of that song to hear;\nNo green leaf stirr'd, and fetter'd seem'd the breeze.\n\nThe thrush, upstarting in the distant dell,\nShook its brown wing, with golden streaks array'd,\nAnd ap'd the witch-notes, as they rose and fell.\n\nBright gleam'd the lake's broad sheet of liquid blue,\nWhere, with the rabid pike, the troutling play'd;\nThe rose unlock'd its folded leaves anew,\n\nAnd blush'd, besprinkled with the night's cold tear.\nOnce more the lily rais'd its head and smil'd,\nAll ghastly white, as when it decks the bier.\n\nThough sweet she sang, my fears were not the less,\nFor in her accents there was something wild,\nWhich I can feel, 't is true, but not express.\n\n\"Come with us,\" sang she, \"deep below the earth,\nWhere sun ne'er burns, and storm-winds never rave;\nCome with us to our halls of princely mirth,\n\n\"There thou shalt learn from us the Runic lay;\nBut dip thee, first, in yonder crystal wave,\nWhich binds thee to the Elfin race for aye:\n\n\"Though painted flowers on earth's breast abound,\nYet we have far more lovely ones below;\nLike grass the chrysolites there strew the ground.\"\n\n\"O come,\" the other syren did exclaim,\n\"For rubies there more red than roses grow--\nThe sapphir's blue the violet puts to shame.\"\n\nI rais'd my eyes to heaven's starry dome,\nAnd gripp'd my faulchion with convulsive might,\nResolv'd no witchcraft should my mind o'ercome.\n\nMy lengthen'd silence vex'd the maidens sore:\n\"Wilt thou detain us here the live-long night,\nOr must we, stripling, proffer something more?\n\n\"Taught by us, thou shalt bind the rugged bear,--\nSeize on the mighty dragon's heap of gold,--\nAnd slay the cockatrice while in her lair!\n\n\"But from thy breast the blood we will suck out,\nUnless thou follow us beneath the mould!\nDecide, decide, nor longer pause in doubt!\"\n\nCold sweat I shed, and as, with trembling hand,\nI strove to whirl my beaming faulchion round,\nIt sank, enthrall'd by magic's potent band.\n\nEach witch drew nigh, with dagger high uprear'd;\nJust then a cock, beyond the wild wood's bound,\nCrew loud--and in the earth they disappear'd.\n\nI flung myself upon my frighten'd barb,\nJust as the shades began to grow less murk,\nAnd sun-beams clad the sky in gayer garb.\n\nLet each young warrior from such places fly:\nDisease and death beneath the flowers lurk;\nAnd elves would suck the warm blood from his eye.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEDDYBEE-SPECTRE.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nI clomb in haste my dappled steed,\nAnd gallop'd far o'er mount and mead;\nAnd when the day drew nigh its close,\nI laid me down to take repose.\n\nI laid me down to take repose,\nAnd slumbers sweet fell o'er my brows:\nAnd then, methought, as there I slept,\nFrom out the ground the dead man leapt.\n\nSaid he, \"If thou art valiant, Knight,\nMy murder soon will see the light;\nFor thou wilt ride to Heddybee,\nWhere live my youthful brothers three:\n\n\"And there, too, thou wilt surely find\nMy father dear and mother kind;\nAnd there sits Kate, my much-loved wife,\nWho with her women took my life.\n\n\"They chok'd me, as in bed I lay,\nThen wrapp'd me in a truss of hay;\nAnd bore me out at dead of night,\nAnd laid me in this lonely height.\n\n\"The Groom, who lately clean'd my stall,\nNow struts and vapours through my hall,--\nEats gaily with my silver knife,\nAnd sleeps with Kate, my much-lov'd wife.\n\n\"His place is highest at the board;\nBut what is most to be deplor'd,\nHe gives my babes so little bread,\nAnd mocks them now their sire is dead.\n\n\"Clad in my clothes he proudly stalks\nAlong the shady forest-walks;\nAnd, arm'd with bow and hunting spear,\nHe shoots my birds and stabs my deer.\n\n\"Were I alive, to meet him now,\nAll underneath the linden bough,\nWith no one nigh, my wrath to check,\nI'd wring his head from off his neck!\n\n\"But hie thee hence to Heddybee,\nWhere live my youthful brothers three;\nFirst tell them all--then stab the groom--\nAllow my wife a milder doom.\"\n\n\n\n\nSIR JOHN.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nSir Lave to the island stray'd;\nHe wedded there a lovely maid:\n\"I'll have her yet,\" said John.\n\nHe brought her home across the main,\nWith knights and ladies in the train:\n\"I'm close behind,\" said John.\n\nThey plac'd her on the bridal seat;\nSir Lave bade them drink and eat:\n\"Aye: that we will,\" said John.\n\nThe servants led her then to bed,\nBut could not loose her girdle red!\n\"I can, perhaps,\" said John.\n\nHe shut the door with all his might;\nHe lock'd it fast, and quench'd the light:\n\"I shall sleep here,\" said John.\n\nA servant to Sir Lave hied;--\n\"Sir John is sleeping with the bride:\"\n\"Aye, that I am,\" said John.\n\nSir Lave to the chamber flew:\n\"Arise, and straight the door undo!\"\n\"A likely thing!\" said John.\n\nHe struck with shield, he struck with spear--\n\"Come out, thou Dog, and fight me here!\"\n\"Another time,\" said John.\n\n\"And since thou with my bride hast lain,\nTo our good king I will complain.\"\n\"That thou canst do,\" said John.\n\nAs soon as e'er the morning shone,\nSir Lave sought our monarch's throne;\n\"I'll go there too,\" said John.\n\n\"O King, chastise this wicked wight,\nFor with my wife he slept last night.\"\n\"'T is very true,\" said John.\n\n\"Since ye two love one pretty face,\nYour lances must decide the case.\"\n\"With all my heart,\" said John.\n\nThe sun on high was shining bright,\nAnd thousands came to see the fight:\n\"Lo! here I am:\" said John.\n\nThe first course that they ran so free,\nSir John's horse fell upon his knee:\n\"Now help me God!\" said John.\n\nThe next course that they ran, in ire,\nSir Lave fell among the mire.\n\"He's dead enough!\" said John.\n\nThe victor to the castle hied,\nAnd there in tears he found the bride:\n\"Thou art my own,\" said John.\n\nThat night, forgetting all alarms,\nAgain she blest him in her arms.\n\"I have her now!\" said John.\n\n\n\n\nMAY {f:3} ASDA.\nFROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.\n\n\nMay Asda is gone to the merry green wood;\nLike flax was each tress on her temples that stood;\nHer cheek like the rose-leaf that perfumes the air;\nHer form, like the lily-stalk, graceful and fair:\n\nShe mourn'd for her lover, Sir Frovin the brave,\nFor he had embark'd on the boisterous wave;\nAnd, burning to gather the laurels of war,\nHad sail'd with King Humble to Orkney afar:\n\nAt feast and at revel, wherever she went,\nHer thoughts on his perils and dangers were bent;\nNo joy has the heart that loves fondly and dear--\nNo pleasure save when the lov'd object is near!\n\nMay Asda walk'd out in the bonny noon-tide,\nAnd roam'd where the beeches grew up in their pride;\nShe sat herself down on the green sloping hill,\nWhere liv'd the Erl-people, {f:4} and where they live still:\n\nThen trembled the turf, as she sat in repose,\nAnd straight from the mountain three maidens arose;\nAnd with them a loom, and upon it a woof,\nAs white as the snow when it falls on the roof.\n\nOf red shining gold was the fairy-loom made;\nThey sang and they danc'd, and their swift shuttles play'd;\nTheir song was of death, and their song was of life,\nIt sounded like billows in tumult and strife.\n\nThey gave her the woof, with a sorrowful look,\nAnd vanish'd like bubbles that burst on the brook;\nBut deep in the mountain was heard a sweet strain,\nAs the lady went home to her bower again.\n\nThe web was unfinish'd; she wove and she spun,\nNor rested a moment, until it was done;\nAnd there was enough, when the work was complete,\nTo form for a dead man a shirt or a sheet.\n\nThe heroes return'd from the well-foughten field,\nAnd bore home Sir Frovin's corse, laid on a shield;\nSad sight for the maid! but she still was alert,\nAnd sew'd round the body the funeral shirt:\n\nAnd when she had come to the very last stitch,\nHer feelings, so long suppress'd, rose to a pitch,\nThe cold clammy sweat from her features outbroke;\nDeath struck her, and meekly she bow'd to the stroke.\n\nShe rests with her lover now deep in the grave,\nAnd o'er them the beeches their mossy boughs wave;\nThere sing the Erl-maidens their ditties aloud,\nAnd dance while the merry moon peeps from the cloud.\n\n\n\n\nAAGER AND ELIZA.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nHave ye heard of bold Sir Aager,\nHow he rode to yonder isle;\nThere he saw the sweet Eliza,\nWho upon him deign'd to smile.\n\nThere he married sweet Eliza,\nWith her lands and ruddy gold--\nWo is me! the Monday after,\nDead he lay beneath the mould!\n\nIn her bower sat Eliza;\nRent the air with shriek and groan;\nAll which heard the good Sir Aager,\nUnderneath the granite stone.\n\nUp his mighty limbs he gather'd,\nTook the coffin on his back;\nAnd to fair Eliza's bower\nHasten'd, by the well-known track.\n\nOn her chamber's lowly portal,\nWith his fingers long and thin,\nThrice he tapp'd, and bade Eliza\nStraightway let her bridegroom in!\n\nStraightway answer'd fair Eliza,\n\"I will not undo my door\nTill I hear thee name sweet Jesus,\nAs thou oft hast done before.\"\n\n\"Rise, O rise, my own Eliza,\nAnd undo thy chamber door;\nI can name the name of Jesus,\nAs I once could do before.\"\n\nUp then rose the sweet Eliza,--\nUp she rose, and twirl'd the pin.\nStraight the chamber door flew open,\nAnd the dead man glided in.\n\nWith her comb she comb'd his ringlets,\nFor she felt but little fear:\nOn each lock that she adjusted\nFell a hot and briny tear.\n\n\"Listen, now, my good Sir Aager,\nDearest bridegroom, all I crave\nIs to know how it goes with thee,\nIn that lonely place, the grave?\"\n\n\"Every time that thou rejoicest,\nAnd thy breast with pleasure heaves,\nThen that moment is my coffin\nLin'd with rose and laurel leaves.\n\n\"Every time that thou art shedding\nFrom thine eyes the briny flood,\nThen that moment is my coffin\nFill'd with black and loathsome blood.\n\n\"Heard I not the red cock crowing,\nDistant far upon the wind?\nDown to dust the dead are going,\nAnd I may not stop behind.\n\n\"Heaven's ruddy portals open,--\nDaylight bursts upon my view;\nThough the word be hard to utter,\nI must bid thee, love, adieu!\"\n\nUp his mighty limbs he gather'd,\nTook the coffin on his back,\nTo the church-yard straight he hasten'd\nBy the well-known, beaten, track.\n\nUp then rose the sweet Eliza;\nTear-drops on her features stood,\nWhile her lover she attended\nThrough the dark and dreary wood.\n\nWhen they reach'd the lone enclosure,\n(Last, sad, refuge of the dead)--\nFrom the cheeks of good Sir Aager\nAll the lovely colour fled:\n\n\"Listen, now, my sweet Eliza,\nIf my peace be dear to thee:\nNever, then, from this time forward,\nShed a single tear for me.\n\n\"Turn thy lovely eyes to heaven,\nWhere the stars are beaming pale;\nThou canst tell me, then, for certain,\nIf the night begins to fail.\"\n\nWhen she turn'd her eyes to heaven,\nAll with stars besprinkled o'er,\nIn the earth the dead man glided,\nAnd she never saw him more.\n\nHomeward went the sweet Eliza;\nOh, her heart was chill and cold:--\nWo is me! the Monday after,\nDead she lay beneath the mould!\n\n\n\n\nSAINT OLUF.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nSt. Oluf was a mighty king,\nWho rul'd the Northern land;\nThe holy Christian faith he preach'd,\nAnd taught it, sword in hand.\n\nSt. Oluf built a lofty ship,\nWith sails of silk so fair;\n\"To Hornelummer I must go,\nAnd see what's passing there.\"\n\n\"O do not go,\" the seamen said,\n\"To yonder fatal ground,\nWhere savage Jutts, {f:5} and wicked elves,\nAnd demon sprites, abound.\"\n\nSt. Oluf climb'd the vessel's side;\nHis courage nought could tame!\n\"Heave up, heave up the anchor straight;\nLet's go in Jesu's name.\n\n\"The cross shall be my faulchion now--\nThe book of God my shield;\nAnd, arm'd with them, I hope and trust\nTo make the demons yield.\"\n\nAnd swift, as eagle cleaves the sky,\nThe gallant vessel flew;\nDirect for Hornelummer's rock,\nThrough ocean's wavy blue.\n\n'T was early in the morning tide\nWhen she cast anchor there;\nAnd, lo! the Jutt stood on the cliff,\nTo breathe the morning air:\n\nHis eyes were like the burning beal--\nHis mouth was all awry;\nThe truth I tell, and say he stood\nFull twenty cubits high:\n\nHis beard was like a horse's mane,\nAnd down his bosom roll'd;\nThe claws that fenc'd his finger ends\nWere frightful to behold.\n\n\"I never yet have seen,\" he cried,\n\"A ship come near my strand,\nThat here to shore I could not drag,\nBy putting out my hand.\"\n\nThe good St. Oluf smil'd thereat,\nAnd thus address'd his crew:\n\"Now hold your tongues, and well observe\nWhat I'm about to do.\"\n\nThe giant stretch'd his mighty arm;\nThe ship was nigh his own;\nBut when St. Oluf rais'd the cross,\nHe sank knee-deep in stone.\n\n\"Here am I, sunk knee-deep in stone!\nMy legs I cannot move;\nBut, since my back and fists are free,\nMy might thou yet shalt prove.\"\n\n\"Be still, be still, thou noisy guest--\nBe still for evermore;\nBecome a rock and beetle there,\nAbove the billows hoar.\"\n\nUp started then, from out the hill,\nThe demon's hoary wife;\nShe curs'd the king a thousand times,\nAnd brandish'd high her knife.\n\nSore wonder'd then the little elves,\nWho sat within the hill,\nTo see their mother, all at once,\nStand likewise stiff and still:\n\n\"'T is done,\" they cried, \"by yonder wight,\nWho rides upon the waves;\nLet's wade out to him, through the surf,\nAnd beat him with our staves.\"\n\nAt Hornelummer happen'd then,\nWhat happen'd ne'er before;\nThe elfins wish'd to leave the hill,\nAnd could not find a door:\n\nThey ran their heads against the wall,\nAnd tried to break it through;\nThey could not break the solid rock,\nBut broke their necks in lieu.\n\nNow, thanks to God, and Jesus Christ,\nAnd good St. Oluf's arm,\nTo Hornelummer we can sail\nWithout mishap or harm.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEROES OF DOVREFELD.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nOn Dovrefeld, {f:6} in Norway,\nWere once together seen\nThe twelve heroic brothers\nOf Ingeborg, the queen:\n\nAnd they were all magicians,\nPossest of mighty art,\nWho freely read the Runic,\nAnd knew the rhyme by heart. {f:7}\n\nThe first could turn the lightning,\nAnd quench its ruddy gleam:\nThe second, with a whisper,\nCould still the running stream:\n\nThe third beneath the water\nCould dive like any fish:\nThe fourth could get provision\nBy striking on his dish:\n\nThe fifth upon the gold harp\nSo pleasantly could play,\nThat all the men who heard him\nBegan to dance away:\n\nThe sixth, he had a bugle,\nAnd when he blew a blast,\nThe stoutest of his foemen\nWould fly before him fast:\n\nThe seventh, unimpeded,\nThrough solid hills could roam:\nThe eighth could walk the ocean,\nWhen billows were in foam:\n\nThe ninth could draw, by magic,\nThe fishes from the deep:\nThe tenth was never weary,\nNor overcome by sleep:\n\nThe eleventh bound the dragon\nWhich crept among the grass;\nAnd all he wish'd to happen\nWas sure to come to pass:\n\nThe twelfth, who was reputed\nThe wisest of the band,\nKnew what was going forward\nIn every foreign land.\n\nAnd now, forsooth, I tell ye,\nWho listen to my strain,\nThat such a set of brothers\nWill ne'er be seen again.\n\n\n\n\nSVEND VONVED.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nGrimm, in the preface to his German translation of the Kiaempe Viser,\ncharacterizes this Ballad in the following magnificent words:--\n\n   \"Seltsam ist das Lied von dem Held Vonved.  Unter dem Empfang des\n   Zauberseegens und mit rathselhaften Worten, dass er nie wiederkehre\n   oder dann den Tod seines Vaters rachen musse, reitet er aus.  Lange\n   sieht er keine Stadt und keinen Menschen, dann, wer sich ihm entgegen\n   stelit, den wirft er nieder, den Hirten legt er seine Rathsel vor uber\n   das edelste und abscheuungswurdigste, ubar den Gang der Sonne und die\n   Ruhe des Todten: wer sie nicht Iost, den erschlagt er; trotzig sitzt\n   er unter den Helden, ihre Anerbietungen gefallen ihm nicht, er reitet\n   heim, erschlagt zwolf Zauberweiber, die ihm entgegen kommen, dann\n   seine Mutter, endlich zernichtet er auch sein Saitenspiel, damit kein\n   Wohllaut mehr den wilden Sinn besanftige.  Es scheint dieses Lied vor\n   allen in einer eigenen Bedeutung gedichtet, und den Mismuth eines\n   zerstorten herumirrenden Gemuths anzuzeigen, das seine Rathsel will\n   gelost haben: es ist die Angst eines Menschen darin ausgedruckt, der\n   die Flugel, die er fuhlt, nicht frei bewegen kann, und der, wenn ihn\n   diese Angst peinigt, gegen alles, auch gegen sein Liebstes, wuthen\n   muss.  Dieser Charakter scheint dem Norden gantz eigenthumlich; in dem\n   seltsamen Leben Konigs Sigurd des Jerusalemfahrers, auch in\n   Shakspeare's Hamlet ist etwas ahnliches.\"\n\n   \"Singular is the song of the hero Vonved.  After having received the\n   magic blessing, he rides out, darkly hinting that he must never\n   return, or have avenged the death of his father.  For a long time he\n   sees no city and no man; he then overthrows whomsoever opposes him; he\n   lays his enigmas before the herdsmen, concerning that which is most\n   grand, and that which is most horrible; concerning the course of the\n   sun and the repose of the dead; he who cannot explain them is\n   slaughtered.  Haughtily he sits among the heroes--their invitations do\n   not please him--he rides home--slays twelve sorceresses who come\n   against him--then his mother, and at last he demolishes his harp, so\n   that no sweet sound shall in future soften his wild humour.  This\n   song, more than any of the rest, seems to be composed with a meaning\n   of its own; and shows the melancholy of a ruined, wandering mind,\n   which will have its enigmas cleared up!  The anguish of a man is\n   expressed therein, who cannot move freely the wings which he feels;\n   and, who, when this anguish torments him, is forced to deal out\n   destruction against all--even against his best-beloved.  Such a\n   character seems to be quite the property of the North.  In the strange\n   life of King Sigurd, the wanderer to Jerusalem, and likewise in\n   Shakspeare's Hamlet, there is something similar.\"\n\nSvend Vonved sits in his lonely bower;\nHe strikes his harp with a hand of power;\nHis harp return'd a responsive din;\nThen came his mother hurrying in:\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nIn came his mother Adeline,\nAnd who was she, but a queen, so fine:\n\"Now hark, Svend Vonved! out must thou ride,\nAnd wage stout battle with knights of pride.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Avenge thy father's untimely end;\nTo me, or another, thy gold harp lend;\nThis moment boune {f:8} thee, and straight begone!\nI rede {f:9} thee, do it, my own dear son.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved binds his sword to his side;\nHe fain will battle with knights of pride.\n\"When may I look for thee once more here?\nWhen roast the heifer, and spice the beer?\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"When stones shall take, of themselves, a flight,\nAnd ravens' feathers are woxen {f:10} white,\nThen may'st thou expect Svend Vonved home:\nIn all my days, I will never come.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHis mother took that in evil part:\n\"I hear, young gallant, that mad thou art;\nWherever thou goest, on land or sea,\nDisgrace and shame shall attend on thee.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe kiss'd her thrice, with his lips of fire:\n\"Appease, O mother, appease thine ire;\nNe'er wish me any mischance to know,\nFor thou canst not tell how far I may go.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Then I will bless thee, this very day;\nThou never shalt perish in any fray;\nSuccess shall be in thy courser tall;\nSuccess in thyself, which is best of all.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Success in thy hand, success in thy foot,\nIn struggle with man, in battle with brute;\nThe holy God and Saint Drotten {f:11} dear\nShall guide and watch thee through thy career.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"They both shall take thee beneath their care,\nThen surely thou never shalt evily fare:\nSee yonder sword of steel so white,\nNo helm nor shield shall resist its bite.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved took up the word again--\n\"I'll range the mountain, and rove the plain,\nPeasant and noble I'll wound and slay;\nAll, all, for my father's wrong shall pay.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved bound his sword to his side,\nHe fain will battle with knights of pride;\nSo fierce and strange was his whole array,\nNo mortal ventur'd to cross his way.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHis helm was blinking against the sun,\nHis spurs were clinking his heels upon, . . .\nHis horse was springing, with bridle ringing,\nWhile sat the warrior wildly singing.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe rode a day, he rode for three,\nNo town nor city he yet could see;\n\"Ha!\" said the youth, \"by my father's hand,\nThere is no city in all this land.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe rode and lilted, he rode and sang,\nThen met he by chance Sir Thule Vang;\nSir Thule Vang, with his twelve sons bold,\nAll cas'd in iron, the bright and cold.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved took his sword from his side,\nHe fain would battle with knights so tried;\nThe proud Sir Thule he first ran through,\nAnd then, in succession, his sons he slew.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved binds his sword to his side,\nIt lists him farther to ride, to ride;\nHe rode along by the grene shaw; {f:12}\nThe Brute-carl {f:13} there with surprise he saw.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nA wild swine sat on his shoulders broad,\nUpon his bosom a black bear snor'd;\nAnd about his fingers, with hair o'erhung,\nThe squirrel sported, and weasel clung.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Now, Brute-carl, yield thy booty to me,\nOr I will take it by force from thee.\nSay, wilt thou quickly thy beasts forego,\nOr venture with me to bandy a blow?\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Much rather, much rather, I'll fight with thee,\nThan thou my booty should'st get from me;\nI never was bidden the like to do,\nSince good King Esmer in fight I slew.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"And did'st thou slay King Esmer fine?\nWhy, then thou slewest dear father mine;\nAnd soon, full soon, shalt thou pay for him,\nWith the flesh hackt off from thy every limb!\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nThey drew a circle upon the sward;\nThey both were dour, as the rocks are hard;\nForsooth, I tell you, their hearts were steel'd,--\nThe one to the other no jot would yield.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nThey fought for a day,--they fought for two,--\nAnd so on the third they were fain to do;\nBut ere the fourth day reach'd the night,\nThe Brute-carl fell, and was slain outright.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved binds his sword to his side,\nFarther and farther he lists to ride:\nHe rode at the foot of a hill so steep,\nThere saw he a herd as he drove the sheep.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Now tell me, Herd, and tell me fair,\nWhose are the sheep thou art driving there?\nAnd what is rounder than a wheel?\nAnd where do they eat the holiest meal?\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Where does the fish stand up in the flood?\nAnd where is the bird that's redder than blood?\nWhere do they mingle the best, best, wine?\nAnd where with his knights does Vidrik dine?\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nThere sat the herd, he sat in thought;\nTo ne'er a question he answer'd aught.\nSvend gave him a stroke, a stroke so sore,\nThat his lung and his liver came out before.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nOn, on went he, till more sheep he spied;\nThe herd sat, too, by a deep pit's side.\n\"Now tell me, Herd, and tell me fair,\nWhose are the sheep thou art tending there?\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"See yonder house, with turret and tower,\nThere feasting serves to beguile the hour;\nThere dwells a man, Tygge Nold by name,\nWith his twelve fair sons, who are knights of fame.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Enough, Sir Herd; now lend an ear--\nGo, tell Tygge Nold to come out here.\"\nFrom his breast Svend Vonved a gold ring drew;\nAt the foot of the herd the gold ring he threw.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nAnd as Svend Vonved approach'd the spot,\nHis booty among them they 'gan to allot.\nSome would have his polish'd glaive,\nOthers, his harness, or courser brave.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved stops, in reflection deep;\nHe thought it best he his horse should keep:\nHis hauberk and faulchion he will not lose,\nMuch rather to fight the youth will choose.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Had'st thou twelve sons to the twelve thou hast,\nAnd cam'st in the midst of them charging me fast,\nSooner should'st thou wring water from steel,\nThan thou in such fashion with me should'st deal.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe prick'd with his spur his courser tall,\nWhich sprang, at once, over the gate and wall.\nTygge Nold there he has stretch'd in blood,\nAnd his twelve sons too, that beside him stood.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nThen turn'd he his steed, in haste, about,--\nSvend Vonved, the knight, so youthful and stout;\nForward he went o'er mountain and moor,\nNo mortal he met, which vex'd him sore.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe came, at length, to another flock,\nWhere a herd sat combing his yellow lock:\n\"Now listen, Herd, with the fleecy care;\nListen, and give me answers fair.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"What is rounder than a wheel?\nWhere do they eat the holiest meal?\nWhere does the sun go down to his seat?\nAnd where do they lay the dead man's feet?\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"What fills the valleys one and all?\nWhat is cloth'd best in the monarch's hall?\nWhat cries more loud than cranes can cry?\nAnd what can in whiteness the swan outvie?\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Who on his back his beard does wear?\nWho 'neath his chin his nose does bear?\nWhat's more black than the blackest sloe?\nAnd what is swifter than a roe?\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Where is the bridge that is most broad?\nWhat is, by man, the most abhorr'd?\nWhere leads, where leads, the highest road up?\nAnd say, where the hottest of drink they sup.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"The sun is rounder than a wheel.\nThey eat at the altar the holiest meal.\nThe sun in the West goes down to his seat:\nAnd they lay to the East the dead man's feet.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Snow fills the valleys, one and all.\nMan is cloth'd best in the monarch's hall.\nThunder cries louder than cranes can cry.\nAngels in whiteness the swan outvie.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"His beard on his back the lapwing wears.\nHis nose 'neath his chin the elfin bears. {f:14}\nMore black is sin than the blackest sloe:\nAnd thought is swifter than any roe.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Ice is, of bridges, the bridge most broad.\nThe toad is, of all things, the most abhorr'd.\nTo paradise leads the highest road up:\nAnd in hell the hottest of drink they sup.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Now hast thou given me answers fair,\nTo each and all of my questions rare;\nAnd now, I pray thee, be my guide,\nTo the nearest spot where warriors bide.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"To Sonderborg I'll show thee straight,\nWhere drink the heroes early and late:\nThere thou wilt find of knights a crew,\nHaughty of heart, and hard to subdue.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nWith a bright gold ring was his arm array'd,\nFull fifteen pounds that gold ring weigh'd,\nThat has he given the herd, for a meed,\nBecause he will show him the knights with speed.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved enter'd the castle yard;\nThere Randulph, wrapt in his skins, {f:15} kept guard:\n\"Ho! Caitiff, ho! with shield and brand,\nWhat art thou doing in this my land?\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"I will, I will, with my single hand,\nTake from thee, Knave, the whole of thy land:\nI will, I will, with my single toe,\nLay thee and each of thy castles low.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Thou shalt not, with thy single hand,\nTake from me, Hound, an inch of my land;\nAnd far, far less, shalt thou, with thy toe,\nLay me or one of my castles low.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Thou shalt not e'er, with finger of thine,\nStrike asunder one limb of mine; {f:16}\nI am for thee too woxen and stark,\nAs thou, to thy cost, shalt quickly mark.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved unsheath'd his faulchion bright,\nWith haughty Randulph he fain will fight;\nRandulph he there has slain in his might,\nAnd Strandulph too, with full good right.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nThe rest against him came out pell-mell,\nThen slew he Carl Ege, the fierce and fell:--\nHe slew the great, he slew the small;\nHe slew till his foes were slaughter'd all.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved binds his sword to his side,\nIt lists him farther to ride, to ride;\nHe found upon the desolate wold\nA burly {f:17} knight, of aspect bold.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Now tell me, Rider, noble and good,\nWhere does the fish stand up in the flood?\nWhere do they mingle the best, best wine?\nAnd where with his knights does Vidrik dine?\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"The fish in the East stands up in the flood.\nThey drink in the North the wine so good.\nIn Halland's hall does Vidrik dine,\nWith his swains around, and his warriors fine.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nFrom his breast Svend Vonved a gold ring drew;\nAt the foot of the knight the gold ring he threw:\n\"Go! say thou wert the very last man\nWho gold from the hand of Svend Vonved wan.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved came where the castle rose;\nHe bade the watchmen the gate unclose:\nAs none of the watchmen obey'd his cry,\nHe sprang at once over the ramparts high.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe tied his steed to a ring in the wall,\nThen in he went to the wide stone hall;\nDown he sat at the head of the board,\nTo no one present he utter'd a word.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe drank and he ate, he ate and he drank,\nHe ask'd no leave, and return'd no thank;\n\"Ne'er have I been on Christian ground\nWhere so many curst tongues were clanging round.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nKing Vidrik spoke to good knights three:\n\"Go, bind that lowering swain for me;\nShould ye not bind the stranger guest,\nYe will not serve me as ye can best.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Should'st thou send three, and twenty times three,\nAnd come thyself to lay hold of me;\nThe son of a dog thou wilt still remain,\nAnd yet to bind me have tried in vain.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Esmer, my father, who lies on his bier,\nAnd proud Adeline, my mother so dear,\nOft and strictly have caution'd me\nTo waste no breath upon hounds like thee.\"\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"And was King Esmer thy father's name,\nAnd Adeline that of his virtuous Dame?\nThou art Svend Vonved, the stripling wild,\nMy own dear sister's only child.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Svend Vonved, wilt thou bide with me here?\nHonour awaits thee, and costly cheer;\nWhenever it lists thee abroad to wend,\nUpon thee shall knights and swains attend.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\"Silver and gold thou never shalt lack,\nOr helm to thy head, or mail to thy back;\"\nBut to this and the like he would lend no ear,\nAnd home to his mother he now will steer.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nSvend Vonved gallop'd along the way;\nTo fancies dark was his mind a prey:\nRiding he enter'd the castle yard\nWhere stood twelve witches wrinkled and scarr'd:\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nThere stood they all, with spindle and rok, {f:18}--\nEach over the shinbone gave him a knock:\nSvend turn'd his steed, in fury, round;\nThe witches he there has hew'd to the ground.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nHe hew'd the witches limb from limb,\nSo little mercy they got from him;\nHis mother came out, and was serv'd the same,\nInto fifteen pieces he hackt her frame.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\nThen in he went to his lonely bower,\nThere drank he the wine, the wine of power:\nHis much-lov'd harp he play'd upon\nTill the strings were broken, every one.\n   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOURNAMENT.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nThis is one of those Ballads which, from the days of Arild, have been\nmuch sung in Denmark: we find in it the names and bearings of most of\nthose renowned heroes, who are mentioned separately in other poems.  It\ndivides itself into two parts;--the first, which treats of the warrior's\nbearings, has a great resemblance to the 178th chapter of the Vilkina\nSaga, as likewise has the last part, wherein the Duel is described, to\nthe 180th and 181st chapters of the same.\n\nI cannot here forbear quoting and translating what Anders Sorensen Vedel,\nthe good old Editor of the first Edition of the Kiaempe Viser, which\nappeared in 1591, says concerning the apparently superhuman performances\nof the heroes therein celebrated.\n\n   \"Hvad ellers Kiaempernes Storlemhed Styrke og anden Vilkaar berorer,\n   som overgaaer de Menneskers der nu leve deres Vaext og Kraft, det\n   Stykke kan ikke her noksom nu forhandles, men skal i den Danske\n   Kronikes tredie Bog videligere omtales.  Thi det jo i Sandhed befindes\n   og bevises af adskillige Documenter og Kundskab, at disse gamle\n   Hellede, som de kaldes, have levet fast laenger, og vaeret mandeligere\n   storre staerkere og hoiere end den gemene Mand er, som nu lever paa\n   denne Dag.\"\n\n   \"That part which relates to these Warriors' size, strength, or other\n   qualities, so far surpassing the stature and powers of the men who now\n   exist, cannot be here sufficiently treated upon, but shall be further\n   discussed in the third Book of the Danish Chronicles: for, in truth,\n   it is discovered and proved from various documents and sources, that\n   these old heroes, as they are called, lived much longer, and were\n   manlier, stouter, stronger, and taller, than man at the present day.\"\n\nSix score there were, six score and ten,\n   From Hald that rode that day;\nAnd when they came to Brattingsborg\n   They pitch'd their pavilion gay.\n\nKing Nilaus stood on the turret's top,\n   Had all around in sight:\n\"Why hold those heroes their lives so cheap,\n   That it lists them here to fight?\n\n\"Now, hear me, Sivard Snaresvend;\n   Far hast thou rov'd, and wide,\nThose warriors' weapons thou shalt prove,\n   To their tent thou must straightway ride.\"\n\nIt was Sivard Snaresvend,\n   To the broad tent speeded he then:\n\"I greet ye fair, in my master's name,\n   All, all, ye Dane king's men.\n\n\"Now, be not wroth that here I come;\n   I come as a warrior, free:\nThe battle together we soon will prove;\n   Let me your bearings see.\"\n\nThere stands upon the first good shield\n   A lion, so fierce and stark,\nWith a crown on his head, of the ruddy gold,\n   That is King Diderik's mark.\n\nThere shine upon the second shield\n   A hammer and pincers bright;\nThem carries Vidrik Verlandson,\n   Ne'er gives he quarter in fight.\n\nThere shines upon the third good shield\n   A falcon, blazing with gold;\nAnd that by Helled Hogan is borne;\n   No knight, than he, more bold.\n\nThere shines upon the fourth good shield\n   An eagle, and that is red;\nIs borne by none but Olger, the Dane;\n   He strikes his foemen dead.\n\nThere shines upon the fifth good shield\n   A couchant hawk, on a wall;\nThat's borne by Master Hildebrand;\n   He tries, with heroes, a fall.\n\nAnd now comes forth the sixth good shield\n   A linden is thereupon;\nAnd that by young Sir Humble is borne,\n   King Abelon's eldest son.\n\nThere shines upon the seventh good shield\n   A spur, of a fashion so free;\nAnd that is borne by Hogan, the less,\n   Because he will foremost be.\n\nThere shines upon the eighth good shield\n   A gray wolf, meagre and gaunt;\nIs borne by youthful Ulf van Jern;\n   Beware how him you taunt!\n\nThere shine upon the ninth good shield\n   Three arrows, and white are they;\nAre borne by Vidrik Stageson,\n   And trust that gallant you may.\n\nThere shines upon the tenth good shield\n   A fiddle, and 'neath it a bow;\nThat's borne by Folker Spillemand;\n   For drink he will sleep forego.\n\nThere shines upon the eleventh shield\n   A dragon that looks so dire;\nIs carried by Orm, the youthful swain;\n   He trembles at no man's ire.\n\nAnd, now, behold the twelfth good shield,\n   And upon it a burning brand;\nIs borne by stout Sir Vifferlin\n   Through many a prince's land.\n\nThere stands upon the thirteenth shield\n   A sprig of the mournful yew;\nThat's borne by Harrald Griskeson;\n   And he's a comrade true.\n\nThere stand upon the fourteenth shield\n   A cloak, and a mighty staff;\nAnd them bore Alsing, the stalwart monk,\n   When he beat his foes to chaff.\n\nAnd now comes forth the fifteenth shield,\n   And upon it three naked blades\nAre borne by good King Esmer's sons,\n   In their wars and furious raids.\n\nThere stands upon the sixteenth shield,\n   With coal-black pinion, a crow;\nThat's borne by rich Count Raadengaard;\n   The dark Runes well can he throw. {f:19}\n\nThere shines upon the seventeenth shield\n   A horse, so stately and high,\nIs borne by Count Sir Guncelin;\n   \"Slay! slay! bide not,\" is his cry.\n\nThere shine upon the eighteenth shield\n   A man, and a fierce wild boar,\nAre borne by the Count of Lidebierg;\n   His blows fall heavy and sore.\n\nThere shines upon the nineteenth shield\n   A hound, at the stretch of his speed;\nIs borne by Oisten Kiaempe, bold;\n   He risks his neck without heed.\n\nThere shines upon the twentieth shield,\n   Among branches, a rose, so gay;\nWherever Sir Nordman comes in war,\n   He bears bright honour away.\n\nThere shines on the one-and-twentieth shield\n   A vase, and of copper 't is made;\nThat's borne by Mogan Sir Olgerson;\n   He wins broad lands with his blade.\n\nAnd now comes forth the next good shield,\n   With a sun dispelling the mirk;\nAnd that by Asbiorn Milde is borne;\n   He sets the knights' backs at work. {f:20}\n\nThere shines on the three-and-twentieth shield\n   An arm, in a manacle bound;\nAnd that by Alvor Sir Lange is borne,\n   To the heroes he hands mead round.\n\nNow comes the four-and-twentieth shield,\n   And a bright sword there you see;\nAnd that by Humble Sir Jerfing is borne;\n   Full worthy of that is he.\n\nThere shines upon the next good shield\n   A goss-hawk, striking his game;\nThat's borne by a knight, the best of all--\n   Sir Iver Blaa is his name.\n\nNow comes the six-and-twentieth shield,\n   A jav'lin there you spy;\nIs borne by little Mimring Tan;\n   From no one will he fly.\n\nSuch knights and bearings as were there,\n   And who can them all relate;\nIt was Sivard, the Snaresvend;\n   No longer he deign'd to wait.\n\n\"If there be one of the Dane king's men,\n   Who at Dyst {f:21} is willing to ride,\nLet him, I pray, without pause or delay,\n   Meet me by the wild wood's side.\n\n\"The man among you, ye Danish court men,\n   Who at Dyst has won most meeds;\nHim I am ready to fight, this day,\n   For both of our noble steeds.\"\n\nThe heroes cast the die on the board;\n   The die it roll'd so wide:\n\"Since, young Sir Humble, it stops by thee,\n   'Gainst Sivard thou must ride.\"\n\nSir Humble struck his hand on the board;\n   No longer he lists to play:\nI tell you, forsooth, that the rosy hue\n   From his cheek fast faded away.\n\n\"Now, hear me, Vidrik Verlandson;\n   Thou art so free a man;\nDo lend me Skimming, thy horse, this day;\n   I'll pledge for him what I can:\n\n\"Eight good castles, in Birting's land,\n   As pledges for him I'll set;\nMy sister too, the lily-cheek'd maid,\n   A fairer thou ne'er hast met:\n\n\"Eight good castles, and eight good knights;\n   I'd scorn to offer thee less:\nIf Skimming should meet any hurt this day,\n   My sister thou shalt caress.\"\n\n\"If yonder mountains all were gold,\n   And yonder streams were wine;\nThe whole for Skimming I would not take;\n   I bless God he is mine.\n\n\"Sivard is a purblind swain;\n   Sees not to his faulchion's end:\nIf Skimming were hurt thou couldst not pay me\n   With the help of thy every friend.\n\n\"The sword it whirls in Sivard's hand,\n   As whirl the sails of the mill;\nIf thou take Skimming 'gainst that wild fool,\n   'T is sorely against my will.\"\n\nHumble, he sat him on Skimming's back,\n   So gallantly can he ride;\nBut Skimming thought it passing strange\n   That a spur was clapt to his side.\n\nThe first course that together they rode,\n   So strong were the knightly two,\nAsunder went Humble's saddle-ring,\n   And a furlong his good shield flew.\n\n\"Methinks thou art a fair young swain,\n   And well thy horse canst ride;\nDismount thee, straight, and gird up thy steed;\n   I am willing for thee to bide.\"\n\nThe second course that together they rode\n   Was worthy of knights renown'd;\nThen both their saddles burst in two,\n   And Humble was sent to the ground.\n\n\"Now have I cast thee from thy steed,\n   Thy courser by right is mine;\nBut, tell me, youthful and gallant swain,\n   Who art thou, and of what line?\n\n\"Now have I won from thee the prize,\n   And Skimming belongs to me;\nBut, tell me, youthful and gallant swain,\n   What parents gave birth to thee?\"\n\n\"Abelon is my father's name;\n   He sits upon Birting's throne:\nQueen Ellina my mother is,\n   And that for truth is known.\n\n\"Queen Ellina my mother is--\n   A Queen whom all admire;\nGood King Abelon Haardestaal,\n   So call they my hoary sire.\n\n\"And who am I, but Humble, the young,\n   A knight of Birting's land;\nOf hero race, whose fame extends\n   To the wide earth's farthest strand.\"\n\n\"If Abelon be thy father's name,\n   The courser I straight restore;\nThou art, I find, my very good friend;\n   I knew thee not, youth, before.\n\n\"If Queen Ellina thy mother is,\n   Then Skimming thou hast rewon;\nThou art, indeed, my very good friend;\n   Thou art my sister's son.\n\n\"Take both the shield ropes, take them straight,\n   And bind me to yon oak tree;\nThen hie thee back to King Diderik,\n   And say thou hast conquer'd me.\"\n\nIn came Humble, the youthful knight,\n   Was clad in a kirtle, green;\n\"O!  I have got my courser again,\n   And have bound the warrior keen.\"\n\nIn came Humble, with boot and spur,\n   He cast on the table his sword:\n\"Sivard stands in the green wood bound,\n   He speaks not a single word.\n\n\"O, I have been to the wild forest,\n   And have seiz'd the warrior stark;\nSivard there was taken by me,\n   And tied to the oak's rough bark.\"\n\n\"Now hear me, young Sir Humble, the knight,\n   'T is plain a jest is meant,\nWhenever Sivard was bound by thee,\n   'T was done with his own consent.\"\n\nIt was Vidrik Verlandson,\n   And he would fain know all.\n\"O, I will ride to the wood, and see\n   How Sivard endures his thrall.\"\n\nVidrik spoke to his burly groom:\n   \"Go, saddle me Skimming gray,\nFor I will ride to the wood, and hear\n   What Sivard himself will say.\"\n\nSivard stands in the good green wood,\n   There sees he Vidrik ride:\n\"If Vidrik finds me bounden here,\n   He'll hew my rib-bones from my side.\"\n\nThen loud laugh'd Vidrik Verlandson,\n   And Skimming began to neigh,\nFor Sivard rooted the oak tree up;\n   He dar'd no longer stay.\n\nThe queen she sat in the high, high, loft,\n   And thence look'd far and wide:\n\"O there comes Sivard Snaresvend,\n   With a stately oak at his side.\"\n\nThen loud laugh'd fair Queen Gloriant,\n   As she look'd on Sivard full:\n\"Thou wert, no doubt, in great, great need,\n   When thou such flowers didst pull.\"\n\nThe King he stood at the castle gate,\n   In his robes and kingly crown:\n\"O there comes Sivard Snaresvend,\n   And he brings us Summer to town.\"{f:22}\n\nNow dance the heroes by Brattingsborg;\n   They dance in their coats of felt;\nThere dances Sivard, the purblind swain,\n   With an oak tree under his belt.\n\n\n\n\nVIDRIK VERLANDSON.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nKing Diderik sits in the halls of Bern,\n   And he boasts of his deeds of might;\nSo many a swain in battle he's fell'd,\n   And taken so many a knight.\n\nKing Diderik sits in the halls of Bern,\n   And he strikes his moony shield;\n\"O, would that I knew of a hero now,\n   'Gainst whom I could take the field.\"\n\nThen answer'd Master Hildebrand,\n   (For he knew all things best,)\n\"There sleeps a Giant at Birtingsberg;\n   Dar'st thou disturb his rest?\"\n\n\"Now, hear me, Master Hildebrand;\n   Thou art huge in body and limb;\nThou foremost shall ride, in the wood, this day,\n   And bear our challenge to him.\"\n\nThen answer'd Master Hildebrand,\n   So careful a knight was he;\n\"Not so, my Lord, will I do, this day,\n   For the wages delight not me.\"\n\nThen out spoke Vidrik Verlandson,\n   And he spoke in wrathful mood;\n\"O, I'll be first of the band, this day,\n   All through the Birting wood.\"\n\nThen out spoke Vidrik Verlandson,\n   And he spoke with lofty pride;\n\"The smith he forg'd me a faulchion good,\n   That can steel, like cloth, divide.\"\n\nThey were three hundred valorous knights,\n   Unto Birting's land that rode;\nThey go in quest of Langben the Jutt,\n   To the gloomy wood, his abode.\n\nThen out spoke Vidrik Verlandson;\n   \"A wondrous game we'll play;\nFor I will ride in the green wood first,\n   If ye'll but trust me away.\"\n\nThen answer'd bold King Diderik,\n   He answer'd hastily then;\n\"When thou therein shalt have found the Jutt\n   Come back for me and my men.\"\n\nIt was Vidrik Verlandson,\n   In the forest alone he sped;\nAnd there he found so little a way,\n   Which up to the Giant led.\n\nIt was Vidrik Verlandson,\n   He came unto Birting's hill;\nThere black and dread lay Langben the Jutt,\n   He lay stretch'd out, and still.\n\nIt was Vidrik Verlandson,\n   With his lance touch'd him on the knee;\n\"Wake up! wake up! now Langben the Jutt,\n   Thou sleepest full sound, I see.\"\n\n\"Here have I lain, for many a year,\n   'Mid the leaf and the dew-wet herb;\nBut never, till now, came a warrior by,\n   That has dar'd my sleep to disturb.\"\n\n\"Here stand I, Vidrik Verlandson,\n   With a sword, so good, at my side;\nI came to wake thee up from thy sleep,\n   Betide whatever betide.\"\n\nIt was Langben the Giant, then,\n   Turn'd up the white of his eye;\n\"O, whence can come this warrior youth,\n   Who such bold words lets fly?\n\n\"But hear, but hear, thou warrior youth;\n   I will not do battle with thee,\nExcept thou prove of a knightly race;\n   So thy lineage tell to me.\"\n\n\"A handsome smith my father was,\n   And Verland hight was he:\nBodild they call'd my mother fair;\n   Queen over countries three:\n\n\"Skimming I call my noble steed,\n   Begot from the wild sea-mare:\nBlank {f:23} do I call my haughty helm,\n   Because it glitters so fair:\n\n\"Skrepping I call my good thick shield;\n   Steel shafts have furrow'd it o'er:\nMimmering have I nam'd my sword;\n   'T is harden'd in heroes' gore:\n\n\"And I am Vidrik Verlandson;\n   For clothes bright iron I wear:\nStand'st thou not up on thy long, long legs,\n   I'll pin thee down to thy lair:\n\n\"Do thou stand up on thy long, long legs,\n   Nor look so dogged and grim;\nThe King holds out before the wood;\n   Thou shalt yield thy treasure to him.\"\n\n\"All, all the gold that I possess,\n   I will keep with great renown;\nI'll yield it at no little horse-boy's word,\n   To the best king wearing a crown.\"\n\n\"So young and little as here I seem,\n   Thou shalt find me prompt in a fray;\nI'll hew the head from thy shoulders off,\n   And thy much gold bear away.\"\n\nIt was Langben the mighty Jutt,\n   With fury his heart was fir'd;\n\"Ride hence! ride hence! thou warrior youth,\n   If of life thou be not tir'd.\"\n\nSkimming sprang up, with both his legs,\n   Against the giant's side\nAsunder went five of his rib-bones then,\n   And the fight began at that tide.\n\nIt was Langben the lofty Jutt,\n   He wav'd his steel mace round;\nHe sent a blow after Vidrik;\n   But the mace struck deep in the ground.\n\nIt was Langben the lofty Jutt,\n   Who had thought his foeman to slay,\nBut the blow fell short of Vidrik;\n   For the good horse bore him away.\n\nIt was Langben the lofty Jutt,\n   That shouted in wild despair:\n\"Now lies my mace in the hillock fast,\n   As though 't were hammer'd in there!\"\n\nVidrik paus'd no moment's space;\n   So ready was he to assail:\n\"Upon him, Skimming, upon him once more!\n   Now, Mimmering, now prevail!\"\n\nHe seiz'd his sword in both his hands,\n   Unto Langben Giant he flew;\nHe struck him so hard in the hairy breast,\n   That the point his lungs went through.\n\nNow Langben Giant has got a wound,\n   And he's waken'd thoroughly now;\nSo gladly would he have paid it back,\n   But, alas! he knew not how.\n\n\"Accursed be thou, young Vidrik!\n   And accurs'd thy piercing steel!\nThou hast given me, see, a wound in my breast,\n   Whence rise the pains I feel.\"\n\n\"I'll hew thee, Giant, I'll hew thee as small\n   As leaves that are borne on the blast,\nExcept thou showest me all the gear,\n   That hid in the forest thou hast.\"\n\n\"Forbear, O Vidrik Verlandson,\n   Strike me not cruelly dead!\nAnd I will lead thee straight to my house,\n   That's thatch'd with gold so red.\"\n\nVidrik rode, and the Giant crept,\n   So far through the forest ways,\nThey found the house with the red gold thatch'd;\n   It glitter'd like straw in a blaze.\n\n\"Therein, therein are heaps of gold,\n   No King has a greater store;\nDo thou remove the big black stone,\n   And lift from the hinges the door.\"\n\nWith both hands Vidrik seiz'd the stone,\n   But to stir it in vain did he try;\nThe Giant took it with finger and thumb,\n   And lifted it up in the sky.\n\n\"Now hear, now hear, thou warrior youth,\n   Thou canst wheel thy courser about;\nBut in every feat of manly strength\n   I could beat thee out and out.\"\n\nThen answer'd Vidrik Verlandson,\n   (He fear'd for himself some ill)\n\"'T is not the custom of any wise man\n   His strength on a stone to spill.\"\n\n\"Therein, therein is much more gold\n   Than fifteen kings can show;\nHear me, Vidrik Verlandson,\n   Thou therein first shalt go.\"\n\nThen answer'd Vidrik Verlandson,\n   (For his cunning intent he saw)\n\"Thou shalt lead the way into thine own house,\n   For that is warrior-law.\"\n\nIt was Langben the Giant then,\n   To the door he stoop'd down low:\nIt was Vidrik Verlandson\n   Cleft off his head at a blow.\n\nAway the quivering body he drew,\n   And propp'd it against an oak;\nThen back he rode the long, long way,\n   He's thought of a wondrous joke.\n\nWith giant's blood he besmear'd himself,\n   And besmear'd his steed all o'er;\nThen back he rides to King Diderik,\n   Pretends to be wounded sore.\n\n\"Here bide ye in peace, my companions good,\n   All under the grass-green hill;\nLangben the Giant has smote me to day,\n   I doubt I shall fare but ill.\"\n\n\"If thou from the Giant hast got a blow,\n   Thy life must be nigh its close;\nWe'll ride swift back to the halls of Bern,\n   No man more will we lose.\"\n\n\"Now wend thee, bold King Diderik,\n   Wend into the wood with me;\nAnd all the gold that the giant had,\n   That will I show to thee.\"\n\n\"If thou hast slain the giant this day,\n   'T will far be blaz'd in the land;\nAnd the warrior lives not in this world,\n   'Gainst whom thou may'st fear to stand.\"\n\nBut what befel King Diderik's men?\n   When the giant they first perceiv'd,\nThey all stopp'd short, in the good green wood,\n   Of courage at once bereav'd.\n\nThey thought the giant verily would\n   That moment after them stride:\nNot one of them all would have battled with him;\n   Back would they all have hied.\n\nIt was Vidrik Verlandson,\n   He laugh'd at their craven fear:\n\"How would ye have fac'd him when alive,\n   Ye dare not him, dead, go near?\n\nWith his lance's haft the body he push'd,\n   The head came toppling down:\nThat the Giant was a warrior stark,\n   Forsooth, I am forc'd to own.\n\nOut took they then his ruddy gold,\n   And shar'd it amongst the band:\nTo Vidrik came the largest part,\n   For 't was earn'd with his good hand.\n\nLittle car'd he for the booty, I ween,\n   But he thought of his meed of fame;\nWhen men should say, in the Danish land,\n   That the Giant he overcame.\n\nSo gladly rode they to Bern again;\n   King Diderik gladdest of all:\nThere caus'd he Vidrik Verlandson\n   To sit next him in the hall.\n\n\n\n\nELVIR HILL.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nUpon this Ballad Oehlenslaeger founded his \"Elvir Shades,\" a translation\nof which has already been given.\n\nI rested my head upon Elvir Hill's side, and my eyes were beginning to\nslumber;\nThat moment there rose up before me two maids, whose charms would take\nages to number.\n\nOne patted my face, and the other exclaim'd, while loading my cheek with\nher kisses,\n\"Rise, rise, for to dance with you here we have sped from the undermost\ncaves and abysses.\n\n\"Rise, fair-headed swain, and refuse not to dance; and I and my sister\nwill sing thee\nThe loveliest ditties that ever were heard, and the prettiest presents\nwill bring thee.\"\n\nThen both of them sang so delightful a song, that the boisterous river\nbefore us\nStood suddenly quiet and placid, as though 't were afraid to disturb the\nsweet chorus.\n\nThe boisterous stream stood suddenly still, though accustom'd to foam and\nto bellow;\nAnd, fearless, the trout play'd along with the pike, and the pike play'd\nwith him as his fellow.\n\nThe fishes, whose dwelling was deep in the flood, up, up from their\ncaverns did sally;\nThe gay little birds of the forest began to warble, forthwith, in the\nvalley.\n\n\"Now, listen thou fair-headed swain, and if thou wilt stand up and dance\nfor a minute,\nWe'll teach thee to open the sorcerer's book, and to read all the Runic\nthat's in it.\n\n\"The bear and the wolf thou shalt trammel, unto the thick stem of the\noak, at thy pleasure;\nBefore thee the dragon shall fly from his nest, and shall leave thee sole\nlord of his treasure.\"\n\nThen about and around on the moonlight hill, in their fairy fashion they\nsported,\nWhile unmov'd sat the gallant and fair young swain, whom they, in their\nwantonness, courted.\n\n\"And wilt thou not grant us our civil request, proud stripling, and wilt\nthou deny it?\nBy hell's ruddy blazes, our gold-handled knife shall lay thee for ever in\nquiet.\"\n\nAnd if my good luck had not manag'd it so, that the cock crew out, then,\nin the distance,\nI should have been murder'd by them, on the hill, without power to offer\nresistance.\n\n'T is therefore I counsel each young Danish swain, who may ride in the\nforest so dreary,\nNe'er to lay down upon lone Elvir Hill though he chance to be ever so\nweary.\n\n\n\n\nWALDEMAR'S CHASE.\n\n\nThe following Ballad is merely a versification of one of the many feats\nof Waldemar, the famed phantom hunter of the North, an account of whom,\nand of Palnatoka and Groon the Jutt, both spectres of a similar\ncharacter, may be found in Thiele's Danske Folkesagn.\n\nLate at eve they were toiling on Harribee bank,\n   For in harvest men ne'er should be idle:\nTowards them rode Waldemar, meagre and lank,\n   And he linger'd and drew up his bridle.\n\n\"Success to your labour; and have ye to night\n   Seen any thing pass ye, while reaping?\"\n\"Yes, yes;\" said a peasant, \"I saw something white,\n   Just now, through the corn-stubble creeping.\"\n\n\"Which way did it go?\"  \"Why methought to the beach.\"\n   Then off went Waldemar bounding;\nA few minutes after, they heard a faint screech,\n   And the horn of the hunter resounding.\n\nThen back came he, laughing in horrible tone,\n   And the blood in their veins ran the colder,\nWhen they saw that a fresh-slaughter'd mermaid was thrown\n   Athwart his proud barb's dappled shoulder.\n\nSaid he, \"I have chas'd her for seven score years,\n   As she landed to drink at the fountains.\"\nNo more did he deign to their terrified ears,\n   But gallop'd away to the mountains.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MERMAN.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\n\"Do thou, dear Mother, contrive amain\nHow Marsk Stig's daughter I may gain.\"\n\nShe made him, of water, a noble steed,\nWhose trappings were form'd from rush and reed.\n\nTo a young knight chang'd she then her son;\nTo Mary's church at full speed he's gone.\n\nHis foaming horse to the gate he bound,\nAnd pac'd the church full three times round:\n\nWhen in he walk'd with his plume on high,\nThe dead men gave from their tombs a sigh:\n\nThe priest heard that, and he clos'd his book;\n\"Methinks yon knight has a strange wild look.\"\n\nThen laugh'd the maiden beneath her sleeve;\n\"If he were my husband I should not grieve.\"\n\nHe stepp'd over benches one and two:\n\"O, Marsk Stig's daughter, I doat on you.\"\n\nHe stepp'd over benches two and three:\n\"O, Marsk Stig's daughter, come home with me.\"\n\nThen said the maid, without more ado,\n\"Here take my troth, I will go with you.\"\n\nThey went from the church a bridal train,\nAnd danc'd so gaily across the plain;\n\nThey danc'd till they came to the strand, and then\nThey were forsaken by maids and men.\n\n\"Now, Marsk Stig's daughter, sit down and rest;\nTo build a boat I will do my best.\"\n\nHe built a boat of the whitest sand,\nAnd away they went from the smiling land;\n\nBut when they had cross'd the ninth green wave,\nDown sunk the boat to the ocean cave!\n\nI caution ye, maids, as well as I can,\nNe'er give your troth to an unknown man.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DECEIVED MERMAN.\nFROM THE OLD DANISH.\n\n\nFair Agnes alone on the sea-shore stood,\nThen rose a Merman from out the flood:\n\n\"Now, Agnes, hear what I say to thee,\nWilt thou my leman consent to be?\"\n\n\"O, freely that will I become,\nIf thou but take me beneath the foam.\"\n\nHe stopp'd her ears, and he stopp'd her eyes,\nAnd into the ocean he took his prize.\n\nThe Merman's leman was Agnes there,--\nShe bore him sons and daughters fair:\n\nOne day by the cradle she sat and sang,\nThen heard she above how the church bells rang:\n\nShe went to the Merman, and kiss'd his brow;\n\"Once more to church I would gladly go.\"\n\n\"And thou to church once more shalt go,\nBut come to thy babes back here below.\"\n\nHe flung his arm her body around,\nAnd he lifted her up unto England's ground.\n\nFair Agnes in at the church door stepp'd,\nBehind her mother, who sorely wept.\n\n\"O Agnes, Agnes, daughter dear!\nWhere hast thou been this many a year?\"\n\n\"O, I have been deep, deep under the sea,\nAnd liv'd with the Merman in love and glee.\"\n\n\"And what for thy honour did he give thee,\nWhen he made thee his leman beneath the sea?\"\n\n\"He gave me silver, he gave me gold,\nAnd sprigs of coral my hair to hold.\"\n\nThe Merman up to the church door came;\nHis eyes they shone like a yellow flame;\n\nHis face was white, and his beard was green--\nA fairer demon was never seen.\n\n\"Now, Agnes, Agnes, list to me,\nThy babes are longing so after thee.\"\n\n\"I cannot come yet, here must I stay\nUntil the priest shall have said his say.\"\n\nAnd when the priest had said his say,\nShe thought with her mother at home she'd stay.\n\n\"O Agnes, Agnes, list to me,\nThy babes are sorrowing after thee.\"\n\n\"Let them sorrow, and sorrow their fill,\nBut back to them never return I will.\"\n\n\"Think on them, Agnes, think on them all;\nThink on the great one, think on the small.\"\n\n\"Little, O little, care I for them all,\nOr for the great one, or for the small.\"\n\nO, bitterly then did the Merman weep;\nHe hied him back to the foamy deep:\n\nBut, often his shrieks and mournful cries,\nAt midnight's hour, from thence arise.\n\n\n\n\nMISCELLANIES.\n\n\nCANTATA.\n\n\nThis is Denmark's holyday;\n   Dance, ye maidens!\n   Sing, ye men!\n   Tune, ye harpers!\n   Blush, ye heroes!\nThis is Denmark's holyday.\n\n\nONE VOICE.\n\n\nIn right's enjoyment, in the arm of love,\nBeneath the olive's shadow,\nThe Daneman sat;\nWhilst wet and steaming wav'd the bloody flag\nAbove the regions of the sunny South.\nPure was our heaven,--\nPure and blue;\nFor, with his pinions, angel Peace dispell'd\nAll reek and vapour from mild virtue's sphere;\nThen lower'd Battle's blood-bespatter'd son\nUpon our coast,--\nAnd haggard Envy lent to him her torch,\nWhich sparkled high with hell's sulphureous light,\nThen fled the genius of peace, and wept.\n\n\nA SECOND VOICE.\n\n\nBut mighty thunders peal'd; the earth it shook,\nWhile rattled all the moss-grown giant stones, {f:24}\nAnd Oldom's sunken grave-hill rais'd itself;\nThen started Skiold and Frode,\nAnd Svend, and Knud, and Waldemar, {f:25}\nIn copper hauberks up, and pointing to\nRust-spots of blood on faulchion and on shield--\nThey vanish'd:\nAnd in the Gothic aisles, high arch'd and dim,\nWild flutter'd of itself, the ancient banner\nWhich hung above a hero's bones;\nThe faulchion clatter'd loud and ceaselessly\nWithin the tomb of Christian the Fourth, {f:26}\nBy Tordenskiold's {f:27} chapel on the strand,\nWild rose the daring Mermaid's witching song;\nThe stones were loosen'd round about the grave\nWhere lay great Juul;\nAnd Hvidtfeld, clad in a transparent mist,\nWith smiles cherubic beaming on his face,\nStray'd, arm in arm, with his heroic brothers,\nAlong the deep.\n\n\nCHORUS.\n\n\nWe felt the presence of one and all;\nThe old flags wav'd in the arsenal,\nA wondrous spirit went round, went round\nThe Northern ground.\n\n\nONE VOICE.\n\n\nThen waken'd Thor, {f:28}\nAnd drew around his loins the mighty belt\nOf bear-sinews;\nWith love fraternal harden'd he his shield,\nWith eager haste he sharp'd his blunted glaive,\nAnd, with the iron of his hammer, touch'd\nEach Dane's and every Norman's breast--\nShot his heroic flame therein, and smil'd!\n\n\nMANY VOICES.\n\n\nAnd Denmark and Norway smil'd.\n\n\nLOUD CHORUS.\n\n\nUpon the water,\n   Upon the land,\nWe boun'd for slaughter,\n   At Thor's command.\n\n\nMAIDENS.\n\n\nThen fell our tears so quickly,\nWe breath'd, we breath'd so thickly,\nWhile scarce our lips could stammer forth\nPrayers for you, and for the North.\n\n\nMATRONS.\n\n\nAnd we, and we, with breasts that smarted,\n   Knelt, lowly knelt, whilst firm ye stood,\nFrom us and from affection parted,\n   In reek and smoke, in brothers' blood!\n\n\nCHORUS OF MEN.\n\n\nTenderness comes from God;\n   Woman and man in its praise should sing;\nBut tenderness flies at honour's nod;\n   We offer all up to our land and King.\n\n\nONE VOICE.\n\n\nWhat sang ye, warlike throngs?\n   Repeat, repeat this day,\nOne of the simple, nervous, songs\nYe murmur'd out, when, hot with wrongs,\n   Ye waited the coming fray.\n\n\nUNIVERSAL CHORUS.\n\n\nWe love, we all love thee, beneficent Peace, &c.\n\n\nSOLO.\n\n\nLike the wave of the wild North main,\nFoaming and frothing came on our foe;\nProud of his triumphs, proud of his train,\nHe thought to lay us low:\nBut, from Denmark's lines of oak,\nA horrible, horrible volley outbroke;\nThen tumbled his mast,\nHis courage fell fast;\nAnd the wave, which resembled his furious mood,\nWas now with his blood embrued.\n\n\nCHORUS.\n\n\nThis is Denmark's holyday;\n   Dance, ye maidens!\n   Sing, ye men!\n   Tune, ye harpers!\n   Blush, ye heroes!\nThis is Denmark's holyday.\n\n\nA VOICE.\n\n\nBut, hark! what sobbing and what mournful notes\nAre mixing with our hymns of ardent joy!\nHush, hush, be still;\nA band of white-rob'd maids approaches slow,\nWith lily chaplets round their yellow locks,\nWith heavy tear-drops in their sunken eye;\nBroken and trembling sounds\nThe melancholy song,\nAccompanied by harp-tones rising mild.\n\n\nYOUTHFUL MAIDENS.\n\n\nLove, with rosy fetter,\n   Held us firmly bound;\nPure unmix'd enjoyment\n   Grateful here we found.\nBosom, bosom meeting,\n   'Gainst our youths we press'd;\nBright the moon arose, then,\n   Glad to see us blest.\n\nDenmark's honour beckon'd,\n   Loud the canon roar'd;\nPerish'd in the battle\n   They whom we ador'd.\nSweet is, grave, thy slumber,\n   Free from care and noise;\nShort are earthly sorrows,--\n   Endless heaven's joys.\n\n\nSUDDEN CHORUS OF THE SLAIN WARRIORS IS HEARD FROM ON HIGH.\n\n\nFrom the heavenly, clear, invisible, home\nOur voices come:\nNo joy can resemble the joy which reigns\nIn our seraph veins.\nLov'd ones, lov'd ones, weep for us not,\nSoon shall ye here partake of our lot;\nHigh o'er the stars' extremest line\nThe sun of affection more bright shall shine:\nBrothers, brothers, 't is sweet to die\nFor the land of our birth, and the maid of our eye.\nBlest are ye who like us shall fall;\nThe righteous Jehovah rewards, above,\nCourage and love:\nHallelujah, peace be with you all!\n\n\n\nTHE HAIL-STORM.\nFROM THE NORSE.\n\n\nSigvald Jarl was a famous Sea Rover, who, when unengaged in his predatory\nexpeditions, resided at Jomsborg, in Denmark.  He was the terror of the\nNorwegian coasts, which he ravaged and pillaged almost at his pleasure.\nHacon Jarl, who at that time sat on the Norwegian throne, being informed\nthat Sigvald meditated a grand descent, and knowing that he himself was\nunable to oppose him, had recourse to his God, Thorgerd, to whom he\nsacrificed his son Erling.  In what manner Thorgerd assisted him and his\nforces, when the Danes landed, will best be learned from the bold song\nwhich the circumstance gave rise to, and which the following is a feeble\nattempt to translate.\n\nWhen from our ships we bounded,\nI heard, with fear astounded,\nThe storm of Thorgerd's waking,\nFrom Northern vapours breaking;\nWith flinty masses blended,\nGigantic hail descended,\nAnd thick and fiercely rattled\nAgainst us there embattled.\n\nTo aid the hostile maces,\nIt drifted in our faces;\nIt drifted, dealing slaughter,\nAnd blood ran out like water--\nRan reeking, red, and horrid,\nFrom batter'd cheek and forehead;\nWe plied our swords, but no men\nCan stand 'gainst hail and foemen.\n\nAnd demon Thorgerd raging\nTo see us still engaging,\nShot, downward from the heaven,\nHis shafts of flaming levin;\nThen sank our brave in numbers,\nTo cold eternal slumbers;\nThere lay the good and gallant,\nRenown'd for warlike talent.\n\nOur captain, this perceiving,\nThe signal made for leaving,\nAnd with his ship departed,\nDowncast and broken-hearted;\nWar, death, and consternation,\nPursu'd our embarkation;\nWe did our best, but no men\nCan stand 'gainst hail and foemen.\n\n\n\nTHE ELDER-WITCH.\n\n\nAccording to the Danish tradition, there is a female Elf in the elder\ntree, which she leaves every midnight; and, having strolled among the\nfields, returns to it before morning.\n\nThough tall the oak, and firm its stem,\n   Though far abroad its boughs are spread,\n   Though high the poplar lifts its head,\nI have no song for them.\n   A theme more bright, more bright would be\n   The winsome, winsome elder tree,\nBeneath whose shade I sit reclin'd;--\n   It holds a witch within its bark,\n   A lovely witch who haunts the dark,\nAnd fills with love my mind.\n\nWhen ghosts, at midnight, leave their graves,\n   And rous'd is every phantom thing;\n   When mermaids rise and sweetly sing\nIn concert with the waves;\n   When Palnatoka, {f:29} on his steed,\n   Pursues the elves across the mead,\nOr gallops, gallops o'er the sea,\n   The witch within the elder's bark,\n   The lovely witch who haunts the dark,\nComes out, comes out to me.\n\nOf leaves the fairies make our bed;\n   The knight, who moulders 'neath the elm, {f:30}\n   Starts up with spear and rusted helm,--\nBy him the grace is said;\n   And though her kiss is cold at times,\n   And does not scent of earthly climes,\nThough glaring is her eye, yet still\n   The witch within the elder's bark,\n   The lovely witch who haunts the dark,\nI prize, and ever will.\n\nYet, once I lov'd a mortal maid,\n   And gaz'd, enraptur'd, on her charms,\n   Oft circled in each other's arms,\nTogether, here we stray'd;--\n   But, soon, she found a fairer youth,\n   And I a fairer maid, forsooth!\nAnd one more true, more true to me,\n   The witch within the elder's bark,\n   The lovely witch who haunts the dark,\nHas been more true to me.\n\n\n\nODE.\nFROM THE GAELIC.\n\n\n   \"Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd.\"\n\nOh restless, to night, are my slumbers;\nLife yet I retain, but not gladness;\nMy heart in my bosom is wither'd,\nAnd sorrow sits heavy upon me.\nFor cold, in her grave-hill, is lying\nThe maid whom I gaz'd on, so fondly,\nWhose teeth were like chalk from the quarry,\nWhose voice was more sweet than harp music.\nLike foam that subsides on the water,\nJust where the wild swan has been playing;\nLike snow, by the sunny beam melted,\nMy love, thou wert gone on a sudden.\nSalt tears I let fall in abundance,\nWhen memory bringeth before me\nThat eye, like the placid blue heaven;\nThat cheek, like the rose in its glory.\nSweet object of warmest affection,\nWhy could not thy beauty protect thee?\nWhy, sparing so many a thistle,\nDid Death cut so lovely a blossom?\nHere pine I, forlorn and abandon'd,\nWhere once I was cheerful and merry:\nNo joy shall e'er shine on my visage,\nUntil my last hour's arrival.\nO, like the top grain on the corn-ear,\nOr, like the young pine, 'mong the bushes;\nOr, like the moon, 'mong the stars shining,\nWert thou, O my love, amongst women!\n\n\n\nBEAR SONG.\nFROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.\n\n\nThe squirrel that's sporting\n   Amid the green leaves,\nFull oft, with its rustle,\n   The hunter deceives;\nWho starts--and believing\n   That booty is nigh,\nHis heart, for a moment,\n   With pleasure beats high.\n\n\"Now, courage!\" he mutters,\n   And crouching below\nA thunder-split linden,\n   He waits for his foe:\n\"Ha! joy to the hunter;\n   A monstrous bear\nE'en now is approaching,\n   And bids me prepare.\n\n\"Hark! hark! for the monarch\n   Of forests, ere long,\nWill breathe out his bellow,\n   Deep-throated and strong:\"\nThus saying, he gazes\n   Intently around;\nBut, death to his wishes!\n   Can hear not a sound:\n\nExcept when, at moments,\n   The wind rising shrill\nWafts boughs from the bushes,\n   Across the lone hill.\nWo worth, to thee, squirrel,\n   Amid the green leaves,\nFull oft thy loud rustle\n   The hunter deceives.\n\n\n\nNATIONAL SONG.\nFROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.\n\n\nKing Christian stood beside the mast;\n   Smoke, mixt with flame,\nHung o'er his guns, that rattled fast\nAgainst the Gothmen, as they pass'd:\nThen sunk each hostile sail and mast\n   In smoke and flame.\n\"Fly!\" said the foe: \"fly! all that can,\nNor wage, with Denmark's Christian,\n   The dread, unequal game.\"\n\nNiels Juul look'd out, and loudly cried,\n   \"Quick! now's the time:\"\nHe hoisted up his banner wide,\nAnd fore and aft his foemen plied;\nAnd loud above the battle cried,\n   \"Quick! now's the time.\"\n\"Fly!\" said the foe, \"'t is Fortune's rule,\nTo deck the head of Denmark's Juul\n   With Glory's wreath sublime.\"\n\nOnce, Baltic, when the musket's knell\n   Rang through the sky,\nDown to thy bosom heroes fell\nAnd gasp'd amid the stormy swell;\nWhile, from the shore, a piercing yell\n   Rang through the sky!\n\"God aids me,\" cried our Tordenskiold;\n\"Proud foes, ye are but vainly bold;\n   Strike, strike, to me, or fly!\"\n\nThou Danish path to fame and might,\n   Dark-rolling wave,\nReceive a friend who holds as light\nThe perils of the stormy fight;\nWho braves, like thee, the tempest's might;\n   Dark rolling wave,\nO swiftly bear my bark along,\nTill, crown'd with conquest, lull'd with song,\n   I reach my bourne--the grave.\n\n\n\nTHE OLD OAK.\n\n\nHere have I stood, the pride of the park,\nIn winter with snow on my frozen bark;\nIn spring 'mong the flowers that smiling she spread,\nAnd among my own leaves when summer was fled.\nThree hundred years my top I have rais'd,\nThree hundred years I have sadly gaz'd\nO'er Nature's wide extended scene;\nO'er rushing rivers and meadows green,\nFor though I was always willing to rove,\nI never could yet my firm foot move.\n\nThey fell'd my brother, who stood by my side,\nAnd flung out his arms so wide, so wide;\nHow envy I him, for how blest is he,\nAs the keel of a vessel he sails so free\nAround the whole of the monstrous earth;\nBut I am still in the place of my birth.\nI once was too haughty by far to complain,\nBut am become feeble through age and pain;\nAnd therefore I often give vent to my woes,\nWhen through my branches the wild wind blows.\n\nA night like this, so calm and clear,\nI have not seen for many a year;\nThe milk-white doe and her tender fawn\nAre skipping about on the moonlight lawn;\nAnd there, on the verge of my time-worn root,\nTwo lovers are seated, and both are mute:\nHer arm encircles his youthful neck,\nFor none are present their love to check.\nThis night would almost my sad heart cheer,\nHad I one hope or one single fear.\n\n\n\nLINES\nTO SIX-FOOT THREE.\n\n\nA lad, who twenty tongues can talk\nAnd sixty miles a day can walk;\nDrink at a draught a pint of rum,\nAnd then be neither sick nor dumb\nCan tune a song, and make a verse,\nAnd deeds of Northern kings rehearse\nWho never will forsake his friend,\nWhile he his bony fist can bend;\nAnd, though averse to brawl and strife\nWill fight a Dutchman with a knife.\nO that is just the lad for me,\nAnd such is honest six-foot three.\n\nA braver being ne'er had birth\nSince God first kneaded man from earth:\nO, I have cause to know him well,\nAs Ferroe's blacken'd rocks can tell.\nWho was it did, at Suderoe,\nThe deed no other dar'd to do?\nWho was it, when the Boff {f:31} had burst,\nAnd whelm'd me in its womb accurst--\nWho was it dash'd amid the wave,\nWith frantic zeal, my life to save?\nWho was it flung the rope to me?\nO, who, but honest six-foot three!\n\nWho was it taught my willing tongue,\nThe songs that Braga {f:32} fram'd and sung?\nWho was it op'd to me the store\nOf dark unearthly Runic lore,\nAnd taught me to beguile my time\nWith Denmark's aged and witching rhyme:\nTo rest in thought in Elvir shades,\nAnd hear the song of fairy maids;\nOr climb the top of Dovrefeld,\nWhere magic knights their muster held?\nWho was it did all this for me?\nO, who, but honest six-foot three!\n\nWherever fate shall bid me roam,\nFar, far from social joy and home;\n'Mid burning Afric's desert sands,\nOr wild Kamschatka's frozen lands;\nBit by the poison-loaded breeze,\nOr blasts which clog with ice the seas;\nIn lowly cot or lordly hall,\nIn beggar's rags or robes of pall,\n'Mong robber-bands or honest men,\nIn crowded town or forest den,\nI never will unmindful be\nOf what I owe to six-foot three.\n\nThat form which moves with giant-grace;\nThat wild, though not unhandsome, face;\nThat voice which sometimes in its tone\nIs softer than the wood-dove's moan,\nAt others, louder than the storm\nWhich beats the side of old Cairn Gorm; {f:33}\nThat hand, as white as falling snow,\nWhich yet can fell the stoutest foe;\nAnd, last of all, that noble heart,\nWhich ne'er from honour's path would start,\nShall never be forgot by me--\nSo farewell, honest six-foot three!\n\n\n\nNATURE'S TEMPERAMENTS.\nFROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.\n\n\nSADNESS.\n\n\nLo, a pallid fleecy vapour\n   Far along the East is spread;\nEvery star has quench'd its taper,\n   Lately glimmering over head.\nOn the leaves, that bend so lowly,\n   Drops of crystal water gleam;\nYawning wide, the peasant slowly\n   Drives afield his sluggish team.\nDreary looks the forest, lacking\n   Song of birds that slumber mute;\nNo rough swain is yet attacking,\n   With his bill, the beech's root.\nNight's terrific ghostly hour\n   Backward through time's circle flies;\nNo shrill clock from moss-grown tower\n   Bids the dead men wake and rise.\nWearied out with midnight riot\n   Mystic Nature slumbers now;\nMouldering bodies rest in quiet,\n   'Neath their tomb-lids damp and low;\nSad and chill the wind is sighing\n   Through the reeds that skirt the pool,\nAll around looks dead or dying,\n   Wrapt in sorrow, clad in dool.\n\n\nGLEE.\n\n\nRoseate colours on heaven's high arch\n   Are beginning to mix with the blue and the gray,\nSol now commences his wonderful march,\n   And the forests' wing'd denizens sing from the spray.\n      Gaily the rose\n      Is seen to unclose\n   Each of her leaves to the brightening ray.\n      Waves on the lake\n      Rise, sparkle, and break:\nO Venus, O Venus, thy shrine is prepar'd,\n   Far down in the valley o'erhung by the grove;\nWhere, all the day, Philomel warbles, unscar'd,\n   Her silver-ton'd ditty of pleasure and love.\n\nInnocence smiling out-carrols the lark,\n   And the bosom of guilt becomes tranquil again;\nNightmares and visions, the fiends of the dark,\n   Have abandon'd the blood and have flown from the brain.\n         Higher the sun\n         Up heaven has run,\n   Beaming so fierce that we feel him with pain;\n         Man, herb, and flower,\n         Droop under his power.\nO Venus, O Venus, thy shrine is prepar'd,\n   Far down in the valley o'erhung by the grove\nWhere, all the day, Philomel warbles, unscar'd,\n   Her silver-ton'd ditty of pleasure and love.\n\n\nMADNESS.\n\n\nWhat darkens, what darkens?--'t is heaven's high roof:\nWhat lightens?--'t is Heckla's flame, shooting aloof:\nThe proud, the majestic, the rugged old Thor,\nThe mightiest giant the North ever saw,\nTransform'd to a mountain, stands there in the field,\nWith ice for his corslet, and rock for his shield;\nWith thunder for voice, and with fire for tongue,\nHe stands there, so frightful, with vapour o'erhung.\nOn that other side of the boisterous sea\nBlack Vulcan, as haughty as ever was he,\nStands, chang'd to a mountain, call'd Etna by name,\nWhich belches continually oceans of flame.\nMuch blood have they spilt, and much harm have they done,\nFor both, when the ancient religions were gone,\nCombin'd their wild strength to destroy the new race,\nWho were boldly beginning their shrines to deface.\nO, Jesus of Nazareth, draw forth the blade\nOf vengeance, and speed to thy worshippers' aid;\nBeat down the old gods, cut asunder their mail--\nAmen!--brother Christians, why look ye so pale.\n\n\n\nTHE VIOLET-GATHERER.\nFROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.\n\n\nPale the moon her light was shedding\n   O'er the landscape far and wide;\nCalmly bright, all ills undreading,\n   Emma wander'd by my side.\n\nNight's sad birds their harsh notes utter'd,\n   Perching low among the trees;\nEmma's milk-white kirtle flutter'd\n   Graceful in the rising breeze:\n\nThen, in sweetness more than mortal,\n   Sang a voice a plaintive air,\nAs we pass'd the church's portal,\n   Lo, a ghostly form stood there!\n\n\"Emma, come, thy mother's calling;\n   Lone I lie in night and gloom,\nWhilst the sun and moon-beams, falling,\n   Glance upon my marble tomb.\"\n\nEmma star'd upon the figure,--\n   Wish'd to speak, but vainly tried,\nPress'd my hand with loving vigour,\n   Trembled--faulter'd--gasp'd--and died!\n\nHome I bore my luckless maiden,\n   Home I bore her in despair;\nChilly blasts, with night-dew laden,\n   Rustled through her streaming hair.\n\nPlunging then amid the forest,\n   Soon I found the stately tree,\nUnder which, when heat was sorest,\n   She was wont to sit with me.\n\nDown my cheek ran tears in fever,\n   While with axe its stem I cut;\nSoon it fell, and I with lever\n   Roll'd it straight to Emma's hut.\n\nKiss'd her oft, and love empassion'd\n   Sung a song in wildest tones;\nWhile the oaken boards I fashion'd,\n   Doom'd to hide her lovely bones.\n\nThereupon I sought the bower,\n   Where she kept her single hive;\nMorning shone on tree and flower,\n   All around me look'd alive.\n\nStung by bees in thousand places,\n   Out I took the yellow comb;\nEmma, deck'd in all her graces,\n   Past my vision seem'd to roam.\n\nSoon of wax I form'd a taper,\n   O'er my love it cast its ray,\n'Till the night came, clad in vapour,\n   When in grave I laid her clay.\n\nDeep below me sank the coffin,\n   While my tears fell fast as rain;\nDeep it sank, and I, full often,\n   Thought to heave it up again.\n\nSoon as e'er the stars, so merry,\n   Heaven's arch next night illum'd,\nSad I sought the cemetery,\n   Where my true love lay entomb'd.\n\nThen, in sweetness more than mortal,\n   Sang a voice a plaintive lay;\nUnderneath the church's portal\n   Emma stood in death array.\n\n\"Louis! come! thy love is calling;\n   Lone I lie in night and gloom,\nWhilst the sun and moon beams, falling,\n   Glance upon my lowly tomb.\"\n\n\"Emma! dear!\" I cried in gladness,\n   \"Take me too beneath the sod;\nLeave me not to pine in sadness,\n   Here on earth's detested clod.\"\n\n\"Death should only strike the hoary,\n   Yet, my Louis, thou shalt die,\nWhen the stars again in glory,\n   Shine upon the midnight sky.\"\n\nTears bedeck'd her long eyelashes,\n   While she kiss'd my features wan;\nThen, like flame that dies o'er ashes,\n   All at once the maid was gone.\n\nTherefore, pluck I painted violets,\n   Which shall strew my lifeless clay,\nWhen, to night, the stars have call'd me\n   Unto joys that last for aye.\n\n\n\nODE TO A MOUNTAIN-TORRENT.\nFROM THE GERMAN OF STOLBERG.\n\n\nHow lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam,\n   And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill,\nWhen yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home,\n   'Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.\n\nThe pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks,\n   And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground,\nThe rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks,\n   And whirl'st them like pebbles contemptuously round.\n\nThe sun-beams have cloth'd thee in glorious dyes,\n   They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow\nThose hovering columns of vapour that rise\n   Forth from the bubbling cauldron below.\n\nBut why art thou seeking the ocean's dark brine?\n   If grandeur makes happiness, sure it is found,\nWhen forth from the depths of the rock-girdled mine\n   Thou boundest, and all gives response to thy sound.\n\nBeware thee, O torrent, of yonder dark sea,\n   For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod,\nHere thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,--\n   Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.\n\nTrue, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon,\n   To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays,\nWhen ting'd with the light of the wandering moon,\n   Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays.\n\nBut, torrent, what is it? what is it?--behold\n   That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare,\nWhat is the summer sun's purple and gold\n   To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.\n\nAbandon, abandon, thy headlong career--\n   But downward thou rushest--my words are in vain,\nBethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer\n   On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.\n\nThen haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea,\n   For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod;\nHere thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,--\n   Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.\n\n\n\nRUNIC VERSES.\n\n\nO the force of Runic verses,\n   O the mighty strength of song\nCannot baffle all the curses\n   Which to mortal state belong.\n\nSlaughter'd chiefs, that buried under\n   Heaps of marble, long have lain,\nSong can rend your tomb asunder,\n   Give ye life and strength again.\n\nWhen around his dying capture,\n   Fierce, the serpent draws his fold,\nSong can make him, wild with rapture,\n   Straight uncoil, and bite the mould.\n\nWhen from keep and battled tower,\n   Flames to heaven upward strain,\nSong has o'er them greater power,\n   Than the vapours dropping rain.\n\nIt can quench the conflagration\n   Striding o'er the works of art;\nBut nor song nor incantation\n   Can appease love's cruel smart.\n\nO the force of Runic verses,\n   O the mighty strength of song\nCannot baffle all the curses\n   Which to mortal state belong.\n\n\n\nTHOUGHTS ON DEATH.\nFROM THE SWEDISH OF C. LOHMAN.\n\n\nPerhaps 't is folly, but still I feel\nMy heart-strings quiver, my senses reel,\nThinking how like a fast stream we range\nNearer and nearer to yon dread change,\nWhen soul and spirit filter away,\nAnd leave nothing better than senseless clay.\n\nYield, beauty, yield; for the grave does gape,\nAnd horribly alter'd reflects thy shape,--\nFor ah! think not those childish charms\nWill rest unrifled in its cold arms,\nAnd think not there, that the rose of love\nWill bloom on thy features as here above.\n\nLet him who roams at vanity fair,\nIn robes that rival the tulip's glare,\nThink on the chaplet of leaves which round\nHis fading forehead will soon be bound;\nThink on each dirge the priests will say\nWhen his cold corse is borne away.\n\nLet him who seeketh for wealth uncheck'd\nBy fear of labour--let him reflect,\nThe gold he wins will brightly shine,\nWhen he has perish'd with all his line.\nThough man may rave and vainly boast,\nWe are but ashes when at the most.\n\n\n\nBIRDS OF PASSAGE.\nFROM THE SWEDISH.\n\n\nSo hot shines the sun upon Nile's yellow stream,\n   That the palm-trees can save us no more from his beam;\nNow comes the desire for home, in full force,\n   And Northward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.\n\nNow dim underneath us, through distance we view\n   The green grassy earth, and the ocean's deep blue;\nThere tempests and frequent disasters arise,\n   Whilst free and untroubled we wend through the skies.\n\nLo, high among mountains a meadow lies spread,\n   And there we alight, and get ready our bed;\nThere hatch we our eggs, and beneath the chill pole\n   We wait while the summer months over us roll.\n\nNo hunter, desirous to make us his prey,\n   Invades our lone valley by night or by day;\nBut green-mantled fairies their merry routs hold,\n   And fearless the pigmy {f:34} there hammers its gold.\n\nBut when pallid winter, again on the rocks\n   Shakes down in a shower the snow from his locks,\nThen comes the desire for heat, in full force,\n   And Southward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.\n\nTo the verdant Savannah, and palm-shaded plain,\n   Where the Nile rolls his water, we hurry again;\nThere rest we till summer's sun, waxing too hot,\n   Makes us wish for our native, our hill-girded spot.\n\n\n\nTHE BROKEN HARP.\n\n\nO thou, who, 'mid the forest trees,\n   With thy harmonious trembling strain,\nCould'st change at once to soothing ease,\n   My love-sick bosom's cruel pain:\nThou droop'st in dreary silence now,\n   With shiver'd frame, and broken string,\nWhile here, unhelp'd, beneath the bough\n   I sit, and feebly strive to sing.\n\nThe moon no more illumes the ground;\n   In night and vapour dies my lay;\nFor with thy sweet and melting sound\n   Fled, all at once, her silver ray:\nO soon, O soon, shall this sad heart,\n   Which beats so low, and bleeds so free,\nO'ercome by its fell load of smart,\n   Be broke, O ruin'd harp, like thee!\n\n\n\nSCENES.\n\n\nObserve ye not yon high cliff's brow,\nUp which a wanderer clambers slow,\n'T is by a hoary ruin crown'd,\nWhich rocks when shrill winds whistle round;\nThat is an ancient knightly hold,--\nAlas! it droops, deserted, cold;\nAnd sad and cheerless seems to gaze,\nBack, back, to yon heroic days,\nWhen youthful Kemps, {f:35} completely arm'd,\nAnd lovely maids around it swarm'd.\n\nYou, in the tower, a hole may see;\nA window there has ceas'd to be.\nFrom that once lean'd a damsel bright,\nIn evening's red and fading light,\nAnd star'd intently down the way,\nUp which should come her lover gay:\nBut, time it flies on rapid wing--\nFar off a church is towering,\nWithin it stand two marble stones,\nThat rest above the lovers' bones.\nBut see, the wanderer, with pain,\nHas reach'd the pile he wish'd to gain;\nWhilst Sol, behind the ruin'd walls,\nDown into sacred nature falls.\n\nSee, there, two hostile nobles fight,\nWith tiger-rage and giant-might.\nThere's seen no smoke, there's heard no shot,\nFor guns and powder yet were not.\n'T was custom then, when foemen warr'd,\nTo win or lose with spear and sword:\nA wild heroic song they yell,\nAnd each the other seeks to fell.\nOft, oft, her ownself to destroy,\nHer own hand nature does employ.\nThere casts the hill up fire-flakes,\nAnd Earth's gigantic body quakes:\nThere, lightnings through the high blue flash,\nAnd ocean's billows wildly dash:\nThere, men 'gainst men their muscles strain,\nAnd deal out death, and wounds, and pain.\nO Nature! to thyself show less\nOf hate, and more of tenderness.\n\nHow dusky is the air around;\nWe are no more above the ground;\nBut, down we wend within the hill,\nWhose springs our ears with hissings fill.\nSee, there, how rich the ruddy gold\nWinds snakeways, 'midst the clammy mould\nAnd hard green stone.  By torches' ray,\nThe harvest there men mow away.\nBut, see ye not yon gath'ring cloud,\nWhich 'gainst them cometh paley proud;\nThat holds the spirit of the hill,\nWho brings death in its hand so chill:\nIf down they do not quickly fall,\nMost certainly 't will slay them all;\nFor sorely wrathful is its mood,\nBecause they break its solitude:\nBecause its treasure off they bear,\nAnd fling light o'er its gloomy lair.\n'T is white, and Kobbold is the name\nWhich it from oldest days does claim.\n\nNow, back at once into time we go,\nFor many a hundred years, I trow.\nA gothic chamber salutes your sight:\nA taper gleams feebly through the night;\nA ghostly man by the board you see,\nWith his hand to his temples muses he:\nParchments, with age discolour'd and dun;\nAncient shields all written upon;\nTree-bark, bearing ciphers half defac'd;\nStones with Runes and characters grac'd;\nThings of more worth than ye are aware,\nOn the mighty table are pil'd up there.\nHe gazes now in exstatic trance\nThrough the casement, out into nature's expanse.\nWhene'er we sit at the lone midnight,\nAnd stare out into the dubious light,\nWhilst the pallid moon is peering o'er\nRuin'd cloister and crumbling tower,\nFeelings so wondrous strange come o'er us;\nThe past, and the future, arise before us;\nThe present fadeth, unmark'd, away\nIn the garb of insignificancy.\nHe gazes up into nature's height,\nThe noble man with his eye so bright;\nHe gazes up to the starry skies,\nWhither, sooner or later, we hope to rise;\nAnd now he takes in haste the pen,\nAnd the spirit of Oldom flows from it amain;\nThe scatter'd Goth-songs he changes unto\nAn Epic which maketh each bosom to glow.\nThanks to the old Monk, toiling thus--\nThey call him Saxo Grammaticus.\n\nAn open field before you lies,\nA wind-burst o'er its bosom sighs,\nNow all is still, all seems asleep;\n'Midst of the field there stands a heap,\nUpon the heap stand Runic stones,\nThereunder rest gigantic bones.\nFrom Arild's time, that heap stands there,\nBut now 't is till'd with utmost care,\nIn order that its owner may\nThereoff reap golden corn one day.\nOft has he tried, the niggard soul,\nThe mighty stones away to roll,\nAs useless burdens of his ground;\nBut they for that too big were found.\nSee, see! the moon through cloud and rack\nLooks down upon the letters black:\nAnd when the ghost its form uprears\nHe shines upon its bursting tears--\nFor oh! the moon's an ancient man,\nDescribe him, mortal tongue ne'er can,\nHe shines alike, serene and bright,\nAt midmost hour of witching night,\nUpon the spot of love and glee,\nAnd on the gloomy gallows-tree.\nUpon each Rune behold him stare,\nWhile off he hastes through fields of air;\nHe understands those signs, I'll gage,\nWhose meaning lies in sunken age;\nAnd if he were in speaking state,\nNo doubt the old man could relate\nStrange things that have on earth occurr'd,\nOf which fame ne'er has said a word;\nBut since with look, with look alone,\nHe cannot those events make known,\nHe waketh from his height sublime\nMere longing for the dark gone time.\n\n\n\nTHE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.\nFROM THE GERMAN.\n\n\nThis piece is not translated for the sentiments which it contains, but\nfor its poetical beauties.  Although the path of human life is rough and\nthorny, the mind may always receive consolation by looking forward to the\nworld to come.  The mind which rejects a future state has to thank itself\nfor its utter misery and hopelessness.\n\nThe evening shadows fall upon the grave\nOn which I sit; it is no common heap,--\nBelow its turf are laid the bones of one,\nWho, sick of life and misery, did quench\nThe vital spark which in his bosom burn'd.\n\nThe shadows deepen, and the ruddy tinge\nWhich lately flooded all the western sky\nHas now diminish'd to a single streak,\nAnd here I sit, alone, and listen to\nThe noise of forests, and the hum of groves.\n\nThis is the time to think of nature's God,\nWhen birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite\nTheir various-sounding voices in his praise:\nShall man alone refuse to sing it--yes,\nFor man, alone, has nought to thank him for.\n\nThere's not a joy he gives to us on earth\nThat is not dash'd with bitterness and gall,\nOnly when youth is past, and age comes on,\nDo we find quiet--quiet is not bliss,\nThen tell me, God, what I've to thank thee for.\n\nBut to recur to him who rests beneath--\nHe had a heart enthusiastic, warm,\nAnd form'd for love--no prejudice dwelt there;\nHe roam'd about the world to find a heart\nWhich felt with his, he sought, and found it not.\n\nOr if he found it, providence stepp'd in,\nAnd tore the cherish'd object from his sight,\nOr fill'd its mind with visions weak and vain--\nCould he survive all this? ah, no! he died,--\nDied by the hand which injur'd none but him.\n\nAnd did he die unpitied and unwept,--\nMost probably, for there are fools who think\n'T is crime in man to take what is his own--\nAnd 't was on account they laid him here,\nWithin this sweet, unconsecrated, spot.\n\nThere comes a troop of maidens and of youths\nHome from their labour--hark! they cease their song,\nAnd, pointing to the grave, with trembling hands,\nThey make a circuit, thinking that in me\nThe ghost of the self-murderer they view--\nWhich, fame says, wanders here.\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.\n\n\nThe Right Honourable the Earl of Albemarle\n\nT. Amyot, Esq., _London_\n\nF. Arden, Esq. _London_, 5 copies\n\nMr. A. Austin\n\nThe Right Rev. Father in God Henry Bathurst, Lord Bishop of Norwich\n\nMr. W. Bacon\n\nMr. A. Barnard\n\nMr. P. Barnes\n\nMr. Barwell\n\nMr. Bell, _Diss_\n\nN. Bolingbroke, Esq.\n\nJ. Bowring, Esq., _Hackney_\n\nW. Burrows, Esq., _Stoke_\n\nMiss Burrows\n\nW. Burt, Esq. Jun.\n\nThomas Campbell, Esq., London\n\nS. Clarke, Esq., _Berghapton_\n\nMr. T. Clarke\n\nMr. P. Clarke\n\nMr. P. Clayton\n\nN. Cobham, Esq. _Exeter_, 2 copies\n\nRev. C. Codd, _Dereham_\n\nJ. H. Cole, Esq.\n\nMrs. Coleman\n\nMr. W. Cooper\n\nMr. E. Cooper, _Dereham_\n\nMr. G. Cooper, _Dereham_\n\nW. Cross, Esq.\n\nH. Custance, Esq., _Weston Longueville_\n\nRev. Custance\n\nE. Dashwood, Esq., _Colchester_\n\nT. G. O'Donnahoo, Esq., _London_, 5 copies\n\nMr. Doughty, _Brockdish_\n\nT. Dyson, Esq., _Diss_\n\nMr. Elliot\n\nDr. Evans\n\nF. Farr, Esq., _Beecles_\n\nG. Fitzmaurice, Esq., _London_, 2 copies\n\nJ. Fletcher, Esq., _London_\n\nR. Fowler, Esq., _London_\n\nJ. Geldart, Esq.\n\nB. Girling. Esq., _Dereham_\n\nRev. W. Girling\n\nMr. Green\n\nC. Greville, Esq. M.P.\n\nT. Gurdon, Esq., _Letton Hall_, _Suffolk_, 2 copies\n\nMrs. Gurdon, 2 copies\n\nH. Gurney, Esq. M.P.\n\nR. H. Gurney, Esq. M.P.\n\nMiss Anne Gurney\n\nMr. W. Hankes\n\nCapt. Hare, _Stow Hall_, 2 copies\n\nMr. W. Harper\n\nJ. Harvey, Esq.\n\nSir R. J. Harvey\n\nG. Harvey, Esq.\n\nR. Hawkes, Esq.\n\nMrs. Hawkes\n\nB. R. Haydon, Esq., _London_\n\nW. Herring, Esq.\n\nMr. Higham, _London_\n\nMr. Hobart\n\nMr. Holly\n\nT. Hudson, Esq.\n\nMr. R. Hull\n\nN. Islay, Esq., _Croydon_\n\nMr. G. Jay\n\nS. Johnson, Esq., _London_\n\nP. Johnstone, Esq., _London_\n\nMr. Juby\n\nRev. J. Kennedy, _Templemore_, _Tipperary_\n\nMr. R. Kerrison\n\nMr. E. Kerrison\n\nCapt. Langford\n\nE. Lombe, Esq.\n\nMrs. Lloyd, _Bawdeswell_\n\nMiss Lloyd, _Bawdeswell_\n\nMiss L. Lloyd, _Bawdeswell_\n\nMiss E. Lloyd, _Bawdeswell_\n\nMr. R. Lloyd\n\nMr. J. Lloyd, _Welsh Pool_\n\nMr. H. Marshall, _Ashby_\n\nMr. H. Marshall, _Norwich_\n\nMr. W. Matchett\n\nRev. C. Millard\n\nMr. Mills, _Pulham_\n\nMr. F. Mills\n\nA. Morrison, Esq., _Eaton Hall_\n\nMrs. Morrison\n\nG. Morse, Esq.\n\nRev. G. Munnings, _Dereham_\n\nJ. Neales, Esq., _London_\n\nMr. Newton\n\nMr. E. Newton\n\nMr. W. Nichols\n\nMr. B. Norgate\n\nT. Oliver, Esq., _Yarmouth_\n\nC. S. Onley, Esq. M.P.\n\nJ. Parkinson, Esq.\n\nMr. P. Paterson, _Glasgow_\n\nMrs. J. Pertwee, _Fingringhoe Hall_\n\nR. Plumptre, Esq.\n\nMr. Press\n\nMr. P. Pullen\n\nW. Quarles, Esq., _Foulsham_\n\nW. Rackham, Esq.\n\nMr. W. Roberts\n\nJ. Robertson, Esq., _London_\n\nW. Robertson, Esq., _London_\n\nEtienne Compte de la Roche, _Brest_, 2 copies\n\nN. Simpson, Esq., _London_\n\nW. Slous, Esq., _London_\n\nSir James Smith\n\nJ. Sparham, Esq., _Palgrave_\n\nMr. W. Stark\n\nMr. J. Stark\n\nJ. Stewart, Esq.\n\nR. Stoughton, Esq., _Sparham_\n\nRev. A. T. Suckling\n\nMr. P. Thompson, _London_\n\nMr. J. Thompson, _Dereham_\n\nJ. Timbs, Esq., _London_\n\nMr. G. Thurtell, _Eaton_\n\nMr. J. Thurtell\n\nMr. B. Sadler\n\nS. Salter, Esq., _London_\n\nCapt. R. Sayer\n\nP. Scott, Esq.\n\nMr. Sendall\n\nMrs. Simpson\n\nW. Simpson, Esq. Jun.\n\nW. W. Simpson, Esq., _London_\n\nMrs. E. Thurtell\n\nMr. J. Turner, _London_\n\nMr. Turner\n\nJ. Vincent, Esq., _London_\n\nS. Weir, Esq., _Manchester_\n\nRev. G. Widrow, _Manchester_\n\nMr. Wilson\n\nMr. Winter\n\nMr. I. Wiseman\n\nHon. Col. Wodehouse\n\nE. Wodehouse, Esq. M.P.\n\nD. Woods, Esq., _Dereham_\n\nMr. I. Young, _London_, 2 copies\n\nMr. L. Young, _London_\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX No. 1.\nA Bibliographical Note by Clement Shorter.\n\n\nGeorge Borrow commenced his literary career with a translation of\nKlinger's \"Faustus\" in 1825, and by a compilation of \"Celebrated Trials\"\nin the same year.  Both these books appeared in London while he was\nengaged as a bookseller's hack, as described in \"Lavengro.\"  In 1826\nBorrow returned to Norwich, and there he issued from the printing-house\nof S. Wilkin, in the Upper Haymarket, these \"Romantic Ballads.\"  He had\nworked hard at collecting subscribers, and two hundred copies were\nreserved for Norwich at half a guinea each copy; the remaining three\nhundred out of an edition of five hundred were sent to London.  Some of\nthese bear the imprint of John Taylor, Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, 1826,\nwhile the remainder bear the imprint of Wightman & Cramp, of Paternoster\nRow, in the same year.  Dr. Knapp only knew of the Taylor edition,\nbecause that is referred to in the correspondence.  Copies, however, of\nthe Wightman & Cramp edition are in existence, and the title-page will be\nfound reproduced with those of the first and second issue in the opening\npages of this volume.  Borrow sent copies to Lockhart, and Cunningham\nadvised gifts to other reviewers; but not a single review of the book\nappeared.  Yet his subscription list \"amply paid all expenses,\" as Borrow\nstates in a letter to Cunningham.  That list reveals the fact that such\ndiverse persons as Dr. Bathurst, Bishop of Norwich, and Thurtell, the\nmurderer of Mr. Weare, were among the Norwich subscribers, while Benjamin\nHaydon, John Timbs, and Thomas Campbell paid their half-guineas from\nLondon.  Thurtell, we may add, was hanged before the book appeared.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX No. 2.\nFacsimile of Borrow's Manuscript from the Collection of Clement Shorter.\n\n\n{i:Manuscript of The deceived Merman--part 1: borrow1.jpg}\n\n{i:Manuscript of The deceived Merman--part 2: borrow2.jpg}\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{f:1} The goddess of death--according to the Northern mythology.\n\n{f:2}  The paradise of the Northern mythology.\n\n{f:3}  Moe in Danish signifies Maid, and is pronounced nearly like \"May.\"\nMay is Old English for Maid.\n\n{f:4} The Fairies.--Ellefolk.  _Dan_.\n\n{f:5}  Giants.--Jette.  _Dan_.\n\n{f:6}  Dovrefeld is the highest mountain in Norway, and in Europe.\n\n{f:7}  Some of the many powers attributed to \"Runic verses\" will be found\ndescribed in the song so intituled, in the latter part of this volume.\n\n{f:8}  Boune, to get ready.\n\n{f:9}  Rede, advise.  Raader.--Dan.\n\n{f:10}  Woxen, grown.  Voxen.--Dan.\n\n{f:11}  Jesus Christ.\n\n{f:12}  Grene shaw, green wood.--Old English.\n\n{f:13}  Brute-carl, dyre-carl.--_Original_.\n\n{f:14}  By this nose under the chin must be understood, that the elf has\nso long and crooked a nose, that it reaches and turns up under his chin.\nCrooked noses are, in all stories, allowed to be an ingredient of\nfiendish physiognomy.\n\n{f:15}  Svobt udi maard.--_Original_.\n\n{f:16}  Slaae mig et mit Ledemod sonder.\n\n{f:17}  Burly, strong.\n\n{f:18}  Rok og teen.  The Rok is no longer used in England, though still\ncommon in the North.  It is a hazle stick, more than a yard long, round\nwhich the wool is wound.  It is affixed to the side of the spinner, under\nthe left arm.\n\n{f:19}  By scattering \"Runes,\" or Runic letters, over graves, provided\nthey formed a particular rhyme, the ancient Scandinavians imagined that\nthe dead might be aroused.\n\n{f:20}  Han laerer de Kiaempers Ryg at verke.\n\n{f:21} To ride at Dyst, to battle on horseback.\n\n{f:22}  It was formerly the custom in Denmark, upon St. John's day, to\ncelebrate the arrival of Summer, by troops of youths and maids going out\ninto the woods, and thence returning bedecked with leaves and branches.\nThis ceremony was called \"bringing Summer to town.\"\n\n{f:23}  Blank, clear, shining.--_Dan_.\n\n{f:24} Called in Danish Kiaempe-steene; these stones either mark the\nburial place of a warrior, or the spot where some very remarkable\ncircumstance has occurred.\n\n{f:25}  These were ancient Danish monarchs renowned in song and tale, for\nwarlike exploits and strange adventures.  Not far from the Bridge of Vaere\nin the diocese of Roeskild, is King Frode's grave-hill, which, according\nto tradition, contains immense treasures, and is the richest in all the\nland.  \"Around the King's neck is a gold chain, so long that its other\nend reaches round his feet.\"  _See Thiele's Danske Folkesagn_.\n\n{f:26}  Denmark's wisest and greatest king.  He entertained a warm\nfriendship for James the First of England, and, attended by his court,\ncame to London to visit him.  The ceremonies and rejoicings which this\nevent gave rise to, are well described in an old German book, at present\nin the British Museum.\n\n{f:27}  Tordenskiold Juul and Hvidtfeld--celebrated Danish admirals.  The\nmemory of Tordenskiold is sacred among the peasantry, on account of the\nvictories obtained by him over the Swedes.  It is reported of him in\nJutland, that when the shot of the enemy was directed thick and fast\nagainst him, he would shake the leaden bullets from out the folds of his\nclothes.\n\n{f:28}  In the Northern mythology, the God of war and strength.  He is\ngirded by a belt of bear-sinews, and bears a hammer called \"Miolner,\"\nwhich means the shatterer, and with which he destroys giants, demons, and\nother foes of Odin the supreme God.\n\n{f:29}  See preface to \"Waldemar's Chase,\" p. 115.\n\n{f:30}  It was frequently the practice of the ancient Norsemen, after\nhaving entombed their dead kings and heroes, to plant oaks or other trees\nover them, in order to prevent their remains being disturbed with\nfacility.  In that sublimest of all poems, \"The Incantation of Hervor,\"\nis a passage to the following effect:\n\n   Hervadr, Hiorvadr, Hrani and Angantyr,\n   I wake ye all under the roots of the trees.\n\n{f:31}  Between the islands of Ferroe the Sea exhibits a phenomenon,\ncalled, in the dialect of the Islanders, the Boff.  Whilst the salt\nstream runs strong and glassy through its narrow channel, it is suddenly\ndeformed by seven successive breakers, huge and foamy, which occur\nwithout any apparent cause, and infallibly overwhelm any boat which may\nchance to be in the way of their fury.\n\n{f:32}  The ancient Northern god of music and poetry.\n\n{f:33}  A mountain in the Scottish Highlands.\n\n{f:34}  The Duergar, or Dwarf-elves, of Scandinavia are famous for the\ndexterity with which they fabricate ornaments of every kind, from the\ngold which they dig out of the depths of the hills.\n\n{f:35}  Kemp, a warrior.--_Old Eng_. _Dan_. Kiempe.","title":"Romantic Ballads, Translated from the Danish; and Miscellaneous Pieces","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":23285}