{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_66304/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_66304","id":"gutenberg_66304","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66304","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads, Danish -- Translations into English","Ballads, English","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Danish poetry -- Translations into English","English poetry","Folk songs, Danish -- Translations into English","Old Norse poetry -- Translations into English"],"text":"THE NORSE KING\u2019S BRIDAL\n\n                         _By the Same Author_\n\n\n                    =OIL OF SPIKENARD.=        6s.\n\n                            SECOND EDITION\n\n                     _THE ATHEN\u00c6UM_ SAYS: \u201cTHIS\n                     IS A REMARKABLE ACHIEVEMENT.\u201d\n\n                     =BALLADS FROM THE DANISH:\n                     AND ORIGINAL VERSES.= 2s. net.\n\n                 _The Daily Graphic_ says:--\u201cThis little\n                 volume reveals its author as a poet of\n                 considerable promise and of no inconsiderable\n                 attainment.\u201d\n\n\n                       LONDON :: ANDREW MELROSE\n                  3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.\n\n\n\n\n                           THE NORSE KING\u2019S\n                                BRIDAL\n\n                   _TRANSLATIONS FROM THE DANISH AND\n                   OLD NORSE, WITH ORIGINAL BALLADS_\n\n                                  BY\n                          E. M. SMITH-DAMPIER\n\n\n                       LONDON :: ANDREW MELROSE\n                  3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.\n                                 1912\n\n\n                              PRINTED BY\n                    HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,\n                         LONDON AND AYLESBUBY.\n\n\n                               TO E. D.\n\n                                  AND\n\n                              THE OLD ONE\n\n\n\n\nAUTHOR\u2019S PREFACE\n\n\nIn these translations from the Danish I have adhered strictly to the\nmetres of the original; this, however, is not the case with those from\nthe Old Norse. The original ballads are not versifications of Northern\nlegends, but, like those in my previous volume, so far as matter goes,\npure inventions of my own.\n\nThe \u201cDrowning of John Remorsson\u201d is, according to Professor Gr\u00fcndtvig,\nin treatment, though not in subject, a Danish parallel to the Scottish\n\u201cSir Patrick Spens.\u201d \u201cAgnes and the Merman\u201d seems to me interesting, as\nhaving possibly suggested to Matthew Arnold his \u201cForsaken Merman.\u201d\n\nWith regard to \u201cThe Awakening of Angantheow\u201d and \u201cThe Lay of Thrym,\u201d I\nhave little but apologies to offer. No one can be more sensible than\nmyself of their short-comings. My excuse is, that I could learn of no\nother English metrical versions--and we all know _who_ rush in where\nangels fear to tread! If my inadequacies exasperate some better poet\nthan myself to the production of versions nearer to the magnificent\noriginals, they will at least have justified their existence.\n\n_October 5, 1911._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nFROM THE OLD NORSE\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n\nTHE WAKING OF ANGANTHEOW                                               3\n\nTHE LAY OF THRYM                                                      10\n\n\nFROM THE DANISH\n\nTHE NORSE KING\u2019S BRIDAL                                               19\n\nTHE GIPSY\u2019S BRIDE                                                     23\n\nHAGEN AT THE DANCE                                                    27\n\nTHE LOWLY SQUIRE                                                      31\n\nTHE DROWNING OF JOHN REMORSSON                                        34\n\nSIR DALEBO\u2019S VENGEANCE                                                39\n\nTHE LUCK OF THE LINDEN-TREE                                           45\n\nAGNES AND THE MERMAN                                                  48\n\n\nORIGINAL\n\nMORS YANUA VIT\u00c6                                                       55\n\nBALLAD OF THE TURNING TIDE                                            59\n\nBALLAD OF ALL SOULS\u2019 EVE                                              66\n\nTHE BRIDE\u2019S BRACELET                                                  75\n\nTHE WOLF OF IRONWOOD                                                  79\n\nBALLAD OF MIDSUMMER EVE                                               84\n\n\n\n\nFROM THE OLD NORSE\n\n\n\n\nTHE WAKING OF ANGANTHEOW\n\n_NOTE.--Swafurlami, a king of the seed of Odin, stole the sword Tyrfing\n(ripper) from the dwarfs who forged it. They laid on it a curse--that it\nshould bring death to its bearer; that no wound made by it should be\nhealed; and that three deeds of woe should be wrought by it. Swafurlami\nis slain by Arngrim, who inherits the sword. Eyfura, his wife, has\ntwelve sons, all of whom become Vikings. Angantheow, the eldest, and his\nbrothers, are eventually all slain near Upsala by Hjalmar, and his\nbrother Arrow-Odd; but Hjalmar, being wounded by Tyrfing, has only time\nto sing his death-song before he dies._\n\n_Angantheow\u2019s daughter, Herwor (by his wife Tofa) is brought up as a\nbond-maid, in ignorance of her parentage. When at last she learns it,\nthe war-fury comes upon her; she arms herself as an Amazon, and goes to\nMunarvoe in Samsey, in quest of the dwarf-doomed weapon. The following\npoem concerns her dialogue with her dead father, his yielding up to her\nof Tyrfing, and his prophecy of the further doom its possession will\nbring upon her race._\n\n    _The maid at eve in Munarvoe_\n    _Saw the herdsman homeward go._\n\n_Shepherd_:\n\n    Who walketh alone so late i\u2019 the isle?\n    Go seek thee shelter and sleep awhile\n\n_Herwor_:\n\n    I seek not shelter to sleep awhile,\n    For I know not the dwellers in the isle;\n    Tell me, thou, what fain I\u2019d know--\n    Where is the mound called Hiorward\u2019s Howe?\n\n_Shepherd_:\n\n    Mad thou art, that askest thus,\n    And thy plight is piteous!\n    Fly we to shelter, far and fast--\n    The world without is grim and ghast.\n\n_Herwor_:\n\n    I\u2019ll give thee a neck-ring of gold so red--\n    Not thus is the friend of heroes stayed!\n\n_Shepherd_:\n\n    No ring that\u2019s wrought of the gold so gay,\n    No goodly guerdon, my feet shall stay;\n    Him I hold but a witless wight\n    That will walk alone in the grisly night.\n    Fires are flitting, and grave-mounds gape!\n    Burns field and fen! Seek we to \u2019scape!\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    Nay, for their fretting no fright I know,\n    Tho\u2019 all the isle went up in a lowe.\n    Nay, it behoves not to fear nor flee\n    Tho\u2019 ghosts arise. Talk thou with me!\n\n    _Far to the forest he fled, afraid\n    To hold discourse with the hardy maid;\n    But higher-strung for her dauntless quest,\n    Herwor\u2019s heart swelled in her breast._\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    Angantheow, wake! the voice is mine,\n    Tofa\u2019s only child and thine;\n    Give to me the sword of flame\n    Forged by dwarfs for Swafurlam!\n    Angantheow, Herward, Hiorward, Rann\n    Waken, each and every man!\n    Waken, waken from your sleep\n    \u2019Mid the tree-roots, where ye keep\n    Blood-stained spear and sword and shield--\n    All the weapons warriors wield.\n    Surely, seed of Arngrim bold,\n    Dust ye are, and mounds of mould,\n    Speechless, if ye let me go,\n    Eyfur\u2019s sons, in Munarvoe!\n    Angantheow, Herward, Hiorward, Rann!\n    Be it in your rib-bones\u2019 span\n    As of ants a stinging horde,\n    If ye give me not the sword!\n    Ghosts no gear should have in ward!\n\n    _Angantheow_:\n\n    Herwor, daughter! Wherefore thus\n    Callest curses down on us?\n    Mad thou art, distracted maid,\n    Wilful waking thus the dead!\n    Surely thou art no mortal wight\n    That comest thus to the howe at night,\n    With helm and spear and bright breast-plate,\n    Ore of the Goths, to the grave-mound\u2019s gate!\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    Men called me a mortal, till thus I yode\n    To seek thee out in thine abode.\n    Give me what the dwarfs have wrought--\n    Hiding it avails thee not.\n\n    _Angantheow_:\n\n    Never hand of sire nor kin\n    Laid me here, the howe within,\n    But the foeman two that I did not slay--\n    Tyrfing one of them bears to-day.\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    See now that the truth thou tell!\n    May the grisly fiends of hell\n    Tear thee piecemeal from thy grave\n    If thou hast not there the glaive!\n    Slow thou art, I tell thee true,\n    To give thine only child her due!\n\n    _Angantheow_:\n\n    Hell-gate is opening--the graves gape wide!\n    The isle is flaming on every side!\n    All is ghastly and grim to see--\n    Back to thy ships, maid! Turn and flee.\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    Never a bale that burns by night\n    Shall put me with its flame to flight.\n    Never thy daughter\u2019s heart shall shrink\n    Tho\u2019 a ghost should stand at the grave-mound\u2019s brink.\n    I bind ye all with a magic doom\n    To lie and rot within the tomb!\n    Hjalmar\u2019s bane, from out the howe,\n    The sharp mail-scather, give me now!\n\n    _Angantheow_:\n\n    Under my shoulders lies Hjalmar\u2019s bane,\n    Fenced with a fire that will not wane\n    No maiden I ken of earthly mould\n    Will dare such a blade in her hand to hold.\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    May I have the shining blade\n    I will hold it, unafraid.\n    It scares me not, it sinks and dies,\n    The burning flame, before mine eyes.\n\n    _Angantheow_:\n\n    Herwor the brave, art mad, to go\n    Open-eyed into the lowe!\n    Rather with the sword shalt hie thee;\n    Nothing, maid, can I deny thee.\n        (_He gives her the sword out of his grave._)\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    Son of Vikings, well dost thou\n    To give me the sword from out the howe;\n    Better to me the boon, I say,\n    Than were I to conquer all Norroway.\n\n    _Angantheow_:\n\n    Little, daughter, dost thou know\n    Wherefore thou rejoicest so!\n    Fond, thou speakest words of woe.\n    Thou shalt bear a son at length\n    Who will trust in Tyrfing\u2019s strength;\n    Heidrek, thus his name shall run,\n    Richer than all beneath the sun.\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    I must fare to my steeds of the sea;\n    Gay and glad is my heart in me.\n    Son of a king, I reck not at all\n    How my children hereafter strive and brawl!\n\n    _Angantheow_:\n\n    Long shalt thou hold and enjoy thy gain;\n    But keep in the scabbard Hjalmar\u2019s bane.\n    Touch not the edges, with venom dight,\n    Worse than a plague to living wight.\n    Daughter, farewell! The power and pith\n    Fain would I endue thee with\n    Of us twelve men, the life and breath\n    The sons of Arngrim lost in death!\n\n    _Herwor_:\n\n    All is accomplished; I must not stay.\n    Hail, ye in the howe! I will away.\n\n     *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \u2019Twixt life and death, methought, I found me,\n    When the flaming fire was all around me!\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THRYM\n\n\n    When Thor awoke, his wrath was grim\n    To find his hammer gone from him.\n    He shook his beard, he tossed his hair,\n    The Son of Earth sought here and there.\n\n    And first of all he spake this word:\n    \u201cListen, Loki! never was heard\n    In earth or heaven what now I say--\n    The Thunderer\u2019s hammer is stolen away!\u201d\n\n    To Freyja the fair their way they take,\n    And this is the word that first he spake:\n    \u201cLend me thy feather-fell, I pray,\n    To seek my hammer, that\u2019s stolen away.\u201d\n\n    \u201cWere it of silver, or were it of gold,\n    That would I give thee, that should\u2019st thou hold.\u201d\n\n    Loki he flew in the rustling fell\n    Out of the halls where the Aesir dwell\n    To J\u00f4tunheim. On a howe sat Thrym,\n    King o\u2019 the giants, a-twisting trim\n    Golden bands for his hounds of speed,\n    And smoothing the mane of his trusty steed;\n    And this is the word that first he said:\n    \u201cWhat of the Aesir? What of the Elves?\n    Why art thou come to the Giant\u2019s door?\u201d\n\n    \u201c\u2019Tis ill with the Aesir, ill with the Elves!\n    Say, hast thou hidden the hammer of Thor?\u201d\n\n    \u201cYea, I have hidden the hammer of thunder\n    Eight full fathoms the earth down under;\n    No man shall win it in all his life\n    Until he shall bring me Freyja to wife.\u201d\n\n    Loki he flew in the rustling fell\n    Out of the halls where the Giants dwell,\n    Until he came to Asgard\u2019s bound,\n    And Thor in the midmost garth he found.\n    And this is the word that first he said:\n    \u201cWhat tidings, toiling, hast thou won?\n    For a man that sits tells a stumbling tale,\n    And a man that lies, a lying one.\u201d\n\n    \u201cNews for my toiling do I bring;\n    Thrym has thine hammer, the Giant\u2019s king,\n    No man may win it in all his life\n    Until he take him Freyja to wife.\u201d\n\n    To Freyja the fair their way they take,\n    And this is the word that first he spake:\n    \u201cBind on thy bridal-veil amain,\n    For to J\u00f4tunheim we must fare, we twain.\u201d\n\n    Wroth was Freyja! she caught her breath--\n    The hall of the Aesir shook beneath,\n    The Brising necklace snapped in three.\n    \u201cMarriage-mad is the name for me\n    If to J\u00f4tunheim I fare with thee!\u201d\n\n    All the Aesir to council went,\n    The mighty ones to parliament,\n    Gods and goddesses, all in wonder\n    How to win back the hammer of thunder.\n\n    It was Heimdall spake amain,\n    Whitest of gods, the wily Wane:\n    \u201cNow bind on Thor the veil so fair,\n    The Brising necklace let him wear;\n    Hang round him many a clinking key,\n    Let woman\u2019s weeds fall to his knee;\n    Jewels broad on his breast shall shine,\n    And neatly shall ye the topknot twine!\u201d\n\n    Up spake he, mightiest at need:\n    \u201cCall me a coward\u2019s name indeed\n    If ever I wear a woman\u2019s weed!\u201d\n\n    Up spake Loki, Laufey\u2019s son:\n    \u201cThor, with thy witless words have done!\n    Soon shall the Giants in Asgard reign\n    Unless thou win thine hammer again.\u201d\n\n    On Thor they bound the veil so fair,\n    The Brising necklace did he wear;\n    They hung him with many a clinking key,\n    Let women\u2019s weeds fall to his knee;\n    Jewels broad on his breast did shine,\n    And neatly did they the topknot twine.\n    Then Loki, son of Laufey, said:\n    \u201cI will go with thee as waiting-maid!\u201d\n\n    The goats they harness by two and by one--\n    To the shafts they are shackled, well can they run!\n    Valley and hill burst into flame\n    When Odin\u2019s son to the Giants came.\n\n    The King o\u2019 the Giants did loudly call:\n    \u201cUp now, Giants! strew the benches all!\n    See where the bride they bring adown,\n    Daughter of Niord, from Noa-town!\n\n    \u201cKine go here with gilded horn,\n    Oxen black my garth adorn;\n    Gold have I and goods galore--\n    For Freyja alone I long so sore.\u201d\n\n    Evening fell on the blithe brid\u00e0le;\n    The Giants sat a-drinking ale.\n    The greedy spouse of Sif, he ate\n    Seven salmon, every cate\n    For the ladies spread, and a goodly steer--\n    And he drank three tuns, his heart to cheer.\n\n    The King o\u2019 the Giants, he up and cried:\n    \u201cNever was known such a hungry bride!\n    Ne\u2019er saw I lady so full of greed,\n    Nor maiden drink so deep of mead!\u201d\n\n    Sitting apart, the wily maid\n    Answered what the Giant said:\n    \u201cThis se\u2019nnight past no meat had she,\n    So fain she was to come to thee!\u201d\n\n    He lifted the veil to kiss the bride,\n    And the hall\u2019s full length he sprang aside:\n    \u201cWhy are her eyes so full of ire?\n    Methinks they are darting sparks of fire!\u201d\n\n    Sitting apart, the wily maid\n    Answered what the Giant said:\n    \u201cThis se\u2019nnight past no sleep had she,\n    So fain she was to come to thee!\u201d\n\n    The Giant\u2019s sister entered in,\n    Greedy a bridal-gift to win:\n    \u201cGive me thy ring of red, red gold,\n    If thou my love wouldst have and hold!\u201d\n\n    The King o\u2019 the Giants, he up and cried:\n    \u201cBear in the hammer to hallow the bride!\n    To the maiden\u2019s knees now Mi\u00f6llni bring,\n    And Var shall hallow our hand-fasting.\u201d\n\n    Deep in his breast laughed the heart of Thor,\n    When his hammer he held once more!\n    He slew the King o\u2019 Giants, Thrym,\n    And all his race smote after him.\n    He smote the Giant\u2019s sister old,\n    She who begged a gift of gold--\n    For pence, a pound was what she won,\n    And a hammer-blow for a gay guerd\u00f2n!\n\n    Thus back to his hammer came Odin\u2019s son!\n\n\n\n\nFROM THE DANISH\n\n\n\n\nTHE NORSE KING\u2019S BRIDAL\n\n\n    Glad was Sir Kaall in the winter,\n      All up in the northern land;\n    Unto the King of Norroway\n      He\u2019s given his daughter\u2019s hand.\n    (Woe was her heart in the winter!)\n\n    All for the King of Norroway\n      They spread the bridal-feast--\n    But it was young Sir Bi\u00f6rn\n      The maiden loved the best.\n\n    Up spake the King of Norroway\n      Before the blithe brid\u00e0le--\n    \u201cWhy weeps she, haughty Hyldelil?\n      Why is her cheek so pale?\u201d\n\n    He spake, the King of Norroway,\n      Unto his pages three--\n    \u201cNow bid him come, the young Sir Bi\u00f6rn,\n      And speak a word to me.\u201d\n\n    In came he, young Sir Bi\u00f6rn,\n      And stood before the board:\n    \u201cWhat wilt thou, King of Norroway,\n      That thou hast sent me word?\u201d\n\n    \u201cNow hearken, young Sir Bi\u00f6rn,\n      Thou knight so fair and fine!\n    Say, wilt thou be my seneschal,\n      And pour my bridal wine?\u201d\n\n    \u201cYea, fain will I be seneschal\n      All at thy bridal fair,\n    If I may pour the red, red wine,\n      Before the bride to bear.\u201d\n\n    Sir Bi\u00f6rn poured the mead so brown,\n      And poured the red, red wine;\n    The bride she sat full sorrowful,\n      And wept for dule and pine.\n\n    It was the young Sir Bi\u00f6rn\n      That leaned across the board,\n    And whispered to that weeping bride\n      Full many a wooing word:\n\n    \u201cDost mind now, haughty Hyldelil,\n      What passed between us both,\n    When, sitting in thy maiden\u2019s bower,\n      Thou plightedst me thy troth?\u201d\n\n    The bride she sat so sorrowful,\n      And ne\u2019er a word she said--\n    But her fair face grew white and wan,\n      That as a rose was red.\n\n    Up spake the King of Norroway\n      In purple wrapped and vair;\n    \u201cWhat sayest thou, oh young Sir Bi\u00f6rn,\n      Unto my bride so fair?\n\n    \u201cAway, thou young Sir Bi\u00f6rn!\n      Let be thy cozening tale!\n    Her face that as a rose was red\n      Is now grown wan and pale.\u201d\n\n    \u201cThere sitt\u2019st thou, King of Norroway,\n      A-drinking red, red wine!\n    The lady that thou lovest\n      Was first true love o\u2019 mine!\u201d\n\n    \u201cAnd if the lady that I love\n      Has plighted troth to thee,\n    Then never will I bear her home\n      To Norroway with me.\n\n    \u201cNow tell me on thy faith and troth,\n      What I shall ask, my bride!\n    Wilt reign a queen in Norroway,\n      Or a dame in Denmark bide?\u201d\n\n    \u201cLiefer I\u2019d bide a simple dame\n      A good knight\u2019s name to bear,\n    Than go with thee to Norroway,\n      A queenly crown to wear!\u201d\n\n    It was the King of Norroway\n      Smote hand upon the board--\n    \u201cNe\u2019er have I known a knight\u2019s daughter\n      That e\u2019er spake such a word!\u201d\n\n    It was the King of Norroway\n      That laughed, and made right merry--\n    \u201cAnd dost thou love him more than me,\n      With him I trow shalt tarry!\u201d\n\n    They rode away, the King his men,\n      So sadly over the land,\n    All but the young Sir Bi\u00f6rn\n      That won the maiden\u2019s hand.\n\n    They rode away, the King his men,\n      So sadly over the ice--\n    All but the young Sir Bi\u00f6rn,\n      For he has won the prize!\n\n    (Woe was her heart in the winter.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE GIPSY\u2019S BRIDE\n\n\n    There lived a gentle maiden all by the water wan;\n    She was the fairest maiden that e\u2019er the sun shone on.\n    (Oh, oh, ha! all by the water wan!\n    She was the fairest maiden that e\u2019er the sun shone on.)\n\n    To her there came a-wooing five princes fair and tall;\n    Yet they were not so beauteous but she denied \u2019em all.\n\n    To her there came a-wooing five counts so fair and tall;\n    Yet they were not so beauteous but she denied \u2019em all.\n\n    To her there came a-wooing five franklins fair and tall;\n    Yet they were not so beauteous but she denied \u2019em all.\n\n    There came a cunning gipsy a-roaming to the town,\n    They gave him gold and guerdon to bring her pride adown.\n\n    \u201cNow lend to me a saddle, a mantle, and a beast,\n    And I\u2019ll ride a-wooing, as proud as any priest!\u201d\n\n    He rode, the cunning gipsy, unto the castle fair;\n    There she stood, the maiden, a-combing of her hair.\n\n    \u201cGood-morrow, my lady, so fair, and so fine!\n    Say, wilt thou come to be true-love o\u2019 mine?\u201d\n\n    \u201cAway with thee, thou gipsy! I scorn thy words so free!\n    Counts and mighty princes have come a-wooing me!\u201d\n\n    \u201cGood sooth, I am no gipsy, tho\u2019 thou biddest me begone;\n    I am the proudest king\u2019s son that e\u2019er the sun shone on.\n\n    \u201cI have goodly acres, and fields so fair and broad;\n    I have serving maidens, who shall spread thy board.\n\n    \u201cI have a goodly garden of herbs a-growing green,\n    Where thou, my love, shalt wander, out and in.\n\n    \u201cI have three dappled palfreys a-tossing of their crest,\n    That thou and I, my sweetheart, may ride among the best.\u201d\n\n    When the wedding now was over, and all the feasting done,\n    Then asked the lovely maiden his lands to look upon.\n\n    \u201cWhere are thy goodly acres, and where thy lands so broad?\n    And where are all thy serving-maids, for us shall spread the board?\u201d\n\n    \u201cI have no goodly acres, I have no lands so broad;\n    And never have I eaten at an honest man his board.\n\n    I have no goodly garden of herbs a-growing green;\n    Thro\u2019 all men\u2019s courts I wander, out and in.\n\n    \u201cI have no dappled palfreys, a-tossing of their crest;\n    But only my long hunting-knife, of all my goods the best!\u201d\n\n    And she may laugh, the lady, or she may weep for woe,\n    But the gipsy she must follow, wherever he may go.\n\n    The lady must turn up her silken sleeves so gay,\n    And help that cunning gipsy the slaughtered beasts to flay.\n\n    Now must she quit her kirtle and her silken sark so fair,\n    For silken sark and kirtle she nevermore shall wear.\n    (Oh, oh, ha! her silken sark so fair!\n    For silken sark and kirtle she nevermore shall wear.)\n\n\n\n\nHAGEN AT THE DANCE\n\n\n    The King sits up in Ribe,\n      Drinking red wine;\n    He\u2019s sent to all his Danish knights\n      Of noble line.\n\n    (So daintily danced he, Hagen!)\n\n    \u201cStand up now, all my mein\u00e8,\n       And knights so bold!\n    Tread ye for me a merry dance\n      All on the windy wold.\u201d\n\n    Listed him there to dance,\n      The Danish King;\n    With them went haughty Hagen,\n      The round to sing.\n\n    The Queen awoke from slumber,\n      And laughed so low--\n    \u201cWhich one of all my maidens\n      Strikes the harp so?\u201d\n\n    \u201cNay, none of thy merry maidens\n      Strikes the harp-strings;\n    That is haughty Hagen,\n      So sweet that sings.\u201d\n\n    \u201cStand up now, all my ladies!\n      Wreathe the red rose!\n    We will fare forth, to see\n      How the dance goes.\u201d\n\n    Forth rode the Queen o\u2019 Danes,\n      In scarlet clad--\n    With her went many a dainty dame,\n      And damsel glad.\n\n    Withershins rode the Queen\n      Around the wold;\n    There saw she haughty Hagen,\n      That knight so bold.\n\n    It was haughty Hagen\n      Spake up so free;\n    \u201cListeth thee now, my gracious dame,\n      To dance with me?\u201d\n\n    Up stands he, haughty Hagen,\n      All with the Queen to dance--\n    Good sooth, they there made merry\n      With gay pastance.\n\n    Up and spake the little maid\n      In kirtle blue;\n    \u201cBeware, beware! for traitors\u2019 eyes\n      Watch all ye do!\u201d\n\n    \u201cI heed them not, those traitors--\n      God grant them dule and pine!--\n    Would God that haughty Hagen\n      Might e\u2019er be mine!\n\n    \u201cDearer to me is Hagen,\n      In tunic old,\n    Than e\u2019er is he, the King o\u2019 Danes,\n      In crown of gold!\n\n    \u201cDearer to me is Hagen,\n      Poor and alone,\n    Than e\u2019er is he, the King o\u2019 Danes,\n      Upon his throne!\u201d\n\n    It was the King o\u2019 Danes\n      Did speak and say:\n    \u201cWhat listeth thus the queen\n      To dance and play?\n\n    \u201cBetter to sit in the ladies\u2019 bower\n      With harp of gold\n    Than thus to stand by Hagen\u2019s side\n      On the green wold.\u201d\n\n    Up and spake the little maid\n      In kirtle red;\n    \u201cHast heard, hast heard, my gracious dame,\n      What the King said?\u201d\n\n    \u201cSo newly have I here begun\n      The merry dance to trace,\n    The King right well may tarry\n      A little space!\u201d\n\n    Up and spake the little lad\n      In purple weed;\n    \u201cThe King o\u2019 Danes is riding home--\n      Take heed, take heed!\u201d\n\n    Shame fall on haughty Hagen\n      And all his lore!\n    The Queen sits in the ladies\u2019 bower,\n      And sighs so sore.\n\n    (So daintily danced he, Hagen!)\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOWLY SQUIRE\n\n\n    Seven long years as a lowly squire\n      I served mine own liege-lord;\n    But of his daughter fair to see\n      They told me never a word.\n    (And is she glad, then I rejoice.)\n\n    Ne\u2019er did I hear a word of her,\n      Nor see the lovely lass,\n    Till Easter-day in the morning\n      When she should go to Mass.\n\n    Thus it went from Easter\n      All unto Whitsuntide;\n    The maiden donned her fairest weed\n      Unto the kirk to ride.\n\n    The maiden donned her fairest weed\n      Unto the kirk to ride;\n    I set my saddle on my steed\n      And went at the maiden\u2019s side\n\n    There, as I rode by the maiden\u2019s side,\n      Like red gold shone her hair;\n    And every man right well might mark\n      My heart was full of care.\n\n    We rode across the lee-land\n      To the good greenwood amain,\n    And never did my hand loose hold\n      Of the maiden\u2019s bridle-rein.\n\n    \u201cHold off, hold off, thou fair young squire,\n      And do not ride so near!\n    Well can I see thy foolish heart\n      Doth hold me all too dear.\u201d\n\n    \u201cI may not eat, I may not drink,\n      I dwell in dule and pine--\n    And all the night and every night,\n      I dream that thou art mine.\n\n    \u201cGood sooth, I am but a poor young squire--\n      God make me rich and great!\n    God give me land, as I have love,\n      To be thy worthy mate!\u201d\n\n    \u201cNow dress thee in thy fairest weed,\n      Speak not to living wight--\n    For I will pray my father dear,\n      And he will dub thee knight.\n\n    \u201cThen come into the ladies\u2019 bower,\n      And stand thou not too near,\n    That never a living wight may know\n      How thou dost hold me dear.\u201d\n\n    I went into the ladies\u2019 bower,\n      Right sore afraid was I!\n    I looked not at my own true love\n      Lest the serving-maid should spy.\n\n    She smiled, the lovely lady,\n      Beneath her veil so thin;\n    \u201cNow who is he, the stranger squire,\n      That comes so boldly in?\u201d\n\n    Now thanks be to the kindly Count,\n      So leal a lord was he!\n    He gave away his daughter dear\n      My beauteous bride to be.\n    (And is she glad, then I rejoice.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE DROWNING OF JOHN REMORSSON\n\n\n    The good ship lies on the lee-land,\n      And under her grows the grass,\n    Oh never so rash a steersman\n      As Sir John Remorsson was!\n    (For the sea she taketh so many.)\n\n    The King sits up in Ribe\n      And a letter writeth he;\n    He bids his gallant captains\n      Make ready for the sea.\n\n    It was Sir John Remorsson\n      Put on his armour bright--\n    \u201cThe man is faithless to his king\n      That will not sail to-night!\u201d\n\n    It was Sir John Remorsson\n      That girt him with his sword--\n    \u201cThe man who will not sail to-day\n      Is faithless to his lord!\n\n    \u201cTo-night will we make merry\n      And drink the foaming ale,\n    And if the favouring weather hold,\n      To-morrow we\u2019ll set sail.\u201d\n\n    It was the skipper Hogen\n      Looked to the sky amain--\n    \u201cHe that will sail the sea to-day\n      Will ne\u2019er come home again!\u201d\n\n    It was Sir John Remorsson\n      To the haven cried aloud--\n    \u201cUp with your sails, ye Danish men,\n      In the great name of God!\u201d\n\n    They had not sailed from land a league--\n      The waves they ran so high--\n    All sad sat skipper Hogen\n      With the salt tear in his eye.\n\n    They had not sailed from land a league--\n      The waves they ran so deep--\n    All sad sat skipper Hogen,\n      And sorely did he weep.\n\n    \u201cWhere is the doughty champion\n      Yestre\u2019en that talked so gay?\n    Let him now take the helm in hand,\n      For the anchor is reft away.\n\n    \u201cWhere is the doughty champion\n      That talked so loud last even?\n    Let him now take the helm in hand,\n      For the sail is rent and riven.\n\n    \u201cNow we will cast the lots around,\n      And bide by heaven\u2019s word;\n    Is there a man of evil life,\n      We\u2019ll heave him overboard.\u201d\n\n    And straight they cast the lots around\n      To see who worked them woe;\n    And the lot has fallen on good Sir John\n      All overboard to go.\n\n    \u201cSo far, so far from land are we,\n      With never a priest anear!\n    But I will make my shrift aloud,\n      And trust that God will hear.\u201d\n\n    It was Sir John Remorsson\n      Fell on his bended knee,\n    And there he made his shrift aloud\n      Before the mainmast tree.\n\n    \u201cFull many a wife have I beguiled,\n      And maidens bright of lee--\n    But never, ah never, good sooth, I thought\n      That I should die by sea!\n\n    \u201cMany a maiden have I beguiled,\n      And many a loving wife--\n    But never, ah never, good sooth, I thought\n      That the sea would have my life!\n\n    \u201cThe merciful Christ in heaven above\n      I pray to pity me,\n    For well I wot my sinful soul\n      A heavy weird must dree.\n\n    \u201cIf ever a one of you comes to land,\n      And meets my love of yore,\n    Tell her to wed whene\u2019er she may--\n      She\u2019ll see my face no more.\n\n    \u201cIf ever a one of you comes to land\n      And meets my mother dear,\n    Tell her I dwell in the king his court\n      In mirth and goodly cheer!\u201d\n\n    Seven and seventy there they sailed\n      Over the billows blue;\n    And only five came home again\n      Of those liege-men tall and true.\n\n    Now we will up to the goodly kirk,\n      High God His grace to pray\n    All for the soul of good Sir John,\n      For his corse is cast away.\n\n    All out, all out by Boringholm\n      The tides they run amain,\n    And there floats many a goodly corse\n      Will ne\u2019er come home again!\n\n    (For the sea she taketh so many.)\n\n\n\n\nSIR DALEBO\u2019S VENGEANCE\n\n\n    Sir Dalebo built him a ship so great,\n    The king himself had not its mate.\n    They knew not Sir Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    The king from his window was looking forth so free;\n    \u201cWhose is the gallant ship a-sailing in the sea?\u201d\n    \u201cNow that is Sir Dalebo Jonsen\u2019s.\u201d\n\n    Up spake the king to his captains bold:\n    \u201cBind him, Sir Dalebo, have him and hold!\n    Bind him, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!\u201d\n\n    Up sprang the captains on their steeds of dapple grey,\n    And forth they galloped faster than a bird can fly away--\n    For they knew not Dalebo Jonsen!\n\n    Now they are come to his castle fair and great,\n    And there stood his mother a-tarrying by the gate;\n    \u201cShow us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!\u201d\n\n    \u201cI cannot show you Dalebo, I know not where he be,\n    For it is seven years and more he rode away from me--\n    I can show him not, Dalebo Jonsen.\u201d\n\n    The captain pulled off his cap of blue,\n    A thousand gold-pieces he told so true--\n    \u201cNow show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!\u201d\n\n    \u201cTo the east o\u2019 the court, in the bower above,\n    Sir Dalebo talks with his own true love;\n    Ye can find him there, Dalebo Jonsen.\u201d\n\n    They knocked at the door with shield and with spear;\n    Up sprang Sir Dalebo: \u201cWhom have we here?\n    Who are these?\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    He put on his armour all shining and bright,\n    Little Kirsten she clasped it, the best that she might--\n    \u201cClasp it hard!\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    Sir Dalebo out of the window sprang--\n    His gold-hilted sword at his girdle rang--\n    \u201cI come!\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    He struck down one, he struck down two--\n    \u201c\u2019Tis thus the goodly game should go!\n    Doth it like ye?\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    He struck down three, he struck down four--\n    \u201cThe game goes better than of yore!\n    What think ye?\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,\n    And forth he galloped faster than a bird can fly away,\n    \u201cTread softly!\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    Sir Dalebo has come to his castle fair and great,\n    There stood his mother, a-tarrying by the gate--\n    \u201cGood-morrow!\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    \u201cHearken, dear mother, to what I ask of thee!\n    What didst thou with the money my foemen paid for me?\n    I ask it, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.\u201d\n\n    \u201cAh, Dalebo, ah, Dalebo, and wilt thou work me woe?\n    Never for all the world would I sell thee to thy foe--\n    I sold thee not, Dalebo Jonsen.\u201d\n\n    He drew his shining sword, and struck her where she stood,\n    And all so small he hewed her as the beech-leaves in the wood--\n    \u201cLie thou there!\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,\n    And forth he galloped faster than a bird that flies away--\n    For wroth was Sir Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    Sir Dalebo has ridden to the castle fair and great;\n    There stood the King o\u2019 Danes, a-tarrying by the gate.\n    \u201cGood greeting!\u201d said Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    \u201cHearken now, Sir Dalebo, and look thou tell to me!\n    Where are they, my champions, I sent of late to thee?\n    Tell me that, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!\u201d\n\n    \u201cOh some of them are sick, and some of them are sore,\n    And some are lying still, to rise again no more,\n    That thou sentest to Dalebo Jonsen.\n\n    \u201cGo then, get thy salt, bid thy scullions ready be,\n    If thou wilt salt the flesh that I have carved for thee!\n    I rede thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.\u201d\n\n    \u201cI pray thee, dear Sir Dalebo, now sheathe thy shining brand!\n    For freely will I give thee mine only daughter\u2019s hand!\n    I pray thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!\u201d\n\n    \u201cWhat reck I of your wenches, or your serving-maids so gay?\n    I have mine own true sweetheart, that\u2019s fairer far than they!\n    I say it, Dalebo Jonsen!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE LUCK OF THE LINDEN-TREE\n\n\n    Of two true-lovers this tale I tell,\n    That loved each other long and well.\n    (We tread the dance so featly.)\n\n    Their love it nourished as fair and free\n    As the branch grows green on the linden-tree.\n\n    The knight to other lands must roam--\n    The lady, she must bide at home.\n\n    \u201cI\u2019ll plant a linden by thy bower,\n    Leaves that beareth, and many a flower.\n\n    \u201cAnd when the linden sheds its leaves,\n    Then shalt thou know thy true-love grieves.\n\n    \u201cAnd when the tree its flowers hath shed,\n    Then shalt thou know thy love is dead.\u201d\n\n    When night was done and dawn was grey\n    The lady looked upon the brae.\n\n    \u201cGod bless the tree, so green it grows!\n    Well fares my love, where\u2019er he goes!\u201d\n\n    That heard the wily serving-maid;\n    Those lovers true hath she betrayed.\n\n    The serving-maid, she up and spake:\n    \u201cI\u2019ll spill your loves ere dawn shall break!\u201d\n\n    The serving-maid, so false was she,\n    She tore the leaves from the linden-tree.\n\n    When night was done and dawn was grey\n    The lady looked upon the brae.\n\n    \u201cThe linden-tree hath shed its leaves--\n    \u201cFull well I wot my true-love grieves.\n\n    \u201cThe linden-tree its flowers hath shed--\n    I wot full well my love is dead.\n\n    \u201cAnd is he dead, my heart\u2019s desire,\n    My bower and all I\u2019ll burn with fire.\u201d\n\n    She\u2019s laid a brand her bower unto--\n    She\u2019s choked herself with the bolster blue.\n\n    When all the bower in a bale did stand\n    Her love came a-sailing back to land.\n\n    When all the bower was ashes and dust\n    Her love put in to the selfsame coast.\n\n    Unto his page he spake, the knight--\n    \u201cWhose bower is this that burns so bright?\n\n    \u201cIf my true-love is dead, I say,\n    God wot, I\u2019ll die the self-same day.\u201d\n\n    Against a stone he set his hilt,\n    And there his heart\u2019s blood hath he spilt.\n    (We tread the dance so featly.)\n\n\n\n\nAGNES AND THE MERMAN\n\n\n    Agnes she walked on the cliff so steep;\n    Up came a merman out of the deep.\n    (Ha, ha, ha!\n    Up came a merman out of the deep.)\n\n    \u201cHearken now, Agnes, so fair and so fine!\n    Say, wilt thou come to be true love o\u2019 mine?\u201d\n\n    \u201cYes, good sooth, that will I be--\n    But how can I dwell in the depths of the sea?\u201d\n\n    He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth as well;\n    So he bore her down, all in the sea to dwell.\n\n    She dwelt with the merman eight years and more--\n    Seven fair sons to him she bore.\n\n    Agnes she sat by the cradle and sang,\n    And she heard how the bells of England rang.\n\n    Unto the merman she then did say:\n    \u201cMay I go up to the kirk to pray?\u201d\n\n    \u201cYes, thou shalt go, and pray withal;\n    But see thou come back to thy children small.\n\n    \u201cWhen thou hast entered the kirkyard fair,\n    Then shalt thou not let down thy shining golden hair.\n\n    \u201cAnd when thou hast entered the door so wide,\n    Then sit not down by thy mother\u2019s side.\n\n    \u201cWhen the priest names the Name of dread,\n    Thou shalt not bow thy head.\u201d\n\n    He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth amain;\n    So he bore her up to the English strand again.\n\n    When she came to the kirkyard fair,\n    Then she let down her shining golden hair.\n\n    And when she entered the door so wide,\n    She sat her down by her mother\u2019s side.\n\n    When she heard the Name of dread,\n    Then she bowed down her head.\n\n    \u201cHearken now, Agnes, to what I ask of thee--\n    Where hast thou been eight years away from me?\u201d\n\n    \u201cI dwelt in the sea eight years and more;\n    Seven sons so fair I to the merman bore.\u201d\n\n    \u201cTell me, dear daughter, and fear no blame,\n    What did he give for thy maiden fame?\u201d\n\n    \u201cHe gave me a ring of golden sheen--\n    Never a better one hath the queen.\n\n    \u201cOf golden shoon he gave me a pair--\n    Never a better the queen may wear.\n\n    \u201cHe gave me a harp of gold so gay,\n    That I might play upon, to drive my cares away.\u201d\n\n    The merman he made him a path so straight\n    Up from the strand to the kirkyard gate.\n\n    Into the kirk he went, that selfsame day,\n    And all the holy images, they turned their heads away.\n\n    Like the red, red gold was his shining hair;\n    His eyes were full of sorrow and care.\n\n    \u201cHearken now, Agnes, hearken unto me!\n    All thy little children are longing after thee.\u201d\n\n    \u201cLet them long as they will, yea, let them long so sore!\n    I shall return to them never more.\u201d\n\n    \u201cThink of the big ones, and think of the small!\n    Of the baby in the cradle think thou most of all.\u201d\n\n    \u201cI think not of the big ones, I think not of the small!\n    Of the baby in the cradle I\u2019ll think no more at all.\u201d\n    (Ha, ha, ha!\n    Of the baby in the cradle I\u2019ll think no more at all.)\n\n\n\n\nORIGINAL\n\n\n\n\nMORS JANUA VIT\u00c6\n\n\n    It was the outworn clay\n    That slept in endless peace;\n    It was the dead man\u2019s sprite,\n    All in the wan moonlight\n    An hour before the day,\n    That mourned, and might not cease.\n\n    \u201cOh body, oh body of mine,\n    Deep, deep and soft thy rest!\n    Thy burning now is cold\n    In kindly churchyard and mould,\n    That weights thy wearied eyne\n    And thine untroubled breast.\n\n    \u201cBut I must wander and wail--\n    Must bear, in wrath and rue,\n    The burning of quenchless fire--\n    The frustrate, deep desire\n    For heights I did not scale,\n    For deeds I did not do.\n\n    \u201cOh warm life left behind!\n    Oh hearts that held me dear!\n    In my remembered place\n    Dwells healing and solace,\n    Among the kinsmen kind\n    Who decked my sepulchre.\u201d\n\n    He sought his father\u2019s castle--\n    But lo! in bower and hall\n    The time was come for mirth.\n    No place, by that glad hearth,\n    \u2019Mid song and feast and wassail,\n    For care funereal.\n\n    \u201cWhere hushed is earthly din,\n    And dreams may come and go;\n    Where day is drowned deep\n    All under the wings of sleep,\n    There will I enter in,\n    And there will tell my woe.\u201d\n\n    He mixed with the drifting dance\n    Of dreams that went and came--\n    But by the sleeper\u2019s head\n    An angel watched the bed;\n    His pure and piercing glance\n    Was like a sword of flame.\n\n    \u201cHence, thou overbold,\n    Wouldst do the deed forbid!\n    Unmeet that flesh should hear\n    Thy tale of woe and fear--\n    Unmeet that flesh should see\n    What God with a veil hath hid.\u201d\n\n    \u201cOh eyes that have grown blind!\n    Oh hearts that have forgot!\n    Of human love bereft,\n    One hope to me is left;\n    The beast\u2019s dumb soul is kind,\n    Faithful, forsaking not.\u201d\n\n    But the petted palfrey neighed\n    In fear, with starting eye\n    That searched the shades around--\n    And shrank the faithful hound,\n    Bristling, sore afraid,\n    When he felt the dead draw nigh.\n\n    Then the spirit turned and fled,\n    Wailing, along the blast;\n    \u201cTorn, torn from life\u2019s warm breast,\n    In death I find no rest!\n    Where hide my shameful head?\n    What refuge find at last?\u201d\n\n    Around and about and abroad\n    He went, while the stars grew dim,\n    Till \u2019neath a sombre pine\n    He saw a wayside shrine,\n    And heard how Christ the Lord\n    Spake from the Rood to him.\n\n    Yea, once and yet again\n    Spake that small voice and still:\n    \u201cI bear thy sins for thee;\n    Canst thou not wait with Me\n    The slow-wrought fruit of pain,\n    The long redress of ill?\u201d\n\n    It was the outworn clay\n    That slept beneath the sod:\n    It was the dead man\u2019s sprite,\n    While all the east grew white\n    In the wide dawn of day,\n    That waited, praising God.\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF THE TURNING TIDE\n\n\n    The mermaid sat in Sundal Sound,\n      Combing her lint-white locks;\n    She saw the ships sail in and out\n      Among the rugged rocks.\n\n    The mermaid sat in Sundal Sound,\n      Combing her locks so wet--\n    \u201cI\u2019ve laid my love on a mortal man,\n      And I will have him yet!\u201d\n\n    It was the maiden \u00c6thelgif\n      Walked in the blowing meads,\n    And she marked how the tide came in from sea,\n      And whispered among the reeds.\n\n    The tide so free came in from sea,\n      And filled the banks to the brim--\n    And up sailed Ragnar the rover bold,\n      And his merry men with him.\n\n    Ragnar the rover leapt to land\n      Before the maiden pale;\n    She saw the stars in his haughty helm,\n      The low moon in his mail.\n\n    Sir Ragnar stared on \u00c6thelgif,\n      And uttered never a sound;\n    But in the song of the nightingale\n      His secret thoughts she found.\n\n    And all the tale he might not tell,\n      The lore of the North and the South,\n    Was in the look of his eyes, and the kiss\n      That he pressed on her trembling mouth.\n\n    Up and spake the mermaiden,\n      Beneath the keel did swim:\n    \u201cWould Ragnar woo a mortal maid,\n      The worser woe for him!\u201d\n\n    The mermaid fell, she spoke a spell,\n      And said a secret rune\n    Or ever he wist, and the maid he kissed\n      Grew faded and faint eftsoon,\n\n    As the wavering mist, or ever he wist,\n      All under the mighty charm--\n    And like a wraith of wind and breath\n      She vanished from out his arm.\n\n    It was the mermaid fair and fell\n      That sang by the good ship\u2019s side\n    \u201cHo, ho, for the kiss of the salt sea-spray,\n      And the toss o\u2019 the turning tide!\u201d\n\n    Alone in the mead the maiden stood\n      Like one in a waking dream;\n    She saw the sail wind in and out\n      Along the level stream;\n    Like wan marsh-fire were the shields that shone\n      Afar in the faint moonbeam.\n\n    \u201cOh the gulls fly out with the turning tide\n      And cry across the land,\n    Each to each in an alien speech\n      That I fain would understand.\u201d\n\n    When days were done and years came on,\n      Her sire did speak and say:\n    \u201cLet bells be rung and Mass be sung\n      For a blithesome bridal-day!\u201d\n\n    \u201cOh sweeter to me the wind from sea\n      That whispers among the reeds,\n    Than the wooing words of a bridegroom blithe,\n      Or the tramp of the festal steeds!\u201d\n\n    Up and spake the groom so gay:\n      \u201cCome, pour the red, red wine!\n    Play up, play up, ye minstrel men,\n      To cheer this bride o\u2019 mine!\n\n    \u201cFor the evening-star, like a bridal lamp,\n      Over the tower doth stand;\n    While thin and pale as a wedding-veil\n      The mist steals o\u2019er the land.\u201d\n\n    She let the golden cup fall down,\n      And stared as she were wood;\n    \u201cOh is it wine ye pour for me,\n      Or a beaker of red, red blood?\n\n    \u201cLike a dirge for the dead is the music glad\n      That the minstrels play so loud;\n    And the mist that\u2019s pale as a bridal-veil\n      Is white as a waiting shroud!\u201d\n\n    Up and spake the mermaiden\n      All under the waning moon:\n    \u201cHo, ho for the ship that sails at dawn,\n      And sinks ere afternoon!\n\n    \u201cHo, ho! for the blood of Ragnar\u2019s breast\n      On his foeman\u2019s sword is wet!\n    I laid my love on a mortal man,\n      And I will have him yet!\u201d\n\n    It was Sir Ragnar, the rover bold,\n      Clung to a floating spar\n    And drifted in with the turn o\u2019 the tide\n      Across the harbour-bar.\n\n    Oh his look was shent, and his helm was bent,\n      And his mail was riven and brast,\n    And the stream that was so clear before\n      Ran red where\u2019er he passed.\n\n    Red, red his blood ran down the flood--\n      And, wavering, drowned, and dim,\n    Like the face of death, from the dark beneath,\n      The cold moon stared at him.\n\n    Into the hall Sir Ragnar went--\n      God wot, his face was pale!\n    The spray was on his dinted helm,\n      The red blood on his mail.\n\n    \u201cTurn round, turn round, thou beauteous bride!\n      Turn round and look on me!\n    Say, wilt thou wed a living man,\n      Or a dead man out o\u2019 the sea?\u201d\n\n    She took him in her lily-white arms--\n      She kissed him on the brow--\n    \u201cI loved thee well for seven long years,\n      And well I love thee now!\u201d\n\n    It was Sir Ragnar laid him down\n      Dead at the maiden\u2019s feet;\n    She\u2019s wrapped him in her bridal veil,\n      All for a winding-sheet.\n\n    Up and spake the shaven priest--\n      \u201cWoe worth the paynim foul!\n    Ye may not lay him in holy ground,\n      Nor sing for his sinful soul.\n\n    \u201cCast out his corse to sink or swim\n      With the toss o\u2019 the turning tide!\n    Let it ne\u2019er be said that Christian maid\n      Would be a rover\u2019s bride!\u201d\n\n    Up and spake the mermaiden--\n      \u201cHo, ho, for his pallid lips!\n    Ho for the merry fish that swim\n      Among the sunken ships!\n\n    \u201cHo, ho! for see where he comes to\n      A-floating down so fast!\n    I laid my love on a mortal man,\n      And he is mine at last!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF ALL SOULS\u2019 EVE\n\n\n    Between the shrouded fen, and the desolate dunes of sand\n    Where the fretting seas gnash white, there lies a lonely land.\n\n    No heights about it couch their grim flanks seamed with scars;\n    But it hath the wider heaven, and the sky more full of stars.\n\n    Like the verge of the ultimate seas are its long horizon lines;\n    Like the moan of mourning waves the song of its sombre pines.\n\n    The minstrel\u2019s out on the moor; while far and faint in the wind\n    Ring the bells of All Souls\u2019 Eve in the town he has left behind.\n\n    Beneath the sombre pine he has laid him down to sleep,\n    With his harp beside his head; and night grows dark and deep.\n\n    Softly the wind came sighing, and as it sighed he heard\n    In the harp a voice that moaned and mourned on a woeful word;\n\n    \u201cLo, is it naught?\u201d said the voice in the sobbing strings that sighed--\n    With the wind it wailed and rose, with the wind it sank and died.\n\n    Spell-bound he, Herluin, lay, and watched like one in a dream,\n    The moonbeams quiver and dance, and the long reeds sway in the stream,\n\n    Till again, an icy breath, the wind came whispering,\n    And stirred his stiffened hair, and sighed from string to string,\n\n    And sobbed into speech; \u201cIs it naught,\u201d the low voice singing said,\n    \u201cIs it naught to thee at all that dust of uncounted dead\n\n    \u201cIs mixed in this lean grey soil? that on this moorland lone\n    The hosts of mighty men lie scattered bone from bone?\n\n    \u201cGo search the monkish records, and scarce shall be descried\n    Thro\u2019 the dust on an ancient page, the tale of us who died!\n\n    \u201cHo, morn of shrieks and slaughter, when my Danes and I came down,\n    Driving our foes like flocks, and sacked the trembling town!--\n\n    \u201cWhen I struck to my battle-song, and the swords rang round my head\n    That I heard not mine own voice, and knew not that I bled!\n\n    \u201cWoe worth the brand that broke! Woe worth the blinding blow!\n    Woe worth, woe worth the day when I felt my life-blood flow!\n\n    \u201cI felt my life-blood flow; I felt my strength and my wit,\n    My heart and my hope and my valour flow drop by drop with it.\n\n    \u201cUnder these pines I fell, and under these pines I woke;\n    And I saw their stems as a fire, their boughs as a brooding smoke.\n\n    \u201cWoe, woe! for the fight was over, and all around was peace,\n    Save for a moan on the moor, and a long sigh in the trees,\n\n    \u201cAnd a voice that came and went and wailed in its wandering--\n    Deep in my maz\u00e8d mind I knew \u2019twas an evil thing.\n\n    \u201cOh for the age that I heard, dying alone in the dark,\n    That baleful voice, and watched the green and glimmering spark,\n\n    \u201cThe eye of the prowling wolf, draw near and near and near!--\n    Thou of the stone-built dwelling what dost thou know of fear?\u201d\n\n    Sudden, the wind dropped. The voice died into the night\n    As the ripples died on the river, and, in the wan moonlight,\n\n    Still grew the wavering rushes, and still the trembling strings:\n    Spell-bound lay Herluin, who gazed on all these things,\n\n    And knew not that he saw--while o\u2019er the moorland\u2019s rim,\n    Lucent, and wan, and lone, the cold moon stared at him.\n\n    Long, long it seemed till the wind, a frozen, fleeting breath,\n    Wailed back from far away, \u201cWhat dost thou know of Death?\u201d\n\n    Murmured the voice, \u201cGive heed, list to the dark, oh day!\n    Hot heart, hear thou the dust! For, as in fear I lay,\n\n    \u201cCursing my limbs of lead, Death\u2019s icy hand took hold\n    Of my heart; the stars went out; thus, thus my tale was told!\n\n    \u201cI stood, a naked soul; \u2019tis strange and still, I trow,\n    When the heart has ceased to beat, and the blood has ceased to flow.\n\n    \u201cAy, strange to the shuddering soul, when the heart has ceased to beat,\n    And it sees the wan corse lie, unheeding at its feet!--\n\n    \u201cI hear a rush in the firs, a rush as of hastening horse--\n    Like the forelocks of fiery steeds the branches waver and toss.\n\n    \u201cSee, see where Odin\u2019s war-maids to choose the dead draw nigh!\n    They come with the shout o\u2019 the storm along the scurrying sky.\n\n    \u201cSee where their lucent spears, like shafts of wan moonlight,\n    Pierce from the height of the heavens, lay bare the heart of night!\n\n    \u201cSee, see where Bifrost Bridge arches from cloud to cloud,\n    Built of the gleaming rainbow! See the exulting crowd.\n\n    \u201cOf the heroes that shouting cross to feast in high Valhall,\n    Where the Maids pour the \u00c6sir-mead to glad their souls withal!\n\n    \u201cAnd I--I strained and strove\u201d (and the voice grew shrill and thin;\n    Like to the shuddering harp was the soul of Herluin).\n\n    \u201cBut the Maids were drifting clouds, and the Bridge that spanned the skies\n    Was the glint of the mocking moon on the tears that filled mine eyes.\n\n    \u201cDead, they are dead, the gods in whom we have put our trust;\n    The hopes of heroes\u2019 hearts are ashes and dross and dust.\n\n    \u201cWe have seen our flesh the sport of the crows and the creeping things--\n    We have seen the moss and the lichen grow over the bones of kings--\n\n    \u201cThe firs from us have fed their writhen boughs and thin\n    Our burning blood springs up in the cold green sap o\u2019 the whin--\n\n    \u201cA whirl of withered leaves in the desolate land of death,\n    Such are our haughty hosts, and our foes are wind and breath.\n\n    \u201cI found in thy harp a voice; and, after uncounted years,\n    As a man to a man I spoke, and thou couldst not close thine ears.\n\n    \u201cYea, now thine ears are opened, for I saw thy soul as a fire\n    Aflame in the wastes of the night, the depth of my vain desire.\n\n    \u201cAs a moth to the torch\u2019s flame, as to the moon the tide,\n    Drawn by thy tameless spirit, drawn by thy passion and pride,\n\n    \u201cStorming the gates of Sense, as the cry of the chords outbroke,\n    Out of the deep I called, and unto the deep I spoke!\u201d\n\n    Darkness dissolved; the earth stole back to sight; and shrill\n    A cock crew far away; like tears the dew lay chill;\n\n    And Herluin raised his head, and saw the pallid gleam\n    Stand in the face of the East above the shimmering stream,\n\n    While o\u2019er him as he lay, half-mazed in a magic sweven,\n    The black pine-branches hovered like torn clouds hung in heaven.\n\n    Day stood upon the moor; and the wailing voice, withdrawn,\n    Sighed o\u2019er the sobbing harp-strings, and died in the wind of dawn.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRIDE\u2019S BRACELET\n\n\n    The King went forth at dawning\n      To watch the turn of the tide:\n    \u201cBe still, my soul, be still!\n      To-day shall bring the bride.\n\n    \u201cSea-gull, oh sea-gull,\n      Stay thy shifting wings!\n    Hast seen the ship a-sailing,\n      My love that brings?\n\n    \u201cThe ship with sails of scarlet\n      Where threads of gold entwine--\n    With maids and merry minstrels,\n      And gifts of mine,\n\n    \u201cA veil for her head, and a girdle,\n      And a bracelet all of gold,\n    Wrought by a cunning craftsman\n      With labours manifold.\u201d\n\n    The King went forth at even\n      To watch the silver web\n    Woven by wavering moonbeams\n      Over the tide at ebb.\n\n    \u201cOh nights are short in summer!\n      She will come to me soon;\n    To-morrow at dawn of day\n      Or at height of noon.\u201d\n\n    Oh the sea grew hoary and grey\n      At the turn of the year;\n    The fire of the whin was faded,\n      The heather was brown and sere.\n\n    All the air was filled\n      With the moan of the mourning main;\n    And the ship with sails of scarlet\n      Came not home again.\n\n    The King went forth in the night--\n      For care he could not sleep--\n    Down the perilous pathway--\n      Down to the edge of the deep.\n\n    There was never a star to shine;\n      Nor sea from shore he wist,\n    Till he felt around his feet\n      The chill of the foam that hissed.\n\n    There was never a star in the skies,\n      And the face of the deep was dim--\n    Yet he saw a wavering wanness\n      Like the cold moon sink and swim.\n\n    Yea, as in the heart of the billow\n      Quivers the wan sea-flame,\n    Drifting in the darkness\n      The mermaiden came.\n\n    And on the long sea-swell,\n      Like to a foam-wreath pale,\n    Among her locks a-floating\n      He saw a costly veil,\n\n    That a queen might wear to wed in--\n      And on her arm so cold\n    He saw a gallant bracelet\n      All of the gleaming gold,\n    Wrought by a cunning craftsman\n      With labours manifold.\n\n    Then the eyes of the King were darkened,\n      And his shuddering soul went down\n    Like a stone in the dark o\u2019 the deeps\n      Where shipwrecked sailors drown.\n\n    The mermaid shimmering sank\n      Like a moon that clouds eclipse--\n    And the spray of the salt sea mingled\n      With the salt tears on his lips.\n\n    The King goes forth at even\n      By the sea-side;\n    He hears in the long dark caverns\n      The sobbing of the tide.\n\n    Pale is the face of the King\n      Like one in a deadly swoon;\n    Wan o\u2019er the waste of waters\n      Glimmers the waning moon.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOLF OF IRONWOOD\n\n\n    Ho for the white of the withered bough\n      And the red of the wrinkled leaf!\n    Sir Arngrim sits in Ironwood,\n      And his heart is filled with grief.\n\n    The sun sinks down on Ironwood\n      Blood-red behind the trees;\n    Sir Arngrim stares upon the sword\n      That lies across his knees.\n\n    \u201cOh my father died a death of blood,\n      And my mother of wasting woe;\n    And their spirits dwell in the rocky fell\n      Where the trees of Ironwood grow.\n\n    \u201cAnd still the guilt of the life-blood spilt\n      Doth unavenged remain;\n    And in the red of the wrinkled leaf\n      I read my father\u2019s pain.\n\n    \u201cOh the kings were three, sailed o\u2019er the sea\n      To work us havoc and harm;\n    And I see in the white of the wizened bough\n      My mother\u2019s beckoning arm.\u201d\n\n    Sir Arngrim stood with the sea beneath\n      And the rocky fell behind,\n    And there he saw three gallant ships\n      That sailed before the wind.\n\n    \u201cOh red of hand, they come to land\n      With a host and a mighty horde!\n    And how shall I wreak my father\u2019s death\n      With the power of a single sword?\u201d\n\n    When the writhen shadows in Ironwood\n      Grew long, and the fading rim\n    Of the sun sank low behind the fell,\n      The witch-wife came to him.\n\n    \u201cNow hearken to me, thou goodly knight!\n      And, if thou grant me grace,\n    I\u2019ll work a spell shall serve thee well\n      For love of thy fair young face.\n\n    \u201cOh a maid am I from dawn till dusk--\n      But by night of a magic rune,\n    And a weird of woe, a wolf I go\n      O\u2019 nights beneath the moon.\n\n    \u201cThou shalt slay three hosts in Ironwood\n      That the wolf her fill may feed--\n    Then as lover true, when the fight is done,\n      Shalt pay the maiden\u2019s meed.\u201d\n\n    Sir Arngrim looked upon the witch,\n      And her face was fair to see.\n    He\u2019s plighted her troth on his knightly oath\n      And sealed it with kisses three.\n\n    It was the first o\u2019 the hosts came on\n      With the rush of a roaring gale--\n    But they might not stir the single sword\n      That bit through bone and mail.\n\n    Oh half o\u2019 the host at eve were slain,\n      And half o\u2019 the host were fled;\n    And all night long in Ironwood\n      The wolf howled o\u2019er the dead.\n\n    It was the second host came on\n      As levin leaps from the sky;\n    But they might not quell the witch\u2019s spell\n      And the sword of grammarye.\n\n    Oh half o\u2019 the host at eve were fled,\n      And half in their blood lay still;\n    And all night long in Ironwood\n      The wolf did feed her fill.\n\n    It was the third o\u2019 the hosts came on\n      Like the waves of a winter sea;\n    But they broke on the sword as billows break\n      Where the hidden skerries be.\n\n    Oh half o\u2019 the host at eve were slain,\n      And half were fled away;\n    And like the dead, among the dead,\n      In a swoon Sir Arngrim lay.\n\n    The moon shone down on Ironwood\n      Above the trees so tall;\n    And lo! the red and wrinkled leaves\n      Upon his face did fall.\n\n    And lo! the shade of the withered bough\n      Across his face lay dim,\n    And the wolf she leapt, and seized, and tore\n      The warrior limb from limb.\n\n    Ho ho for the red of the wrinkled leaf!\n      His spirit has gone to dwell\n    With the grimly ghosts of the ancient hosts\n      That haunt the rocky fell!\n\n    Ho ho for the white of the withered bough!\n      The witch she wails full sore;\n    And Ironwood, for that deed of blood,\n      Is accurs\u00e8d evermore!\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF MIDSUMMER EVE\n\n\n    The throstle he roused him at fall of eve\n      And said to the owlet grey,\n    \u201cLo, brother, look through the dusky wood\n      And tell who comes this way.\u201d\n\n    The owlet stirred on the swaying bough\n      Of the slender birchen-tree:\n    \u201cAnd seest thou not the minstrel-wight\n      A-roaming along the lea?\u201d\n\n    \u201cAnd what of the voice that comes with him,\n      The voice that sighs and sings?\u201d\n    \u201cOh, that\u2019s the sound of the harp he bears\n      As the wind blows over the strings.\u201d\n\n    \u201cAnd is it for love of a fair young maid\n      That his cheek is pale and wan?\u201d\n    \u201cAy, a maid I wis, but never a kiss\n      Will she lay on the lips of man.\n\n    \u201cHe must sit all day at the ale-house door\n      Amid the talk o\u2019 the town,\n    With a merry stave for knight and knave\n      And a jest for the staring clown.\n\n    \u201cBut when bells are rung and songs are sung\n      And all men lie and sleep,\n    The merry minstrel forth must fare\n      His secret tryst to keep.\n\n    \u201cThe merry minstrel forth must fare,\n      All in the twilight dim,\n    To woo the queen o\u2019 Fairyland\n      That\u2019s cast a spell on him.\n\n    \u201cOh her form\u2019s the form of the lily-white birch\n      That sways to the breeze, and her breath\n    Is the scent o\u2019 the thyme and the blowing furze\n      And the honey that\u2019s stored in the heath.\n\n    \u201cAnd her dark eyes\u2019 beam is the wavering gleam\n      On the water that\u2019s wan to see\n    When the evening star hangs faint and far\n      Above the birchen-tree.\n\n    \u201cAnd wouldst thou learn her secret lore,\n      Go, read the magic rune\n    That the writhen boughs of the thorn-tree trace\n      O\u2019 nights across the moon.\u201d\n\n    \u201cAnd what\u2019s the guerdon he shall gain\n      By grace of the Fairy-queen?\u201d\n    \u201cOh, a hope that\u2019s lost and a love that\u2019s crossed,\n      And tears and toil and tene,\n\n    \u201cAnd feet astray in the paths of day,\n      And a song that cannot be sung--\n    For elfin music is wind and breath\n      When the matin-bell is rung.\n\n    \u201cFor the cock crows shrill, and the dew lies chill,\n      And the faint stars die, withdrawn;\n    And elfin gold is withered leaves\n      At the coming of the dawn.\u201d\n\n\n_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._","title":"The Norse king's bridal : $b Translations from the Danish and old Norse, with original ballads","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":9911}