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Thy house is not
Doorless is that house,
Thus thou art laid, And leavest thy friends; Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee And descend after thee, For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see.
Through Gothic helm and brain it
passed; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,
In mist and smoke. “Fly!" shouted they,“fly, he who can! Who braves of Denmark's Christian
The stroke?” Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's
roar; Now is the hour! He holsted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's
roar, “Now is the hour!” “Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter fly! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy
The power?” North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent
Thy murky sky! Then champions to thine arms were
sent: Terror and Death glared where he
went; From the waves was heard a wail that
rent Thy murky sky! From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol, Let each to Heaven commend his soul,
And fly! Path of the Dane to fame and might!
KING CHRISTIAN. A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES
In mist and smoke;
THE HAPPIEST LAND. FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD.
FROM THE GERMAN. THERE sat one day in quiet,
By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.
Around the rustic board;
And spake not one rude word.
But, when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
“Long live the Swabian land ! “The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare ; With all the stout and hardy men
And the nut-brown maidens there." “Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,
And dashed his beard with wine; “I had rather live in Lapland,
Than that Swabian land of thine! “The goodliest land on all this earth,
It is the Saxon land !
As fingers on this hand!” “Hold your tongues ! both Swabian
and Saxon!” A bold Bohemian cries; “If there's a heaven upon this earth,
In Bohemia it lies. “There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn.
How they so softly rest,
And they no longer weep,
And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, “Ye may no more contend,
There lies the happiest land !”
From its rocky fountain near,
So fresh and wondrous clear. I know not what came o'er me,
Nor who the counsel gave; But I must hasten downward,
All with my pilgrim-stave; Downward, and ever farther,
And ever the brook beside; And ever fresher murmured,
And ever clearer, the tide. Is this the way I was going?
Whither, O brooklet, say! Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
Murmured my senses away. What do I say of a murmur?
That can no murmur be; 'Tis the water-nymphs that are singing
Their roundelays under me. Let them sing, my friend, let them
murmur, And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going
In every brooklet clear.
FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE.
“WHITHER, thou turbid wave? Whither, with so much haste, As if a thief wert thou?
“I am the Wave of Life, Stained with my margin's dust; From the struggle and the strife Of the narrow stream I fly To the Sea's immensity, To wash from me the slime Of the muddy banks of Time."
Say! how canst thou mourn? How canst thou rejoice?
Thou art but metal dull ! And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings,
Thou dost feel them all! God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom,
Placed within thy form! When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it,
Trembling in the storm!
FROM THE GERMAN.
Take care !
Trust her not,
Take care !
Trust her not,
Take care !
Trust her not,
Take care !
Trust her not,
Take care !
Trust her not, She is fooling thee!
THE CASTLE BY THE SEA.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. “Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That Castle by the Sea ? Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously. “And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below; And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow.” “ Well have I seen that castle,
That Castle by the Sea,
And the mist rise solemnly.”
Had they a merry chime? Didst thou hear, from those lofty cham
bers, The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?” “The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly; But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye.” “And sawest thou on the turrets
The King and his royal bride? And the wave of their crimson mantles?
And the golden crown of pride? “Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there? Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair?” “Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride;
SONG OF THE BELL.
FROM THE GERMAN. Bell! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party,
To the church doth hie!
Fields deserted lie!
Bed-time draweth nigh!
Parting hath gone by!
Pale the children both did look,
“Golden wine will make you whole!" The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank;
“Oh, that draught was very cool!" Each the father's breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces
Colourless grow utterly.
He beholds his children die.
Take me, too, the joyless father!” Spake the grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast,
“Roses in the spring I gather!”
THE BLACK KNIGHT. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, When woods and fields put off all sad
Thus began the King and spake; “So from the halls Of ancient Hofburg's walls,
A luxuriant Spring shall break.” Drums and trumpets echo loudly, Wave the crimson banners proudly.
From balcony the King looked on; In the play of spears, Fell all the cavaliers,
Before the monarch's stalwart son. To the barrier of the fight Rode at last a sable Knight. “Sir Knight! your name and scut
cheon, say!” “Should I speak it here, Ye would stand aghast with fear;
I am a Prince of mighty sway!”
Hardly rises from the shock.
Doth with her the dance begin;
Coldly clasped her limbs around.
Flowerets, faded, to the ground.
traught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined,
Gazed at them in silent thought.
SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.
FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. INTO the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly
gath And shattered wrecks lie thicker on-the
strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land ! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning
visions Of beauteous souls ! The Future's
pledge and band !
THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER.
PREFATORY REMARKS. This Idyl, from the original of Bishop Tegnér, descriptive of scenes of village life in Sweden, enjoys a well-merited reputation in the North of Europe, from its beauty and simplicity as well as from the pure and elevated tone of the writer.
There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, combined with an almost primeval simplicity, an almost primeval solitude, which renders it a fit theme for song. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir, with their long, fan-like branches; while under foot is spread a carpet yellow leaves. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. The gates are opened by troops of children, and the peasants take off their hats as you pass. The houses in the villages and smaller towns are built of hewn timber, and are generally painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir-boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and she brings you curdled milk from the pan, with oaten cakes baked some months before. Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them are smoking pipes, and have hanging around their necks in front a leather wallet in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country: You meet, also, groups of barefooted Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling in pursuit of work, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark.
Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the road-side. In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass. The gravestones are flat, large, low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old houses; the tenants all sleeping with their heads to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died; and in his coffin were placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle they ever slept in; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the little garments of the child that lived and died in her bosom. Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, with a sloping roof over it, fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church-steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road, listening to their beloved pastor. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church-pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man's words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the wearer's wealth.
I will endeavour to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It shall be in summer time, that the early song of the lark and of chanticleer may be heard mingling in the clear morning air, just after sunrise. In the yard there is a sound of voices and trampling of hoofs. The steed is led forth that is to bear the bridegroom, with a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends from the neighbouring farms come riding in, and the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his