Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell,

And worms shall divide thee.

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.

KING CHRISTIAN.

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.

ROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD.

KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast

In mist and smoke;

His sword was hammering so fast,

Path of the Dane to fame and might! Dark-rolling wave!

Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Proudly as thou the tempest's might,
Dark-rolling wave!

And amid pleasures and alarms,
And war and victory, be thine arms
My grave!

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

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.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups,
Around the rustic board;

Then sat they all so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.

But, when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand,

passed;

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar,
Now is the hour!

He hoisted 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!"

66

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!

And then the landlord's daughter

Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, "Ye may no more contend, There lies the happiest land!"

THE WAVE.

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."

THE DEAD.

FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMANN.

How they so softly rest,
All they the holy ones,
Unto whose dwelling-place
Now doth my soul draw near!
How they so softly rest,
All in their silent graves,
Deep to corruption
Slowly down-sinking!

And they no longer weep,
Here, where complaint is still!
And they no longer feel,
Here, where all gladness flies !
And, by the cypresses
Softly o'ershadowed,
Until the Angel

Calls them, they slumber!

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.
FROM THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER.

"THE rivers rush into the sea,

By castle and town they go;
The winds behind them merrily
Their noisy trumpets blow.

"The clouds are passing far and high,
We little birds in them play;
And everything, that can sing and fly,
Goes with us, and far away.

"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence,

With thy fluttering golden band?". "I greet thee, little bird! To the wide

sea

I haste from the narrow land.

"Full and swollen is every sail; I see no longer a hill,

I have trusted all to the sounding gale, And it will not let me stand still.

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,

For full to sinking is my house

With merry companions all.". "I need not and seek not company, Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

"High over the sails, high over the mast,

Who shall gainsay these joys? When thy merry companions are still, at last,

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may, God bless them every one!

I dart away, in the bright blue day,
And the golden fields of the sun.

"Thus do I sing my weary song,

Wherever the four winds blow; And this same song, my whole life long, Neither Poet nor Printer may know.'

WHITHER?

FROM THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER. I HEARD a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, 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;

To the barrier of the fight

Rode at last a sable Knight.

Fell the youth from saddle-bow, Hardly rises from the shock.

Pipe and viol call the dances, Torch light through the high halls glances;

Waves a mighty shadow in ;
With manner bland

Doth ask the maiden's hand,
Doth with her the dance begin.

Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,
Coldly clasped her limbs around;
From breast and hair

Down fall from her the fair

Flowerets, faded, to the ground.

To the sumptuous banquet came Every Knight and every Dame; 'Twixt son and daughter all distraught,

With mournful mind

The ancient King reclined,

Gazed at them in silent thought.

Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took :

"Golden wine will make you whole!" The children drank,

Gave many a courteous thank :

"O, that draught was very cool!”

Each the father's breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces Colorless grow utterly; Whichever way

Looks the fear-struck father gray, He beholds his children die.

"Woe the blessed children both Takest thou in the joy of youth;

Take me, too, the joyless father!" Spake the grim Guest,

"Roses in the spring I gather!"

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS.

INTO the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest ! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me !
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse;
For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon ;
And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow;