Romantic Ballads Part 1

Romantic Ballads.

by George Borrow.

PREFACE

The ballads in this volume are translated from the Works of OEHLENSLAEGER, (a poet who is yet living, and who stands high in the estimation of his countrymen,) and from the KIAEMPE VISER, a collection of old songs, celebrating the actions of the ancient heroes of Scandinavia.

The old Danish poets were, for the most part, extremely rude in their versification. Their stanzas of four or two lines have not the full rhyme of vowel and consonant, but merely what the Spaniards call the "a.s.sonante," or vowel rhyme, and attention seldom seems to have been paid to the number of _feet_ on which the lines moved along. But, however defective their poetry may be in point of harmony of numbers, it describes, in vivid and barbaric language, scenes of barbaric grandeur, which in these days are never witnessed; and, which, though the modern muse may imagine, she generally fails in attempting to pourtray, from the violent desire to be smooth and tuneful, forgetting that smoothness and tunefulness are nearly synonymous with tameness and unmeaningness.

I expect shortly to lay before the public a complete translation of the KIAEMPE VISER, made by me some years ago; and of which, I hope, the specimens here produced will not give an unfavourable idea.

It was originally my intention to publish, among the "Miscellaneous Pieces," several translations from the Gaelic, formerly the language of the western world; the n.o.ble tongue

"A labhair Padric' nninse Fail na Riogh.

'San faighe caomhsin Colum naomhta' n I."

Which Patrick spoke in Innisfail, to heathen chiefs of old Which Columb, the mild prophet-saint, spoke in his island-hold--

but I have retained them, with one exception, till I possess a sufficient quant.i.ty to form an entire volume.

FROM ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, TO GEORGE BORROW,

_On his proposing to translate the_ '_Kiaepe Viser_.'

Sing, sing, my friend; breathe life again Through Norway's song and Denmark's strain: On flowing Thames and Forth, in flood, Pour Haco's war-song, fierce and rude.

O'er England's strength, through Scotland's cold, His warrior minstrels marched of old-- Called on the wolf and bird of prey To feast on Ireland's sh.o.r.e and bay; And France, thy forward knights and bold, Rough Rollo's ravens croaked them cold.

Sing, sing of earth and ocean's lords, Their songs as conquering as their swords; Strains, steeped in many a strange belief, Now stern as steel, now soft as grief-- Wild, witching, warlike, brief, sublime, Stamped with the image of their time; When chafed--the call is sharp and high For carnage, as the eagles cry; When pleased--the mood is meek, and mild, And gentle, as an unweaned child.

Sing, sing of haunted sh.o.r.es and shelves, St. Oluf and his spiteful elves, Of that wise dame, in true love need, Who of the clear stream formed the steed-- How youthful Svend, in sorrow sharp, The inspired strings rent from his harp; And Sivard, in his cloak of felt, Danced with the green oak at his belt-- Or sing the Sorceress of the wood, The amorous Merman of the flood-- Or elves that, o'er the unfathomed stream, Sport thick as motes in morning beam-- Or bid me sail from Iceland Isle, With Rosmer and fair Ellenlyle, What time the blood-crow's flight was south, Bearing a man's leg in its mouth.

Though rough and rude, those strains are rife Of things kin to immortal life, Which touch the heart and tinge the cheek, As deeply as divinest Greek.

In simple words and unsought rhyme, Give me the songs of olden time.

THE DEATH-RAVEN.

FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.

The silken sail, which caught the summer breeze, Drove the light vessel through the azure seas; Upon the lofty deck, Dame Sigrid lay, And watch'd the setting of the orb of day: Then, all at once, the smiling sky grew dark, The breakers rav'd, and sinking seem'd the bark; The wild Death-raven, perch'd upon the mast, Scream'd 'mid the tumult, and awoke the blast.

Dame Sigrid saw the demon bird on high, And tear-drops started in her beauteous eye; Her cheeks, which late like blushing roses bloom'd, Had now the pallid hue of fear a.s.sum'd: "O wild death-raven, calm thy frightful rage, Nor war with one who warfare cannot wage.

Tame yonder billows, make them cease to roar, And I will give thee pounds of golden ore."

"With gold thou must not hope to pay the brave, For gold I will not calm a single wave, For gold I will not hush the stormy air, And yet my heart is mov'd by thy despair; Give me the treasure hid beneath thy belt, And straight yon clouds in harmless rain shall melt, And down I'll thunder, with my claws of steel.

Upon the merman clinging to your keel."

"What I conceal'd beneath my girdle bear, Is thine--irrevocably thine--I swear.

Thou hast refus'd a great and n.o.ble prey, To get possession of my closet key.

Lo! here it is, and, when within thy maw, May'st thou much comfort from the morsel draw!"

The polish'd steel upon the deck she cast, And off the raven flutter'd from the mast.

Then down at once he plung'd amid the main, And clove the merman's frightful head in twain; The foam-clad billows to repose he brought, And tam'd the tempest with the speed of thought; Then, with a thrice-repeated demon cry, He soar'd aloft and vanish'd in the sky: A soft wind blew the ship towards the land, And soon Dame Sigrid reach'd the wish'd-for strand.

Once, late at eve, she play'd upon her harp, Close by the lake where slowly swam the carp; And, as the moon-beam down upon her shone, She thought of Norway, and its pine-woods lone.

"Yet love I Denmark," said she, "and the Danes, For o'er them Alf, my mighty husband, reigns."

Then 'neath her girdle something mov'd and yearn'd, And into terror all her bliss was turn'd.

"Ah! now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . "

Long sat she, then, and neither spoke nor stirr'd.

Faint, through the mist which rob'd the sky in gray, The pale stars glimmer'd from the milky way.

"Ah! now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . "

She strove in vain to breathe another word.

Above her head, its leaf the aspen shook-- Moist as her cheek, and pallid as her look.

Full five months pa.s.s'd, ere she, 'mid night and gloom, Brought forth with pain an infant from her womb: They baptiz'd it, at midnight's murky hour, Lest it should fall within the demon's power.

It was a boy, more lovely than the morn, Yet Sigrid's heart with bitter care was torn.

Deep in a grot, through which a brook did flow, With crystal drops they sprinkled Harrald's brow.

He grew and grew, till upon Danish ground No youth to match the stripling could be found; He was at once so graceful and so strong-- His look was fire, and his speech was song.

When yet a child, he tam'd the battle steed, And only thought of war and daring deed; But yet Queen Sigrid nurs'd prophetic fears, And when she view'd him, always swam in tears.

One evening late, she lay upon her bed, (King Alf, her n.o.ble spouse, was long since dead) She felt so languid, and her aching breast With more than usual sorrow was oppress'd.

Ah, then she heard a sudden sound that thrill'd Her every nerve, and life's warm current chill'd:-- The bird of death had through the cas.e.m.e.nt flown, And thus he scream'd to her, in frightful tone:

"The wealthy bird came towering, Came scowering, O'er hill and stream.

'Look here, look here, thou needy bird, How gay my feathers gleam.'

"The needy bird came fluttering, Came muttering, And sadly sang, 'Look here, look here, thou wealthy bird, How loose my feathers hang.'

"Remember, Queen, the stormy day, When cast away Thou wast so nigh:-- Thou wast the needy bird that day, And unto me didst cry.

"Death-raven now comes towering, Comes scowering, O'er hill and stream; But when wilt thou, Dame Sigrid fair, Thy plighted word redeem."

A hollow moan from Sigrid's bosom came, While he survey'd her with his eye of flame: "Fly," said she; "demon monster, get thee hence!

My humble pray'r shall be my son's defence."

She cross'd herself, and then the fiend flew out; But first, contemptuously he danc'd about, And sang, "No pray'r shall save him from my rage; In Christian blood my thirst I will a.s.suage."

Young Harrald seiz'd his scarlet cap, and cried, "I'll probe the grief my mother fain would hide;"

Then, rushing into her apartment fair, "O mother," said he, "wherefore sitt'st thou there, Far from thy family at dead of night, With lips so mute, and cheeks so ghastly white?

Tell me what lies so heavy at thy heart; Grief, when confided, loses half its smart."

"O Harrald," sigh'd she, yielding to his pray'r, "Creatures are swarming in the earth and air, Who, wild with wickedness, and hot with wrath, Wage war on those who follow virtue's path.

One of those fiends is on the watch for thee, Arm'd with a promise wrung by him from me: His blood-shot eyes in narrow sockets roll, And every night he leaves his mirksome hole.