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From the Danish.
Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted, Who bravery as their duty deem'd, And ne'er from danger started; Such Tordenskiold, and Adeler, And Juul, and many others were.
Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.
But who had e'er of bravery The gallant Hvidfeld's measure?
Who e'er saw Death so plain as he, And enter'd it with pleasure?
Ne'er shall his name oblivion meet, For with his death he sav'd our fleet.
Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.
'Gainst numerous foes we fought one day A fight so fierce and gory, And next the foe Sir Hvidfeld lay, To danger close and glory; And there was no man fought so stout As Hvidfeld fought, that b.l.o.o.d.y bout.
Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.
But as Sir Hvidfeld broadsides loud Lay taking and returning, His own fire set his vessel proud, His Dannebrog, a burning.
"Slip anchor, Sir," his sailors cry, "To land for safety let us fly!"
Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.
"No!" answer'd he, "for danger then 'Midst Denmark's fleet we carry; Shall it be risk'd by Danish men, That they alive may tarry?
We'll die, but we'll avenge our death; We'll fight until our latest breath."
Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant hearted.
"Yes, to the latest breath we'll fight!"
His seamen answer'd, cheering; Around was death in horrors dight, But still they fought unfearing, Till the fire reach'd the powder-store, And all died heroes midst its roar.
Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.
And Hvidfeld's fame shall ne'er decay, His gallant seamens' never; A worthy countryman shall they In every Dane find ever; When Denmark dear to us shall cry, Like them will we grim death defy.
Our native ground shall still abound With warriors gallant-hearted.
BIRTING.
A Fragment.
From the Ancient Danish.
It was late at evening tide, Sinks the day-star in the wave, When alone Orm Ungarswayne Rode to seek his father's grave.
Late it was at evening hour, When the steeds to streams are led; Let me now, said Orm the young, Wake my father from the dead.
It was bold Orm Ungarswayne Stamp'd the hill with mighty foot: Riv'n were wall and marble-stone, Shook the mountain to its root.
It was bold Orm Ungarswayne Struck the hill with such a might, That it was a miracle, That the hill fell not outright.
From the hill Orm's father cried, Where so long, so long he'd lain; "Cannot I in quiet lie Deep within my dark domain?
Who upon my hill doth stand?
Who doth dare disturb my bones?
Cannot I in quiet lie 'Neath my heavy roof of stones?
Who doth dare my sleep to scare?
Who brings down this ruin all?
Let him fear, for now I swear That by Birting he shall fall."
"I'm Orm Ungarswayne, thy son, Youngest son, O father dear: And to beg a mighty boon In my need I seek thee here."
"If thou be Orm Ungarswayne, Orm the kempion bold and free, Silver, gold, last year I told-- All thou cravedst--o'er to thee."
"Thou wast free of gold and fee, Glittering trash of little worth-- Birting now I crave of thee, Birting bravest sword of earth."
"Never shalt thou Birting win, To obtain the King's fair daughter, Till to Ireland thou hast been, And aveng'd thy father's slaughter."
"Give to me the Birting sword, And with Birting bid me thrive, Or I will thy sheltering hill Into thousand atoms rive."
"Stretch thou down thy right hand here, Take the falchion from my side; If thou break thy father's hill, Dreadful wo will thee betide."
From the hill he Birting stretch'd, Plac'd the hilt within his grasp: "Strong of hand and valiant stand, That thy foes before thee gasp."
From the hill he Birting stretch'd, Plac'd the hilt within his hold: "Save good fate on thee await, I shall never be consol'd."
INGEBORG'S LAMENTATION.
From the Swedish of Tegner.
(An extract from Frithiof's Saga.)
Autumn winds howl; Ocean is swelling so stormy.--My soul, Would with the sighs which I utter Forth thou wouldst flutter!
Long did I view Far in the West the sail which flew-- Happy my Frithiof to follow O'er the wave hollow!
Blue billow run O not so high, for it still sails on!
Stars, for my mariner sparkle, As the nights darkle!
Spring will appear.
He will come home, but unmet by his dear Or in the hall, or the dingle, Or on the shingle.
She'll lie in mould, All for her love's sake, pallid and cold, Or she will bleed, by no other Slain than her brother.
Hawk, left behind!
Thou shalt be mine and I'll prove ever kind: Ever, wing'd hunter, I'll scatter Food on thy platter.
Here on his hand Work'd on my kerchiefs hem thou shalt stand, Pinions of silver and glowing Gold-talons showing.
Hawk-pinions tried Freia {63} one time, and around about hied; Sought North and South to discover Oder her lover.
E'en shouldst thou lend Me thy brave wings, yet I could not ascend; Only Death brings me, poor minion, The divine pinion.
