20. AWAY!
The day’s enamour’d of the night,
The springtime loves the winter,
And life’s in love with death,—
And thou, thou lovest me!
Thou lov’st me—thou’rt already seized
By fear-inspiring shadows,
And all thy blossoms fade,
To death thy soul is bleeding.
Away from me, and only love
The butterflies, gay triflers,
Who in the sunlight sport—
Away from me and sorrow!
21. MADAM METTE.
(From the Danish.)
Says Bender to Peter over their wine:
“I’ll wager (though doubtless you’re clever)
“That though your fine singing may conquer the world,
“My wife ’twill conquer never.”
Then Peter replied: “I’ll wager my horse
“To your dog, or the devil is in it,
“I’ll sing Madam Mette into my house
“This evening, at twelve to a minute.”
And when the hour of midnight drew near,
Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing;
Right over the forest, right over the flood
His charming notes were ringing.
The fir-trees listen’d in silence deep,
The flood stood still and listen’d,
The pale moon trembled high up in the sky,
The wise stars joyously glisten’d.
Madam Mette awoke from out of her sleep:
“What singing! How sweet the seduction!”
She put on her dress, and left the house—
Alas, it proved her destruction!
Right through the forest, right through the flood,
She speeded onward straightway;
While Peter, with the might of his song,
Allured her inside his own gateway.
And when she at morning return’d back home,
At the door her husband caught her:
“Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the night!
“Your garments are dripping with water.”
“I spent the night at the water-nymphs’ stream,
“And heard the Future told by them;
“The mocking fairies wetted me through
“With their splashes, for going too nigh them.”
“You have not been to the water-nymphs’ stream,
“The sand there could ne’er make you muddy;
“Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn,
“Your cheeks are also bloody.”
“I spent the night in the elfin wood,
“To see the elfin dances;
“I wounded my feet and face with the thorns
“And fir-boughs cutting like lances.”
“The elfins dance in the sweet month of May
“On flowery plains, but the chilly
“Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth,
“The wind in the forests howls shrilly.”
“At Peter Nielsen’s I spent the night,
“He sang so mightily to me,
“That through the forest, and through the flood
“He irresistibly drew me.
“His song is mighty as death itself,
“To-night and perdition alluring;
“Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart,
“ A speedy death insuring.”
The door of the church is hung with black,
The funeral bells are ringing,
Poor Madam Mette’s terrible death
To public notice bringing.
Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier,—
’Twas sad to hear him call so!—
“I now have lost my beautiful wife,
“And lost my true dog also.”
22. THE MEETING.
The music under the linden-tree sounds,
The boys and the maidens dance lightly;
Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows,
Of figures noble and sightly.
They float about here, they float about there,
In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The maiden the youth thus addresses:
“My handsome youth, upon thy hat
There nods a lily splendid,
That only grows in the depths of the sea,—
From Adam thou art not descended.
“The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village maids
Would’st allure with thy arts of seduction;
I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,
By thy teeth of fish-like construction.”
They float about here, they float about there,
In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The youth the maid thus addresses:
“My handsome maiden, tell me why
“Thy hand so icy cold is?
“And tell me why thy snow-white dress
“So moist in every fold is?
“I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,
“By thy bantering salutation;
“Thou art no mortal child of man,
“But the water-nymph, my relation.”
The fiddles are silent, and finish’d the dance,
They part like sister and brother,
They know each other only too well,
And shun now the sight of each other.
23. KING HAROLD HARFAGAR.
The great King Harold Harfagar
In ocean’s depths is sitting,
Beside his lovely water-fay;
The years are over him flitting.
By water-sprite’s magical arts chain’d down,
He is neither living nor dead now,
And while in this state of baneful bliss
Two hundred years have sped now.
The head of the king is laid on the lap
Of the beautiful woman, and ever
He yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes,
And looks away from her never.
His golden hair is silver grey,
His cheekbones (of time’s march a token)
Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face,
His body is wither’d and broken.
And many a time from his sweet dream of love
He suddenly is waking,
For over him wildly rages the flood,
The castle of glass rudely shaking.
He oftentimes fancies he hears in the wind
The Northmen shouting out gladly;
He raises his arms with joyous haste,
Then lets them fall again sadly.
He oftentimes fancies he hears far above
The seamen their voices raising,
The great King Harold Harfagar
In songs heroical praising.
And then the king from the depth of his heart
Begins sobbing and wailing and sighing,
When quickly the water-fay over him bends,
With loving kisses replying.