HOLGER DANSKE
WHERE the mighty walls of Kronberg
Tower o’er the cold blue tides,
Like a couching lion set to guard
A treasure which he hides,
In a deep, deep vault shut out from day,
In the heart of the dungeon place,
There sleepeth Holger Danske,
The noblest of his race.
There sleeps he in his rusted mail,
With his sword across his knees,
His snowy beard has grown ell long
Through the long centuries.
And if ever a faint, far murmur stirs,
Or the sound of a bell’s dim chime,
He moves, and fumbles at the hilt,
And mutters, “Is it time?”
A peasant once of old, ’tis said,
Lost in the labyrinth ways,
Chanced on the door and raised the bar,
And stared with a wild amaze.
And, “Is it time?” he heard the shape
In an awful voice demand;
Trembling he answer made, “Not yet!”
“Then reach to me thy hand.”
But the frightened hind dares not approach
To touch that form of eld,
And laid instead in the mailed grasp
The iron bar he held.
Like wax the iron bent and snapped,
And the grim lips moved to smile.
“Ha! There are men in Denmark still;
I may rest me yet a while.”
Never since then has mortal man
Trod the forgotten stair,
Or lifted the bar of the hidden vault
To rouse the sleeper there.
But whenever the Danish blood is hot,
Or the land for a hero cries,
Men think of Holger Danske,
And they look to see him rise.
For the runes have read and the sagas sung
That whenever the worst shall be,
And the Raven standard flutter low
Above the Northern Sea,
And the Danish blade be broken short,
And the land be rent with grief,
The genius of the Danes shall wake
And come to his relief.
Before his cold and frozen look,
Before his blasting blade,
The armies of the foe shall flee,
The alien shrink, afraid;
And the Paladin of ancient days
Shall rule with the ancient might,
And all the bitter be made sweet,
And all the wrong made right.
Out of the throes of the heaviest pain
This new peace shall be born,
Out of the very heart of night
Break the unlooked-for morn,
When the nation’s need shall answer
In one deep, according chime,
To the voice of Holger Danske,
Demanding, “Is it time?”