THE ELDER-WITCH.
According to the Danish tradition, there is a female Elf in the elder tree, which she leaves every midnight; and, having strolled among the fields, returns to it before morning.
Though tall the oak, and firm its stem,
Though far abroad its boughs are spread,
Though high the poplar lifts its head,
I have no song for them.
A theme more bright, more bright would be
The winsome, winsome elder tree,
Beneath whose shade I sit reclin’d;—
It holds a witch within its bark,
A lovely witch who haunts the dark,
And fills with love my mind.
When ghosts, at midnight, leave their graves,
And rous’d is every phantom thing;
When mermaids rise and sweetly sing
In concert with the waves;
When Palnatoka, [29] on his steed,
Pursues the elves across the mead,
Or gallops, gallops o’er the sea,
The witch within the elder’s bark,
The lovely witch who haunts the dark,
Comes out, comes out to me.
Of leaves the fairies make our bed;
The knight, who moulders ’neath the elm, [30]
Starts up with spear and rusted helm,—
By him the grace is said;
And though her kiss is cold at times,
And does not scent of earthly climes,
Though glaring is her eye, yet still
The witch within the elder’s bark,
The lovely witch who haunts the dark,
I prize, and ever will.
Yet, once I lov’d a mortal maid,
And gaz’d, enraptur’d, on her charms,
Oft circled in each other’s arms,
Together, here we stray’d;—
But, soon, she found a fairer youth,
And I a fairer maid, forsooth!
And one more true, more true to me,
The witch within the elder’s bark,
The lovely witch who haunts the dark,
Has been more true to me.
ODE.
FROM THE GÆLIC.
“Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd.”
Oh restless, to night, are my slumbers;
Life yet I retain, but not gladness;
My heart in my bosom is wither’d,
And sorrow sits heavy upon me.
For cold, in her grave-hill, is lying
The maid whom I gaz’d on, so fondly,
Whose teeth were like chalk from the quarry,
Whose voice was more sweet than harp music.
Like foam that subsides on the water,
Just where the wild swan has been playing;
Like snow, by the sunny beam melted,
My love, thou wert gone on a sudden.
Salt tears I let fall in abundance,
When memory bringeth before me
That eye, like the placid blue heaven;
That cheek, like the rose in its glory.
Sweet object of warmest affection,
Why could not thy beauty protect thee?
Why, sparing so many a thistle,
Did Death cut so lovely a blossom?
Here pine I, forlorn and abandon’d,
Where once I was cheerful and merry:
No joy shall e’er shine on my visage,
Until my last hour’s arrival.
O, like the top grain on the corn-ear,
Or, like the young pine, ’mong the bushes;
Or, like the moon, ’mong the stars shining,
Wert thou, O my love, amongst women!
BEAR SONG.
FROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.
The squirrel that’s sporting
Amid the green leaves,
Full oft, with its rustle,
The hunter deceives;
Who starts—and believing
That booty is nigh,
His heart, for a moment,
With pleasure beats high.
“Now, courage!” he mutters,
And crouching below
A thunder-split linden,
He waits for his foe:
“Ha! joy to the hunter;
A monstrous bear
E’en now is approaching,
And bids me prepare.
“Hark! hark! for the monarch
Of forests, ere long,
Will breathe out his bellow,
Deep-throated and strong:”
Thus saying, he gazes
Intently around;
But, death to his wishes!
Can hear not a sound:
Except when, at moments,
The wind rising shrill
Wafts boughs from the bushes,
Across the lone hill.
Wo worth, to thee, squirrel,
Amid the green leaves,
Full oft thy loud rustle
The hunter deceives.
NATIONAL SONG.
FROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.
King Christian stood beside the mast;
Smoke, mixt with flame,
Hung o’er his guns, that rattled fast
Against the Gothmen, as they pass’d:
Then sunk each hostile sail and mast
In smoke and flame.
“Fly!” said the foe: “fly! all that can,
Nor wage, with Denmark’s Christian,
The dread, unequal game.”
Niels Juul look’d out, and loudly cried,
“Quick! now’s the time:”
He hoisted up his banner wide,
And fore and aft his foemen plied;
And loud above the battle cried,
“Quick! now’s the time.”
“Fly!” said the foe, “’t is Fortune’s rule,
To deck the head of Denmark’s Juul
With Glory’s wreath sublime.”
Once, Baltic, when the musket’s knell
Rang through the sky,
Down to thy bosom heroes fell
And gasp’d amid the stormy swell;
While, from the shore, a piercing yell
Rang through the sky!
“God aids me,” cried our Tordenskiold;
“Proud foes, ye are but vainly bold;
Strike, strike, to me, or fly!”
Thou Danish path to fame and might,
Dark-rolling wave,
Receive a friend who holds as light
The perils of the stormy fight;
Who braves, like thee, the tempest’s might;
Dark rolling wave,
O swiftly bear my bark along,
Till, crown’d with conquest, lull’d with song,
I reach my bourne—the grave.