THE MOORS OF JUTLAND.

FROM THE DANISH.

I lay on my heathery hills all alone,

The storm-winds rush’d o’er me in turbulence loud;

My head rested lone on the gray moorland stone,

My eyes wandered starward from cloud unto cloud.

There wandered my eyes, but my thoughts onward passed,

Far, far beyond cloud-track or tempests’ career;

At times I hummed songs, and the desolate waste

Was the first the sad chimes of my spirit to hear.

Gloomy and gray are the moorlands, where rest

My fathers, yet there doth the wild heather bloom;

And amid the old cairns the lark buildeth her nest,

And sings in the desert, o’er hill-top, and tomb!

Translation of Mrs. Howitt. Blicker.