King Christian stood beside the mast
In smoke and mist.
His weapons, hammering hard and fast,
Through helms and brains of Gothmen pass’d,
Then sank each hostile sail and mast
In smoke and mist.
“Fly,” said the foe, “fly all that can,
For who can Denmark’s Christian
Resist?”
Niels Juul he mark’d the tempest’s roar:
“Now, now’s the tide!”
He hoists his banner, red as gore,
And plied his foemen aft and fore,
Loud crying ’midst the tempest’s roar:
“Now, now’s the tide!”
“Fly each, who knows a refuge path,
For who can Juul, when hot with wrath,
Abide!”
O North sea, Weasel’s [{50}] flashes rent
Thy vapours dun.
Down to thy bosom heroes went,
For with those flashes death was blent;
From the fight rose a yell which rent
Thy vapours dun.
From Denmark lighteneth Tordenskiold,—
“Yield, yield to heaven’s favourite bold,
And run.”
Thou Danish path to fame and might,
Dark-rolling main!
Receive thy friend, who holds as light
The perils of the stormy fight,
Who braves like thee the tempest’s might,
Dark-rolling main!
Bear me through battle, song and sport,
Until the grave, my final port,
I gain!
SIR SINCLAIR. [{51}]
From the Danish of Edward Storm.
(At the commencement of the last century, Colonel Sinclair, a Scotsman in the service of the King of Sweden, landed upon the coast of Norway, at the time war was raging between the Danish and Swedish crowns, with a band of Scots which he had levied in his native country. After committing much havoc and cruelty, the invaders were destroyed to a man in a conflict with the peasantry, who had assembled in considerable number. Many of the broad-swords lost by the Scots in this encounter are to be seen in the Museum of Copenhagen, trophies of a victory achieved in a hallowed cause—the defence of the father-land against unprovoked aggression.)
Sir Sinclair sail’d from the Scottish ground,
To Norroway o’er he hasted;
On Guldbrand’s rocks his grave he found,
Where his corse in its gore is wasted.
Sir Sinclair sail’d o’er the blue, blue wave,
For Swedish pay he hath sold him,
God help the Scot, for the Norsemen brave
Shall biting the grass behold him.
The moon at night shed pale its light,
The billows are gently swelling;
See a mermaid merge from the briny surge,
To Sir Sinclair evil telling.