“Heaven’s ruddy portals open,—
Daylight bursts upon my view;
Though the word be hard to utter,
I must bid thee, love, adieu!”
Up his mighty limbs he gather’d,
Took the coffin on his back,
To the church-yard straight he hasten’d
By the well-known, beaten, track.
Up then rose the sweet Eliza;
Tear-drops on her features stood,
While her lover she attended
Through the dark and dreary wood.
When they reach’d the lone enclosure,
(Last, sad, refuge of the dead)—
From the cheeks of good Sir Aager
All the lovely colour fled:
“Listen, now, my sweet Eliza,
If my peace be dear to thee:
Never, then, from this time forward,
Shed a single tear for me.
“Turn thy lovely eyes to heaven,
Where the stars are beaming pale;
Thou canst tell me, then, for certain,
If the night begins to fail.”
When she turn’d her eyes to heaven,
All with stars besprinkled o’er,
In the earth the dead man glided,
And she never saw him more.
Homeward went the sweet Eliza;
Oh, her heart was chill and cold:—
Wo is me! the Monday after,
Dead she lay beneath the mould!
SAINT OLUF.
FROM THE OLD DANISH.
St. Oluf was a mighty king,
Who rul’d the Northern land;
The holy Christian faith he preach’d,
And taught it, sword in hand.