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Romantic Ballads Translated from the Danish and Miscellaneous Pieces by George Borrow

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The dark Runes well can he throw. {19}

There shines upon the seventeenth shield
A horse, so stately and high,
Is borne by Count Sir Guncelin;
"Slay! slay! bide not," is his cry.

There shine upon the eighteenth shield
A man, and a fierce wild boar,
Are borne by the Count of Lidebierg;
His blows fall heavy and sore.

There shines upon the nineteenth shield
A hound, at the stretch of his speed;
Is borne by Oisten Kiaempe, bold;
He risks his neck without heed.

There shines upon the twentieth shield,
Among branches, a rose, so gay;
Wherever Sir Nordman comes in war,
He bears bright honour away.

There shines on the one-and-twentieth shield
A vase, and of copper 't is made;
That's borne by Mogan Sir Olgerson;
He wins broad lands with his blade.

And now comes forth the next good shield,
With a sun dispelling the mirk;
And that by Asbiorn Milde is borne;
He sets the knights' backs at work. {20}

There shines on the three-and-twentieth shield
An arm, in a manacle bound;
And that by Alvor Sir Lange is borne,
To the heroes he hands mead round.

Now comes the four-and-twentieth shield,
And a bright sword there you see;
And that by Humble Sir Jerfing is borne;
Full worthy of that is he.

There shines upon the next good shield
A goss-hawk, striking his game;
That's borne by a knight, the best of all -
Sir Iver Blaa is his name.

Now comes the six-and-twentieth shield,
A jav'lin there you spy;
Is borne by little Mimring Tan;
From no one will he fly.

Such knights and bearings as were there,
And who can them all relate;
It was Sivard, the Snaresvend;
No longer he deign'd to wait.

"If there be one of the Dane king's men,
Who at Dyst {21} is willing to ride,
Let him, I pray, without pause or delay,
Meet me by the wild wood's side.

"The man among you, ye Danish court men,
Who at Dyst has won most meeds;
Him I am ready to fight, this day,
For both of our noble steeds."

The heroes cast the die on the board;
The die it roll'd so wide:
"Since, young Sir Humble, it stops by thee,
'Gainst Sivard thou must ride."

Sir Humble struck his hand on the board;
No longer he lists to play:
I tell you, forsooth, that the rosy hue
From his cheek fast faded away.

"Now, hear me, Vidrik Verlandson;
Thou art so free a man;
Do lend me Skimming, thy horse, this day;
I'll pledge for him what I can:

"Eight good castles, in Birting's land,
As pledges for him I'll set;
My sister too, the lily-cheek'd maid,
A fairer thou ne'er hast met:

"Eight good castles, and eight good knights;
I'd scorn to offer thee less:
If Skimming should meet any hurt this day,
My sister thou shalt caress."

"If yonder mountains all were gold,
And yonder streams were wine;
The whole for Skimming I would not take;
I bless God he is mine.

"Sivard is a purblind swain;
Sees not to his faulchion's end:
If Skimming were hurt thou couldst not pay me
With the help of thy every friend.

"The sword it whirls in Sivard's hand,
As whirl the sails of the mill;
If thou take Skimming 'gainst that wild fool,
'T is sorely against my will."

Humble, he sat him on Skimming's back,
So gallantly can he ride;
But Skimming thought it passing strange
That a spur was clapt to his side.

The first course that together they rode,
So strong were the knightly two,
Asunder went Humble's saddle-ring,
And a furlong his good shield flew.

"Methinks thou art a fair young swain,
And well thy horse canst ride;
Dismount thee, straight, and gird up thy steed;
I am willing for thee to bide."

The second course that together they rode
Was worthy of knights renown'd;
Then both their saddles burst in two,
And Humble was sent to the ground.

"Now have I cast thee from thy steed,
Thy courser by right is mine;
But, tell me, youthful and gallant swain,
Who art thou, and of what line?

"Now have I won from thee the prize,
And Skimming belongs to me;
But, tell me, youthful and gallant swain,
What parents gave birth to thee?"

"Abelon is my father's name;
He sits upon Birting's throne:
Queen Ellina my mother is,
And that for truth is known.

"Queen Ellina my mother is -
A Queen whom all admire;
Good King Abelon Haardestaal,
So call they my hoary sire.

"And who am I, but Humble, the young,
A knight of Birting's land;
Of hero race, whose fame extends
To the wide earth's farthest strand."

"If Abelon be thy father's name,
The courser I straight restore;
Thou art, I find, my very good friend;
I knew thee not, youth, before.

"If Queen Ellina thy mother is,
Then Skimming thou hast rewon;
Thou art, indeed, my very good friend;
Thou art my sister's son.

"Take both the shield ropes, take them straight,
And bind me to yon oak tree;
Then hie thee back to King Diderik,
And say thou hast conquer'd me."

In came Humble, the youthful knight,
Was clad in a kirtle, green;
"O! I have got my courser again,
And have bound the warrior keen."

In came Humble, with boot and spur,
He cast on the table his sword:
"Sivard stands in the green wood bound,
He speaks not a single word.

"O, I have been to the wild forest,
And have seiz'd the warrior stark;
Sivard there was taken by me,
And tied to the oak's rough bark."

"Now hear me, young Sir Humble, the knight,
'T is plain a jest is meant,
Whenever Sivard was bound by thee,
'T was done with his own consent."

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
And he would fain know all.
"O, I will ride to the wood, and see
How Sivard endures his thrall."

Vidrik spoke to his burly groom:
"Go, saddle me Skimming gray,
For I will ride to the wood, and hear
What Sivard himself will say."

Sivard stands in the good green wood,
There sees he Vidrik ride:
"If Vidrik finds me bounden here,
He'll hew my rib-bones from my side."

Then loud laugh'd Vidrik Verlandson,
And Skimming began to neigh,
For Sivard rooted the oak tree up;
He dar'd no longer stay.

The queen she sat in the high, high, loft,
And thence look'd far and wide:
"O there comes Sivard Snaresvend,
With a stately oak at his side."

Then loud laugh'd fair Queen Gloriant,
As she look'd on Sivard full:
"Thou wert, no doubt, in great, great need,
When thou such flowers didst pull."

The King he stood at the castle gate,
In his robes and kingly crown:
"O there comes Sivard Snaresvend,
And he brings us Summer to town."{22}

Now dance the heroes by Brattingsborg;
They dance in their coats of felt;
There dances Sivard, the purblind swain,
With an oak tree under his belt.


King Diderik sits in the halls of Bern,
And he boasts of his deeds of might;
So many a swain in battle he's fell'd,
And taken so many a knight.

King Diderik sits in the halls of Bern,
And he strikes his moony shield;
"O, would that I knew of a hero now,
'Gainst whom I could take the field."

Then answer'd Master Hildebrand,
(For he knew all things best,)
"There sleeps a Giant at Birtingsberg;
Dar'st thou disturb his rest?"

"Now, hear me, Master Hildebrand;
Thou art huge in body and limb;
Thou foremost shall ride, in the wood, this day,
And bear our challenge to him."

Then answer'd Master Hildebrand,
So careful a knight was he;
"Not so, my Lord, will I do, this day,
For the wages delight not me."

Then out spoke Vidrik Verlandson,
And he spoke in wrathful mood;
"O, I'll be first of the band, this day,
All through the Birting wood."

Then out spoke Vidrik Verlandson,
And he spoke with lofty pride;
"The smith he forg'd me a faulchion good,
That can steel, like cloth, divide."

They were three hundred valorous knights,
Unto Birting's land that rode;
They go in quest of Langben the Jutt,
To the gloomy wood, his abode.

Then out spoke Vidrik Verlandson;
"A wondrous game we'll play;
For I will ride in the green wood first,
If ye'll but trust me away."

Then answer'd bold King Diderik,
He answer'd hastily then;
"When thou therein shalt have found the Jutt
Come back for me and my men."

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
In the forest alone he sped;
And there he found so little a way,
Which up to the Giant led.

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
He came unto Birting's hill;
There black and dread lay Langben the Jutt,
He lay stretch'd out, and still.

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
With his lance touch'd him on the knee;
"Wake up! wake up! now Langben the Jutt,
Thou sleepest full sound, I see."

"Here have I lain, for many a year,
'Mid the leaf and the dew-wet herb;
But never, till now, came a warrior by,
That has dar'd my sleep to disturb."

"Here stand I, Vidrik Verlandson,
With a sword, so good, at my side;
I came to wake thee up from thy sleep,
Betide whatever betide."

It was Langben the Giant, then,
Turn'd up the white of his eye;
"O, whence can come this warrior youth,
Who such bold words lets fly?

"But hear, but hear, thou warrior youth;
I will not do battle with thee,
Except thou prove of a knightly race;
So thy lineage tell to me."

"A handsome smith my father was,
And Verland hight was he:
Bodild they call'd my mother fair;
Queen over countries three:

"Skimming I call my noble steed,
Begot from the wild sea-mare:
Blank {23} do I call my haughty helm,
Because it glitters so fair:

"Skrepping I call my good thick shield;
Steel shafts have furrow'd it o'er:
Mimmering have I nam'd my sword;
'T is harden'd in heroes' gore:

"And I am Vidrik Verlandson;
For clothes bright iron I wear:
Stand'st thou not up on thy long, long legs,
I'll pin thee down to thy lair:

"Do thou stand up on thy long, long legs,
Nor look so dogged and grim;
The King holds out before the wood;
Thou shalt yield thy treasure to him."

"All, all the gold that I possess,
I will keep with great renown;
I'll yield it at no little horse-boy's word,
To the best king wearing a crown."

"So young and little as here I seem,
Thou shalt find me prompt in a fray;
I'll hew the head from thy shoulders off,
And thy much gold bear away."

It was Langben the mighty Jutt,
With fury his heart was fir'd;
"Ride hence! ride hence! thou warrior youth,
If of life thou be not tir'd."

Skimming sprang up, with both his legs,
Against the giant's side
Asunder went five of his rib-bones then,
And the fight began at that tide.

It was Langben the lofty Jutt,
He wav'd his steel mace round;
He sent a blow after Vidrik;
But the mace struck deep in the ground.

It was Langben the lofty Jutt,
Who had thought his foeman to slay,
But the blow fell short of Vidrik;
For the good horse bore him away.

It was Langben the lofty Jutt,
That shouted in wild despair:
"Now lies my mace in the hillock fast,
As though 't were hammer'd in there!"

Vidrik paus'd no moment's space;
So ready was he to assail:
"Upon him, Skimming, upon him once more!
Now, Mimmering, now prevail!"

He seiz'd his sword in both his hands,
Unto Langben Giant he flew;
He struck him so hard in the hairy breast,
That the point his lungs went through.

Now Langben Giant has got a wound,
And he's waken'd thoroughly now;
So gladly would he have paid it back,
But, alas! he knew not how.

"Accursed be thou, young Vidrik!
And accurs'd thy piercing steel!
Thou hast given me, see, a wound in my breast,
Whence rise the pains I feel."

I'll hew thee, Giant, I'll hew thee as small
As leaves that are borne on the blast,
Except thou showest me all the gear,
That hid in the forest thou hast."

"Forbear, O Vidrik Verlandson,
Strike me not cruelly dead!
And I will lead thee straight to my house,
That's thatch'd with gold so red."

Vidrik rode, and the Giant crept,
So far through the forest ways,
They found the house with the red gold thatch'd;
It glitter'd like straw in a blaze.

"Therein, therein are heaps of gold,
No King has a greater store;
Do thou remove the big black stone,
And lift from the hinges the door."

With both hands Vidrik seiz'd the stone,
But to stir it in vain did he try;
The Giant took it with finger and thumb,
And lifted it up in the sky.

"Now hear, now hear, thou warrior youth,
Thou canst wheel thy courser about;
But in every feat of manly strength
I could beat thee out and out."

Then answer'd Vidrik Verlandson,
(He fear'd for himself some ill)
"'T is not the custom of any wise man
His strength on a stone to spill."

"Therein, therein is much more gold
Than fifteen kings can show;
Hear me, Vidrik Verlandson,
Thou therein first shalt go."

Then answer'd Vidrik Verlandson,
(For his cunning intent he saw)
"Thou shalt lead the way into thine own house,
For that is warrior-law."

It was Langben the Giant then,
To the door he stoop'd down low:
It was Vidrik Verlandson
Cleft off his head at a blow.

Away the quivering body he drew,
And propp'd it against an oak;
Then back he rode the long, long way,
He's thought of a wondrous joke.

With giant's blood he besmear'd himself,
And besmear'd his steed all o'er;
Then back he rides to King Diderik,
Pretends to be wounded sore.

"Here bide ye in peace, my companions good,
All under the grass-green hill;
Langben the Giant has smote me to day,
I doubt I shall fare but ill."

"If thou from the Giant hast got a blow,
Thy life must be nigh its close;
We'll ride swift back to the halls of Bern,
No man more will we lose."

"Now wend thee, bold King Diderik,
Wend into the wood with me;
And all the gold that the giant had,
That will I show to thee."

"If thou hast slain the giant this day,
'T will far be blaz'd in the land;
And the warrior lives not in this world,
'Gainst whom thou may'st fear to stand."

But what befel King Diderik's men?
When the giant they first perceiv'd,
They all stopp'd short, in the good green wood,
Of courage at once bereav'd.

They thought the giant verily would
That moment after them stride:
Not one of them all would have battled with him;
Back would they all have hied.

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
He laugh'd at their craven fear:
"How would ye have fac'd him when alive,
Ye dare not him, dead, go near?

With his lance's haft the body he push'd,
The head came toppling down:
That the Giant was a warrior stark,
Forsooth, I am forc'd to own.

Out took they then his ruddy gold,
And shar'd it amongst the band:
To Vidrik came the largest part,
For 't was earn'd with his good hand.

Little car'd he for the booty, I ween,
But he thought of his meed of fame;
When men should say, in the Danish land,
That the Giant he overcame.

So gladly rode they to Bern again;
King Diderik gladdest of all:
There caus'd he Vidrik Verlandson
To sit next him in the hall.


Upon this Ballad Oehlenslaeger founded his "Elvir Shades," a
translation of which has already been given.

I rested my head upon Elvir Hill's side, and my eyes were beginning
to slumber;
That moment there rose up before me two maids, whose charms would
take ages to number.

One patted my face, and the other exclaim'd, while loading my cheek
with her kisses,
"Rise, rise, for to dance with you here we have sped from the
undermost caves and abysses.

"Rise, fair-headed swain, and refuse not to dance; and I and my
sister will sing thee
The loveliest ditties that ever were heard, and the prettiest
presents will bring thee."

Then both of them sang so delightful a song, that the boisterous
river before us
Stood suddenly quiet and placid, as though 't were afraid to disturb
the sweet chorus.

The boisterous stream stood suddenly still, though accustom'd to foam
and to bellow;
And, fearless, the trout play'd along with the pike, and the pike
play'd with him as his fellow.

The fishes, whose dwelling was deep in the flood, up, up from their
caverns did sally;
The gay little birds of the forest began to warble, forthwith, in the

"Now, listen thou fair-headed swain, and if thou wilt stand up and
dance for a minute,
We'll teach thee to open the sorcerer's book, and to read all the
Runic that's in it.

"The bear and the wolf thou shalt trammel, unto the thick stem of the
oak, at thy pleasure;
Before thee the dragon shall fly from his nest, and shall leave thee
sole lord of his treasure."

Then about and around on the moonlight hill, in their fairy fashion
they sported,
While unmov'd sat the gallant and fair young swain, whom they, in
their wantonness, courted.

"And wilt thou not grant us our civil request, proud stripling, and
wilt thou deny it?
By hell's ruddy blazes, our gold-handled knife shall lay thee for
ever in quiet."

And if my good luck had not manag'd it so, that the cock crew out,
then, in the distance,
I should have been murder'd by them, on the hill, without power to
offer resistance.

'T is therefore I counsel each young Danish swain, who may ride in
the forest so dreary,
Ne'er to lay down upon lone Elvir Hill though he chance to be ever so


The following Ballad is merely a versification of one of the many
feats of Waldemar, the famed phantom hunter of the North, an account
of whom, and of Palnatoka and Groon the Jutt, both spectres of a
similar character, may be found in Thiele's Danske Folkesagn.

Late at eve they were toiling on Harribee bank,
For in harvest men ne'er should be idle:
Towards them rode Waldemar, meagre and lank,
And he linger'd and drew up his bridle.

"Success to your labour; and have ye to night
Seen any thing pass ye, while reaping?"
"Yes, yes;" said a peasant, "I saw something white,
Just now, through the corn-stubble creeping."

"Which way did it go?" "Why methought to the beach."
Then off went Waldemar bounding;
A few minutes after, they heard a faint screech,
And the horn of the hunter resounding.

Then back came he, laughing in horrible tone,
And the blood in their veins ran the colder,
When they saw that a fresh-slaughter'd mermaid was thrown
Athwart his proud barb's dappled shoulder.

Said he, "I have chas'd her for seven score years,
As she landed to drink at the fountains."
No more did he deign to their terrified ears,
But gallop'd away to the mountains.


"Do thou, dear Mother, contrive amain
How Marsk Stig's daughter I may gain."

She made him, of water, a noble steed,
Whose trappings were form'd from rush and reed.

To a young knight chang'd she then her son;
To Mary's church at full speed he's gone.

His foaming horse to the gate he bound,
And pac'd the church full three times round:

When in he walk'd with his plume on high,
The dead men gave from their tombs a sigh:

The priest heard that, and he clos'd his book;
"Methinks yon knight has a strange wild look."

Then laugh'd the maiden beneath her sleeve;
"If he were my husband I should not grieve."

He stepp'd over benches one and two:
"O, Marsk Stig's daughter, I doat on you."

He stepp'd over benches two and three:
"O, Marsk Stig's daughter, come home with me."

Then said the maid, without more ado,
"Here take my troth, I will go with you."

They went from the church a bridal train,
And danc'd so gaily across the plain;

They danc'd till they came to the strand, and then
They were forsaken by maids and men.

"Now, Marsk Stig's daughter, sit down and rest;
To build a boat I will do my best."

He built a boat of the whitest sand,
And away they went from the smiling land;

But when they had cross'd the ninth green wave,
Down sunk the boat to the ocean cave!

I caution ye, maids, as well as I can,
Ne'er give your troth to an unknown man.


Fair Agnes alone on the sea-shore stood,
Then rose a Merman from out the flood:

"Now, Agnes, hear what I say to thee,
Wilt thou my leman consent to be?"

"O, freely that will I become,
If thou but take me beneath the foam."

He stopp'd her ears, and he stopp'd her eyes,
And into the ocean he took his prize.

The Merman's leman was Agnes there, -
She bore him sons and daughters fair:

One day by the cradle she sat and sang,
Then heard she above how the church bells rang:

She went to the Merman, and kiss'd his brow;
"Once more to church I would gladly go."

"And thou to church once more shalt go,
But come to thy babes back here below."

He flung his arm her body around,
And he lifted her up unto England's ground.

Fair Agnes in at the church door stepp'd,
Behind her mother, who sorely wept.

"O Agnes, Agnes, daughter dear!
Where hast thou been this many a year?"

"O, I have been deep, deep under the sea,
And liv'd with the Merman in love and glee."

"And what for thy honour did he give thee,
When he made thee his leman beneath the sea?"

"He gave me silver, he gave me gold,
And sprigs of coral my hair to hold."

The Merman up to the church door came;
His eyes they shone like a yellow flame;

His face was white, and his beard was green -
A fairer demon was never seen.

"Now, Agnes, Agnes, list to me,
Thy babes are longing so after thee."

"I cannot come yet, here must I stay
Until the priest shall have said his say."

And when the priest had said his say,
She thought with her mother at home she'd stay.

"O Agnes, Agnes, list to me,
Thy babes are sorrowing after thee."

"Let them sorrow, and sorrow their fill,
But back to them never return I will."

"Think on them, Agnes, think on them all;
Think on the great one, think on the small."

"Little, O little, care I for them all,
Or for the great one, or for the small."

O, bitterly then did the Merman weep;
He hied him back to the foamy deep:

But, often his shrieks and mournful cries,
At midnight's hour, from thence arise.



This is Denmark's holyday;
Dance, ye maidens!
Sing, ye men!
Tune, ye harpers!
Blush, ye heroes!
This is Denmark's holyday.


In right's enjoyment, in the arm of love,
Beneath the olive's shadow,
The Daneman sat;
Whilst wet and steaming wav'd the bloody flag
Above the regions of the sunny South.
Pure was our heaven, -
Pure and blue;
For, with his pinions, angel Peace dispell'd
All reek and vapour from mild virtue's sphere;
Then lower'd Battle's blood-bespatter'd son
Upon our coast, -
And haggard Envy lent to him her torch,
Which sparkled high with hell's sulphureous light,
Then fled the genius of peace, and wept.


But mighty thunders peal'd; the earth it shook,
While rattled all the moss-grown giant stones, {24}
And Oldom's sunken grave-hill rais'd itself;
Then started Skiold and Frode,
And Svend, and Knud, and Waldemar, {25}
In copper hauberks up, and pointing to
Rust-spots of blood on faulchion and on shield -
They vanish'd:
And in the Gothic aisles, high arch'd and dim,
Wild flutter'd of itself, the ancient banner
Which hung above a hero's bones;
The faulchion clatter'd loud and ceaselessly
Within the tomb of Christian the Fourth, {26}
By Tordenskiold's {27} chapel on the strand,
Wild rose the daring Mermaid's witching song;
The stones were loosen'd round about the grave
Where lay great Juul;
And Hvidtfeld, clad in a transparent mist,
With smiles cherubic beaming on his face,
Stray'd, arm in arm, with his heroic brothers,
Along the deep.


We felt the presence of one and all;
The old flags wav'd in the arsenal,
A wondrous spirit went round, went round
The Northern ground.


Then waken'd Thor, {28}
And drew around his loins the mighty belt
Of bear-sinews;
With love fraternal harden'd he his shield,
With eager haste he sharp'd his blunted glaive,
And, with the iron of his hammer, touch'd
Each Dane's and every Norman's breast -
Shot his heroic flame therein, and smil'd!


And Denmark and Norway smil'd.


Upon the water,
Upon the land,
We boun'd for slaughter,
At Thor's command.


Then fell our tears so quickly,
We breath'd, we breath'd so thickly,
While scarce our lips could stammer forth
Prayers for you, and for the North.


And we, and we, with breasts that smarted,
Knelt, lowly knelt, whilst firm ye stood,
From us and from affection parted,
In reek and smoke, in brothers' blood!


Tenderness comes from God;
Woman and man in its praise should sing;
But tenderness flies at honour's nod;
We offer all up to our land and King.


What sang ye, warlike throngs?
Repeat, repeat this day,
One of the simple, nervous, songs
Ye murmur'd out, when, hot with wrongs,
Ye waited the coming fray.


We love, we all love thee, beneficent Peace, &c.


Like the wave of the wild North main,
Foaming and frothing came on our foe;
Proud of his triumphs, proud of his train,
He thought to lay us low:
But, from Denmark's lines of oak,
A horrible, horrible volley outbroke;
Then tumbled his mast,
His courage fell fast;
And the wave, which resembled his furious mood,
Was now with his blood embrued.


This is Denmark's holyday;
Dance, ye maidens!
Sing, ye men!
Tune, ye harpers!
Blush, ye heroes!
This is Denmark's holyday.


But, hark! what sobbing and what mournful notes
Are mixing with our hymns of ardent joy!
Hush, hush, be still;
A band of white-rob'd maids approaches slow,
With lily chaplets round their yellow locks,
With heavy tear-drops in their sunken eye;
Broken and trembling sounds
The melancholy song,
Accompanied by harp-tones rising mild.


Love, with rosy fetter,
Held us firmly bound;
Pure unmix'd enjoyment
Grateful here we found.
Bosom, bosom meeting,
'Gainst our youths we press'd;
Bright the moon arose, then,
Glad to see us blest.

Denmark's honour beckon'd,
Loud the canon roar'd;
Perish'd in the battle
They whom we ador'd.
Sweet is, grave, thy slumber,
Free from care and noise;
Short are earthly sorrows, -
Endless heaven's joys.


From the heavenly, clear, invisible, home
Our voices come:
No joy can resemble the joy which reigns
In our seraph veins.
Lov'd ones, lov'd ones, weep for us not,
Soon shall ye here partake of our lot;
High o'er the stars' extremest line
The sun of affection more bright shall shine:
Brothers, brothers, 't is sweet to die
For the land of our birth, and the maid of our eye.
Blest are ye who like us shall fall;
The righteous Jehovah rewards, above,
Courage and love:
Hallelujah, peace be with you all!


Sigvald Jarl was a famous Sea Rover, who, when unengaged in his
predatory expeditions, resided at Jomsborg, in Denmark. He was the
terror of the Norwegian coasts, which he ravaged and pillaged almost
at his pleasure. Hacon Jarl, who at that time sat on the Norwegian
throne, being informed that Sigvald meditated a grand descent, and
knowing that he himself was unable to oppose him, had recourse to his
God, Thorgerd, to whom he sacrificed his son Erling. In what manner
Thorgerd assisted him and his forces, when the Danes landed, will
best be learned from the bold song which the circumstance gave rise
to, and which the following is a feeble attempt to translate.

When from our ships we bounded,
I heard, with fear astounded,
The storm of Thorgerd's waking,
From Northern vapours breaking;
With flinty masses blended,
Gigantic hail descended,
And thick and fiercely rattled
Against us there embattled.

To aid the hostile maces,
It drifted in our faces;
It drifted, dealing slaughter,
And blood ran out like water -
Ran reeking, red, and horrid,
From batter'd cheek and forehead;
We plied our swords, but no men
Can stand 'gainst hail and foemen.

And demon Thorgerd raging
To see us still engaging,
Shot, downward from the heaven,
His shafts of flaming levin;
Then sank our brave in numbers,
To cold eternal slumbers;
There lay the good and gallant,
Renown'd for warlike talent.

Our captain, this perceiving,
The signal made for leaving,
And with his ship departed,
Downcast and broken-hearted;
War, death, and consternation,
Pursu'd our embarkation;
We did our best, but no men
Can stand 'gainst hail and foemen.


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.


"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!


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.


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.


Here have I stood, the pride of the park,
In winter with snow on my frozen bark;
In spring 'mong the flowers that smiling she spread,
And among my own leaves when summer was fled.
Three hundred years my top I have rais'd,
Three hundred years I have sadly gaz'd
O'er Nature's wide extended scene;
O'er rushing rivers and meadows green,
For though I was always willing to rove,
I never could yet my firm foot move.

They fell'd my brother, who stood by my side,
And flung out his arms so wide, so wide;
How envy I him, for how blest is he,
As the keel of a vessel he sails so free
Around the whole of the monstrous earth;
But I am still in the place of my birth.
I once was too haughty by far to complain,
But am become feeble through age and pain;
And therefore I often give vent to my woes,
When through my branches the wild wind blows.

A night like this, so calm and clear,
I have not seen for many a year;
The milk-white doe and her tender fawn
Are skipping about on the moonlight lawn;
And there, on the verge of my time-worn root,
Two lovers are seated, and both are mute:
Her arm encircles his youthful neck,
For none are present their love to check.
This night would almost my sad heart cheer,
Had I one hope or one single fear.


A lad, who twenty tongues can talk
And sixty miles a day can walk;
Drink at a draught a pint of rum,
And then be neither sick nor dumb
Can tune a song, and make a verse,
And deeds of Northern kings rehearse
Who never will forsake his friend,
While he his bony fist can bend;
And, though averse to brawl and strife
Will fight a Dutchman with a knife.
O that is just the lad for me,
And such is honest six-foot three.

A braver being ne'er had birth
Since God first kneaded man from earth:
O, I have cause to know him well,
As Ferroe's blacken'd rocks can tell.
Who was it did, at Suderoe,
The deed no other dar'd to do?
Who was it, when the Boff {31} had burst,
And whelm'd me in its womb accurst -
Who was it dash'd amid the wave,
With frantic zeal, my life to save?
Who was it flung the rope to me?
O, who, but honest six-foot three!

Who was it taught my willing tongue,
The songs that Braga {32} fram'd and sung?
Who was it op'd to me the store
Of dark unearthly Runic lore,
And taught me to beguile my time
With Denmark's aged and witching rhyme:
To rest in thought in Elvir shades,
And hear the song of fairy maids;
Or climb the top of Dovrefeld,
Where magic knights their muster held?
Who was it did all this for me?
O, who, but honest six-foot three!

Wherever fate shall bid me roam,
Far, far from social joy and home;
'Mid burning Afric's desert sands,
Or wild Kamschatka's frozen lands;
Bit by the poison-loaded breeze,
Or blasts which clog with ice the seas;
In lowly cot or lordly hall,
In beggar's rags or robes of pall,
'Mong robber-bands or honest men,
In crowded town or forest den,
I never will unmindful be
Of what I owe to six-foot three.

That form which moves with giant-grace;
That wild, though not unhandsome, face;
That voice which sometimes in its tone
Is softer than the wood-dove's moan,
At others, louder than the storm
Which beats the side of old Cairn Gorm; {33}
That hand, as white as falling snow,
Which yet can fell the stoutest foe;
And, last of all, that noble heart,
Which ne'er from honour's path would start,
Shall never be forgot by me -
So farewell, honest six-foot three!



Lo, a pallid fleecy vapour
Far along the East is spread;
Every star has quench'd its taper,
Lately glimmering over head.
On the leaves, that bend so lowly,
Drops of crystal water gleam;
Yawning wide, the peasant slowly
Drives afield his sluggish team.
Dreary looks the forest, lacking
Song of birds that slumber mute;
No rough swain is yet attacking,
With his bill, the beech's root.
Night's terrific ghostly hour
Backward through time's circle flies;
No shrill clock from moss-grown tower
Bids the dead men wake and rise.
Wearied out with midnight riot
Mystic Nature slumbers now;
Mouldering bodies rest in quiet,
'Neath their tomb-lids damp and low;
Sad and chill the wind is sighing
Through the reeds that skirt the pool,
All around looks dead or dying,
Wrapt in sorrow, clad in dool.


Roseate colours on heaven's high arch
Are beginning to mix with the blue and the gray,
Sol now commences his wonderful march,
And the forests' wing'd denizens sing from the spray.
Gaily the rose
Is seen to unclose
Each of her leaves to the brightening ray.
Waves on the lake
Rise, sparkle, and break:
O Venus, O Venus, thy shrine is prepar'd,
Far down in the valley o'erhung by the grove;
Where, all the day, Philomel warbles, unscar'd,
Her silver-ton'd ditty of pleasure and love.

Innocence smiling out-carrols the lark,
And the bosom of guilt becomes tranquil again;
Nightmares and visions, the fiends of the dark,
Have abandon'd the blood and have flown from the brain.
Higher the sun
Up heaven has run,
Beaming so fierce that we feel him with pain;
Man, herb, and flower,
Droop under his power.
O Venus, O Venus, thy shrine is prepar'd,
Far down in the valley o'erhung by the grove
Where, all the day, Philomel warbles, unscar'd,
Her silver-ton'd ditty of pleasure and love.


What darkens, what darkens?--'t is heaven's high roof:
What lightens?--'t is Heckla's flame, shooting aloof:
The proud, the majestic, the rugged old Thor,
The mightiest giant the North ever saw,
Transform'd to a mountain, stands there in the field,
With ice for his corslet, and rock for his shield;
With thunder for voice, and with fire for tongue,
He stands there, so frightful, with vapour o'erhung.
On that other side of the boisterous sea
Black Vulcan, as haughty as ever was he,
Stands, chang'd to a mountain, call'd Etna by name,
Which belches continually oceans of flame.
Much blood have they spilt, and much harm have they done,
For both, when the ancient religions were gone,
Combin'd their wild strength to destroy the new race,
Who were boldly beginning their shrines to deface.
O, Jesus of Nazareth, draw forth the blade
Of vengeance, and speed to thy worshippers' aid;
Beat down the old gods, cut asunder their mail -
Amen!--brother Christians, why look ye so pale.


Pale the moon her light was shedding
O'er the landscape far and wide;
Calmly bright, all ills undreading,
Emma wander'd by my side.

Night's sad birds their harsh notes utter'd,
Perching low among the trees;
Emma's milk-white kirtle flutter'd
Graceful in the rising breeze:

Then, in sweetness more than mortal,
Sang a voice a plaintive air,
As we pass'd the church's portal,
Lo, a ghostly form stood there!

"Emma, come, thy mother's calling;
Lone I lie in night and gloom,
Whilst the sun and moon-beams, falling,
Glance upon my marble tomb."

Emma star'd upon the figure, -
Wish'd to speak, but vainly tried,
Press'd my hand with loving vigour,
Trembled--faulter'd--gasp'd--and died!

Home I bore my luckless maiden,
Home I bore her in despair;
Chilly blasts, with night-dew laden,
Rustled through her streaming hair.

Plunging then amid the forest,
Soon I found the stately tree,
Under which, when heat was sorest,
She was wont to sit with me.

Down my cheek ran tears in fever,
While with axe its stem I cut;
Soon it fell, and I with lever
Roll'd it straight to Emma's hut.

Kiss'd her oft, and love empassion'd
Sung a song in wildest tones;
While the oaken boards I fashion'd,
Doom'd to hide her lovely bones.

Thereupon I sought the bower,
Where she kept her single hive;
Morning shone on tree and flower,
All around me look'd alive.

Stung by bees in thousand places,
Out I took the yellow comb;
Emma, deck'd in all her graces,
Past my vision seem'd to roam.

Soon of wax I form'd a taper,
O'er my love it cast its ray,
'Till the night came, clad in vapour,
When in grave I laid her clay.

Deep below me sank the coffin,
While my tears fell fast as rain;
Deep it sank, and I, full often,
Thought to heave it up again.

Soon as e'er the stars, so merry,
Heaven's arch next night illum'd,
Sad I sought the cemetery,
Where my true love lay entomb'd.

Then, in sweetness more than mortal,
Sang a voice a plaintive lay;
Underneath the church's portal
Emma stood in death array.

"Louis! come! thy love is calling;
Lone I lie in night and gloom,
Whilst the sun and moon beams, falling,
Glance upon my lowly tomb."

"Emma! dear!" I cried in gladness,
"Take me too beneath the sod;
Leave me not to pine in sadness,
Here on earth's detested clod."

"Death should only strike the hoary,
Yet, my Louis, thou shalt die,
When the stars again in glory,
Shine upon the midnight sky."

Tears bedeck'd her long eyelashes,
While she kiss'd my features wan;
Then, like flame that dies o'er ashes,
All at once the maid was gone.

Therefore, pluck I painted violets,
Which shall strew my lifeless clay,
When, to night, the stars have call'd me
Unto joys that last for aye.


How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam,
And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill,
When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home,
'Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks,
And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground,
The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks,
And whirl'st them like pebbles contemptuously round.

The sun-beams have cloth'd thee in glorious dyes,
They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow
Those hovering columns of vapour that rise
Forth from the bubbling cauldron below.

But why art thou seeking the ocean's dark brine?
If grandeur makes happiness, sure it is found,
When forth from the depths of the rock-girdled mine
Thou boundest, and all gives response to thy sound.

Beware thee, O torrent, of yonder dark sea,
For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod,
Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free, -
Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.

True, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon,
To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays,
When ting'd with the light of the wandering moon,
Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays.

But, torrent, what is it? what is it?--behold
That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare,
What is the summer sun's purple and gold
To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.

Abandon, abandon, thy headlong career -
But downward thou rushest--my words are in vain,
Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer
On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.

Then haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea,
For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod;
Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free, -
Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.


O the force of Runic verses,
O the mighty strength of song
Cannot baffle all the curses
Which to mortal state belong.

Slaughter'd chiefs, that buried under
Heaps of marble, long have lain,
Song can rend your tomb asunder,
Give ye life and strength again.

When around his dying capture,
Fierce, the serpent draws his fold,
Song can make him, wild with rapture,
Straight uncoil, and bite the mould.

When from keep and battled tower,
Flames to heaven upward strain,
Song has o'er them greater power,
Than the vapours dropping rain.

It can quench the conflagration
Striding o'er the works of art;
But nor song nor incantation
Can appease love's cruel smart.

O the force of Runic verses,
O the mighty strength of song
Cannot baffle all the curses
Which to mortal state belong.


Perhaps 't is folly, but still I feel
My heart-strings quiver, my senses reel,
Thinking how like a fast stream we range
Nearer and nearer to yon dread change,
When soul and spirit filter away,
And leave nothing better than senseless clay.

Yield, beauty, yield; for the grave does gape,
And horribly alter'd reflects thy shape, -
For ah! think not those childish charms
Will rest unrifled in its cold arms,
And think not there, that the rose of love
Will bloom on thy features as here above.

Let him who roams at vanity fair,
In robes that rival the tulip's glare,
Think on the chaplet of leaves which round
His fading forehead will soon be bound;
Think on each dirge the priests will say
When his cold corse is borne away.

Let him who seeketh for wealth uncheck'd
By fear of labour--let him reflect,
The gold he wins will brightly shine,
When he has perish'd with all his line.
Though man may rave and vainly boast,
We are but ashes when at the most.


So hot shines the sun upon Nile's yellow stream,
That the palm-trees can save us no more from his beam;
Now comes the desire for home, in full force,
And Northward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

Now dim underneath us, through distance we view
The green grassy earth, and the ocean's deep blue;
There tempests and frequent disasters arise,
Whilst free and untroubled we wend through the skies.

Lo, high among mountains a meadow lies spread,
And there we alight, and get ready our bed;
There hatch we our eggs, and beneath the chill pole
We wait while the summer months over us roll.

No hunter, desirous to make us his prey,
Invades our lone valley by night or by day;
But green-mantled fairies their merry routs hold,
And fearless the pigmy {34} there hammers its gold.

But when pallid winter, again on the rocks
Shakes down in a shower the snow from his locks,
Then comes the desire for heat, in full force,
And Southward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

To the verdant Savannah, and palm-shaded plain,
Where the Nile rolls his water, we hurry again;
There rest we till summer's sun, waxing too hot,
Makes us wish for our native, our hill-girded spot.


O thou, who, 'mid the forest trees,
With thy harmonious trembling strain,
Could'st change at once to soothing ease,
My love-sick bosom's cruel pain:
Thou droop'st in dreary silence now,
With shiver'd frame, and broken string,
While here, unhelp'd, beneath the bough
I sit, and feebly strive to sing.

The moon no more illumes the ground;
In night and vapour dies my lay;
For with thy sweet and melting sound
Fled, all at once, her silver ray:
O soon, O soon, shall this sad heart,
Which beats so low, and bleeds so free,
O'ercome by its fell load of smart,
Be broke, O ruin'd harp, like thee!


Observe ye not yon high cliff's brow,
Up which a wanderer clambers slow,
'T is by a hoary ruin crown'd,
Which rocks when shrill winds whistle round;
That is an ancient knightly hold, -
Alas! it droops, deserted, cold;
And sad and cheerless seems to gaze,
Back, back, to yon heroic days,
When youthful Kemps, {35} completely arm'd,
And lovely maids around it swarm'd.

You, in the tower, a hole may see;
A window there has ceas'd to be.
From that once lean'd a damsel bright,
In evening's red and fading light,
And star'd intently down the way,
Up which should come her lover gay:
But, time it flies on rapid wing -
Far off a church is towering,
Within it stand two marble stones,
That rest above the lovers' bones.
But see, the wanderer, with pain,
Has reach'd the pile he wish'd to gain;
Whilst Sol, behind the ruin'd walls,
Down into sacred nature falls.

See, there, two hostile nobles fight,
With tiger-rage and giant-might.
There's seen no smoke, there's heard no shot,
For guns and powder yet were not.
'T was custom then, when foemen warr'd,
To win or lose with spear and sword:
A wild heroic song they yell,
And each the other seeks to fell.
Oft, oft, her ownself to destroy,
Her own hand nature does employ.
There casts the hill up fire-flakes,
And Earth's gigantic body quakes:
There, lightnings through the high blue flash,
And ocean's billows wildly dash:
There, men 'gainst men their muscles strain,
And deal out death, and wounds, and pain.
O Nature! to thyself show less
Of hate, and more of tenderness.

How dusky is the air around;
We are no more above the ground;
But, down we wend within the hill,
Whose springs our ears with hissings fill.
See, there, how rich the ruddy gold
Winds snakeways, 'midst the clammy mould
And hard green stone. By torches' ray,
The harvest there men mow away.
But, see ye not yon gath'ring cloud,
Which 'gainst them cometh paley proud;
That holds the spirit of the hill,
Who brings death in its hand so chill:
If down they do not quickly fall,
Most certainly 't will slay them all;
For sorely wrathful is its mood,
Because they break its solitude:
Because its treasure off they bear,
And fling light o'er its gloomy lair.
'T is white, and Kobbold is the name
Which it from oldest days does claim.

Now, back at once into time we go,
For many a hundred years, I trow.
A gothic chamber salutes your sight:
A taper gleams feebly through the night;
A ghostly man by the board you see,
With his hand to his temples muses he:
Parchments, with age discolour'd and dun;
Ancient shields all written upon;
Tree-bark, bearing ciphers half defac'd;
Stones with Runes and characters grac'd;
Things of more worth than ye are aware,
On the mighty table are pil'd up there.
He gazes now in exstatic trance
Through the casement, out into nature's expanse.
Whene'er we sit at the lone midnight,
And stare out into the dubious light,
Whilst the pallid moon is peering o'er
Ruin'd cloister and crumbling tower,
Feelings so wondrous strange come o'er us;
The past, and the future, arise before us;
The present fadeth, unmark'd, away
In the garb of insignificancy.
He gazes up into nature's height,
The noble man with his eye so bright;
He gazes up to the starry skies,
Whither, sooner or later, we hope to rise;
And now he takes in haste the pen,
And the spirit of Oldom flows from it amain;
The scatter'd Goth-songs he changes unto
An Epic which maketh each bosom to glow.
Thanks to the old Monk, toiling thus -
They call him Saxo Grammaticus.

An open field before you lies,
A wind-burst o'er its bosom sighs,
Now all is still, all seems asleep;
'Midst of the field there stands a heap,
Upon the heap stand Runic stones,
Thereunder rest gigantic bones.
From Arild's time, that heap stands there,
But now 't is till'd with utmost care,
In order that its owner may
Thereoff reap golden corn one day.
Oft has he tried, the niggard soul,
The mighty stones away to roll,
As useless burdens of his ground;
But they for that too big were found.
See, see! the moon through cloud and rack
Looks down upon the letters black:
And when the ghost its form uprears
He shines upon its bursting tears -
For oh! the moon's an ancient man,
Describe him, mortal tongue ne'er can,
He shines alike, serene and bright,
At midmost hour of witching night,
Upon the spot of love and glee,
And on the gloomy gallows-tree.
Upon each Rune behold him stare,
While off he hastes through fields of air;
He understands those signs, I'll gage,
Whose meaning lies in sunken age;
And if he were in speaking state,
No doubt the old man could relate
Strange things that have on earth occurr'd,
Of which fame ne'er has said a word;
But since with look, with look alone,
He cannot those events make known,
He waketh from his height sublime
Mere longing for the dark gone time.


This piece is not translated for the sentiments which it contains,
but for its poetical beauties. Although the path of human life is
rough and thorny, the mind may always receive consolation by looking
forward to the world to come. The mind which rejects a future state
has to thank itself for its utter misery and hopelessness.

The evening shadows fall upon the grave
On which I sit; it is no common heap, -
Below its turf are laid the bones of one,
Who, sick of life and misery, did quench
The vital spark which in his bosom burn'd.

The shadows deepen, and the ruddy tinge
Which lately flooded all the western sky
Has now diminish'd to a single streak,
And here I sit, alone, and listen to
The noise of forests, and the hum of groves.

This is the time to think of nature's God,
When birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite
Their various-sounding voices in his praise:
Shall man alone refuse to sing it--yes,
For man, alone, has nought to thank him for.

There's not a joy he gives to us on earth
That is not dash'd with bitterness and gall,
Only when youth is past, and age comes on,
Do we find quiet--quiet is not bliss,
Then tell me, God, what I've to thank thee for.

But to recur to him who rests beneath -
He had a heart enthusiastic, warm,
And form'd for love--no prejudice dwelt there;
He roam'd about the world to find a heart
Which felt with his, he sought, and found it not.

Or if he found it, providence stepp'd in,
And tore the cherish'd object from his sight,
Or fill'd its mind with visions weak and vain -
Could he survive all this? ah, no! he died, -
Died by the hand which injur'd none but him.

And did he die unpitied and unwept, -
Most probably, for there are fools who think
'T is crime in man to take what is his own -
And 't was on account they laid him here,
Within this sweet, unconsecrated, spot.

There comes a troop of maidens and of youths
Home from their labour--hark! they cease their song,
And, pointing to the grave, with trembling hands,
They make a circuit, thinking that in me
The ghost of the self-murderer they view -
Which, fame says, wanders here.


The Right Honourable the Earl of Albemarle
T. Amyot, Esq., London
F. Arden, Esq. London, 5 copies
Mr. A. Austin
The Right Rev. Father in God Henry Bathurst, Lord Bishop of Norwich
Mr. W. Bacon
Mr. A. Barnard
Mr. P. Barnes
Mr. Barwell
Mr. Bell, Diss
N. Bolingbroke, Esq.
J. Bowring, Esq., Hackney
W. Burrows, Esq., Stoke
Miss Burrows
W. Burt, Esq. Jun.
Thomas Campbell, Esq., London
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Mr. T. Clarke
Mr. P. Clarke
Mr. P. Clayton
N. Cobham, Esq. Exeter, 2 copies
Rev. C. Codd, Dereham
J. H. Cole, Esq.
Mrs. Coleman
Mr. W. Cooper
Mr. E. Cooper, Dereham
Mr. G. Cooper, Dereham
W. Cross, Esq.
H. Custance, Esq., Weston Longueville
Rev. Custance
E. Dashwood, Esq., Colchester
T. G. O'Donnahoo, Esq., London, 5 copies
Mr. Doughty, Brockdish
T. Dyson, Esq., Diss
Mr. Elliot
Dr. Evans
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J. Fletcher, Esq., London
R. Fowler, Esq., London
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B. Girling. Esq., Dereham
Rev. W. Girling
Mr. Green
C. Greville, Esq. M.P.
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Mrs. Gurdon, 2 copies
H. Gurney, Esq. M.P.
R. H. Gurney, Esq. M.P.
Miss Anne Gurney
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Mr. W. Harper
J. Harvey, Esq.
Sir R. J. Harvey
G. Harvey, Esq.
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Mrs. Hawkes
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Mrs. J. Pertwee, Fingringhoe Hall
R. Plumptre, Esq.
Mr. Press
Mr. P. Pullen
W. Quarles, Esq., Foulsham
W. Rackham, Esq.
Mr. W. Roberts
J. Robertson, Esq., London
W. Robertson, Esq., London

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