Thou darksome deep! the Dane's pathway
To might and fame!

Receive thy friend! whose spirit warm
Springs to meet danger's coming form,

As thy waves rise against the storm,
And mounts to flame!

'Midst song and mirth life's path I'll tread, And hasten to my ocean-bed

Through fame.

FÖDELANDET.

AF

PROFESSOR THOMAS THAARUP.

Du Plet af Jord! hvor Livets Stemme Steg förste Gang fra spæde Bryst; Hvor Himlen gav mig at fornemme Det förste Glimt af Livets Lyst; Der, hvor jeg lærte: Moder! stamme, Og förste Fied ved hendes Haand; Der tændtes Gnisten til den Flamme, Som brænder for mit Födeland.

Og naar i Barndoms blide Dage
Til fremmed Egn vi löbe hen,

Med Længsel ilte vi tilbage

Til moderlige Hiem igien.

THE

LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY.

BY

PROFESSOR THOMAS THAARUP,

OF COPENHAGEN.

THOU spot of earth, where from my bosom
The first weak tones of nature rose;
Where first I cropp'd the stainless blossom
Of pleasure, yet unmix'd with woes;
Where, with my new-born powers delighted,
I tripp'd beneath a mother's hand;
In thee the quenchless flame was lighted,
That sparkles for my native land!

And when in childhood's quiet morning
Sometimes to distant haunts we rove,
The heart, like bended bow returning,
Springs swifter to its home of love!

Hver Höi, hver Dal, som gav os Glæde,
Den blev vort Minde dyrebar,

Og henrykt Manden seer de Steder,
Hvor han som Barn lyksalig var.

Fra Öst, fra Vest, mod Polers Ende,

Hvor en fornuftig Stemme löd,

De samme Luer varigt brænde,

Som Himlen, som Fornuften böd,
Ei Grönland's arme Sön vil bytte
Sit golde Field med kornrigt Land,
Et Marmor-Slot er ham hans Hytte,
Og Fieldet er hans Canaan.

Af denne ædle Lue brændte

De fordums Helte af vort Land, Skiöndt de kun tvende Pligter kiendte: At elske og at döe som Mand; Saa glemte HIALTE Elskerinde,

Og Födelandet ene saae,

Og faldt for det. Hans Troskabs Minde Som Bautastenen varigt staae!

Each hill, each dale, that shared our pleasures, Becomes a heaven in memory;

And ev'n the broken veteran measures

With sprightlier step his haunts of glee.

Through east, through west, where'er creation
Glows with the cheerful hum of men,
Clear, bright, it burns, to earth's last nation,
The ardour of the citizen!

The son of Greenland's white expansion
Contemns green corn and laughing vine;

The cot is his embattled mansion,
The rugged rock his Palestine.

Such was the beacon-light, that guided
Our earliest chiefs through war and woe;
Ev'n love itself in fame subsided,
Though love was all their good below:
Thus young HIALTE rush'd to glory,
And left his mourning maid behind;
He fell and Honour round his story,
Dropping with tears, her wreath entwin'd.