SKIALDEN. AF PROFESSOR ADAM ÖLENSLÆGER. STOLT blomstred' Danmarks Land fra Arilds Tid, Dets Kæmper reiste sig til mandig Strid, Men ikke blot med Skiold og Stang og Sværd En elsket Skiald var ham bestandig nær, Med Ild i Barm, Guldharpen kiekt i Hænde; Og i den drabelige Heltefærd Han lod sin Jld i Alles Hierter brænde. THE BARD. BY PROFESSOR ADAM ÖLENSLÆGER, OF COPENHAGEN. O, GREAT was Denmark's land in time of old! Eager to join the revels of the dead: Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired, Nor bore they only to the field of death Da funkled' Öiet med en större Lue, Da Skioldet klang, da maatte Fienden grue. Og naar den store Stund var svundet hen, Thi Skialden op den leve lod igien, Jet for Efterslægten helligt Minde. Og Harpen var den rene Efterklang Af alt hvad Stort der skedte rundt, saa vide: For Kæmpen, naar han lysted' ei at stride; Then shone the eye with greater fury fired, Then clash'd the glittering mail, and the proud foe retired. And when the memorable day was past, And Thor triumphant on his people smiled, The actions died not with the day they graced ; The bard embalm'd them in his descant wild, And their hymn'd names, through ages uneffaced, The weary hours of future Danes beguil❜d. When even their snowy bones had moulder'd long, On the high column lived th' imperishable song. And the impetuous harp resounded high FRAGMENT OF A HYMN. BY PROFESSOR THOMAS THAARUP. WE wake our willing hearts to thee, The Lord of immortality! The source of light, and life, and pleasure, From ages beyond human measure. Jehovah! who is like to thee, Dispenser of eternity? Before the glories of thy brow Pale wanes the seraph's crown of fires, No accent breaks the mighty still, But all is mute, and owns thy will. |