SKIALDEN.

AF

PROFESSOR ADAM ÖLENSLÆGER.

STOLT blomstred' Danmarks Land fra Arilds Tid,
Til Syden löd dets dierve Krigerhæder;

Dets Kæmper reiste sig til mandig Strid,
Naar Kongen böd til Valhals raske Glæder;
Og dobbelt elskovsfuld sin Arm, saa hvid,
Om stærken Beilers blodbestænkte Klæder
Den hulde Jomfrue slyngte södt og smilte,
Naar hiem i Elskovs Favn han atter ilte.

Men ikke blot med Skiold og Stang og Sværd
Gik Leirekongens seiervante Svende,

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!
Wide to the south her branch of glory spread;
Fierce to the battle rush'd her heroes bold,

Eager to join the revels of the dead:
While the fond maiden flew with smiles to fold
Round her returning warrior's vesture red

Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired,
When to the breast of love exhausted he retired.

Nor bore they only to the field of death
The bossy buckler, and the spear of fire;
The bard was there, with spirit-stirring breath,
His bold heart quivering as he swept the wire,
And pour'd his notes, amidst th' ensanguined heath,
While panting thousands kindled at his lyre;

Da funkled' Öiet med en större Lue,

Da Skioldet klang, da maatte Fienden grue.

Og naar den store Stund var svundet hen,
Hvor Thor med Vellyst saae sin Yndling vinde,
Var Heltens Jdræt dog ei svundet end,
Den evig stod, den kunde ei forsvinde;

Thi Skialden op den leve lod igien,

Jet for Efterslægten helligt Minde.
Naar længst hensmulnet var de hvide Bene,
Stod Runen paa de stolte Bautasteene.

Og Harpen var den rene Efterklang

Af alt hvad Stort der skedte rundt, saa vide:
Den raske Sanger höit i Hallen sang

For Kæmpen, naar han lysted' ei at stride;
Da qvad han altid ei om Sværdets Klang,
Men om den vene Möe, den Elskovsblide!
Om Gubbens Viisdom, Qvindens milde Sæder,
Om Dannerkierlighed og Venskabs Glæder.

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
With feats of hardiment done far and wide,
While the bard sooth'd with festive minstrelsy
The chiefs, reposing after battle-tide:
Nor would stern themes alone his hand employ;
He sang the virgin's sweetly-temper'd pride,
And hoary eld, and woman's gentle cheer,
And Denmark's manly hearts, to love and friendship
dear.

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
In mystic file the angels bow,

Pale wanes the seraph's crown of fires,
Subside the everlasting lyres;

No accent breaks the mighty still,

But all is mute, and owns thy will.