Targum | Page 6

sables for plunder, veils work'd to a wonder,?And of coin have the merchants a power.
Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,?To whose crosletted doys {32} bitter gruel!?There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,?And priests deck'd in diamond and jewel.
Unto Pole Skirgiel's part let the third hero start,?There the dwellings but poorly are furnish'd;?So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father,?Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish'd.
But bring home, above all, Laskian {33} girls to our hall,?More sprightly than fawns in fine weather;?The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning,?Their eyes are like stars of the ether.
Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow,?A wife from their region I bore me;?Death tore us asunder, yet ne'er I look yonder,?But memory straight brings her before me."
Now advis'd them he hath, so he blesseth their path,?And away they high-spirited rattle;?Grim winter comes chiding--of them there's no tiding;?Says Budrys: they've fallen in battle.
With an avalanche's might to the gate spurs a knight,?And beneath his wide mantle he's laden:?"Hast there Russian money--the roubles so bonny?"?"No, no! I've a Laskian maiden."
Like an avalanche in might riding comes an arm'd knight,?And beneath his wide mantle he's laden:?"From the German, brave fellow, bring'st amber so yellow?"?"No, no! here's a Laskian maiden."
Like an avalanche of snow the third up rideth now,?Nor has he, as it seemeth, been idle;?As the booty he showeth, old Budrys hallooeth?To bid guests for the brave triple bridal.
THE BANNING OF THE PEST.
From the Finnish.
The plague is solemnly conjured to leave the country, and the speaker offers to find a suitable conveyance, namely a demon-horse summoned from one of those mountains in Norway supposed to be inhabited by evil spirits and goblins.
Hie away, thou horrid monster!?Hie away, our country's ruin!?Hie thee from our plains and valleys!?I will find thee fit conveyance,?Find a horse for thee to ride on,?One whose feet nor slip nor stumble?On the ice or on the mountain;?Get thee gone, I do conjure thee;?Take thee from the hill a courser,?From the Goblin's Burg a stallion?For thy dreary homeward journey;?If thou ask me for conveyance,?If thou ask me for a courser,?I will raise thee one full quickly,?On whose back though mayest gallop?To thy home accurst in Norway,?To the flint-hard hill in Norway.?When the Goblin's Burg thou reachest?Burst with might its breast asunder;?Plunge thee past its sand-born witches?Down into the gulf eternal;?Never be thou seen or heard of?From that dismal gulf eternal.?Get thee gone, I do conjure thee,?Into Lapland's thickest forest,?To the North's extremest region;?Get thee gone, I do command thee,?To the North's most dusky region.
WOINOMOINEN.
From the Finnish.
Woinomoinen was, according to the Mythology of the ancient Finns, the second Godhead, being only inferior to Jumala. He was master of the musical art, and when he played upon his instrument produced much the same effect as the Grecian Orpheus, enticing fishes from the stream and the wild animals from the forest. The lines here translated are a fragment of a poem which describes a musical contest between Woinomoinen and the Giant Joukkawainen, in which the latter was signally defeated.
Then the ancient Woinomoinen,?On the bench himself he seated,?Took the harp betwixt his fingers,?On his knee about he turn'd it,?In his hand he fitly plac'd it.?Play'd the ancient Woinomoinen,?Universal joy awaking;?Like a concert was his playing;?There was nothing in the forest?On four nimble feet that runneth,?On four lengthy legs that stalketh,?But repair'd to hear the music,?When the ancient Woinomoinen,?When the Father joy awaken'd.?E'en at Woinomoinen's harping?'Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded.?There was nothing in the forest?On two whirring pinions flying,?But with whirl-wind speed did hasten;?There was nothing in the ocean,?With six fins about that roweth,?Or with eight to move delighteth,?But repair'd to hear the music.?E'en the briny water's mother {38}?'Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her,?On a little sand-hill rais'd her,?On her side with toil up-crawling.?E'en from Woinomoinen's eye-balls?Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled,?Bigger than the whortle-berry,?Heavier than the eggs of plovers,?Down his broad and mighty bosom,?Knee-ward from his bosom flowing,?From his knee his feet bedewing;?And I've heard, his tears they trickled?Through the five wool-wefts of thickness,?Through his jackets eight of wadmal.
THE WORDS OF BEOWULF, SON OF EGTHEOF.
From the Anglo Saxon.
Every one beneath the heaven?Should of death expect the day,?And let him, whilst life is given,?Bright with fame his name array.
For amongst the countless number?In the clay-cold grave at rest,?Lock'd in arms of iron slumber,?He most happy is and blest.
THE LAY OF BIARKE.
From the Ancient Norse.
The day in East is glowing,?The cock on high is crowing;?Upon the heath's brown heather?'Tis time our bands we gather.?Ye Chieftains disencumber?Your eyes of clogging slumber;?Ye mighty friends of Attil,?The far-renown'd in battle!
Thou Har, who grip'st thy foeman?Right hard, and Rolf the bowman,?And many, many others,?The forky lightning's brothers!?Wake--not for banquet-table!?Wake--not with maids to gabble!?But wake for rougher sporting,?For Hildur's {40} bloody courting.
Now food forego and drinking;?On war be ye