Targum | Page 9

his sailors cry,?"To land for safety let us fly!"?Our native land has ever teem'd?With warriors gallant-hearted.
"No!" answer'd he, "for danger then?'Midst Denmark's fleet we carry;?Shall it be risk'd by Danish men,?That they alive may tarry??We'll die, but we'll avenge our death;?We'll fight until our latest breath."?Our native land has ever teem'd?With warriors gallant hearted.
"Yes, to the latest breath we'll fight!"?His seamen answer'd, cheering;?Around was death in horrors dight,?But still they fought unfearing,?Till the fire reach'd the powder-store,?And all died heroes midst its roar.?Our native land has ever teem'd?With warriors gallant-hearted.
And Hvidfeld's fame shall ne'er decay,?His gallant seamens' never;?A worthy countryman shall they?In every Dane find ever;?When Denmark dear to us shall cry,?Like them will we grim death defy.?Our native ground shall still abound?With warriors gallant-hearted.
BIRTING.
A Fragment.?From the Ancient Danish.
It was late at evening tide,?Sinks the day-star in the wave,?When alone Orm Ungarswayne?Rode to seek his father's grave.
Late it was at evening hour,?When the steeds to streams are led;?Let me now, said Orm the young,?Wake my father from the dead.
It was bold Orm Ungarswayne?Stamp'd the hill with mighty foot:?Riv'n were wall and marble-stone,?Shook the mountain to its root.
It was bold Orm Ungarswayne?Struck the hill with such a might,?That it was a miracle,?That the hill fell not outright.
From the hill Orm's father cried,?Where so long, so long he'd lain;?"Cannot I in quiet lie?Deep within my dark domain?
Who upon my hill doth stand??Who doth dare disturb my bones??Cannot I in quiet lie?'Neath my heavy roof of stones?
Who doth dare my sleep to scare??Who brings down this ruin all??Let him fear, for now I swear?That by Birting he shall fall."
"I'm Orm Ungarswayne, thy son,?Youngest son, O father dear:?And to beg a mighty boon?In my need I seek thee here."
"If thou be Orm Ungarswayne,?Orm the kempion bold and free,?Silver, gold, last year I told--?All thou cravedst--o'er to thee."
"Thou wast free of gold and fee,?Glittering trash of little worth--?Birting now I crave of thee,?Birting bravest sword of earth."
"Never shalt thou Birting win,?To obtain the King's fair daughter,?Till to Ireland thou hast been,?And aveng'd thy father's slaughter."
"Give to me the Birting sword,?And with Birting bid me thrive,?Or I will thy sheltering hill?Into thousand atoms rive."
"Stretch thou down thy right hand here,?Take the falchion from my side;?If thou break thy father's hill,?Dreadful wo will thee betide."
From the hill he Birting stretch'd,?Plac'd the hilt within his grasp:?"Strong of hand and valiant stand,?That thy foes before thee gasp."
From the hill he Birting stretch'd,?Plac'd the hilt within his hold:?"Save good fate on thee await,?I shall never be consol'd."
INGEBORG'S LAMENTATION.
From the Swedish of Tegner.?(An extract from Frithiof's Saga.)
Autumn winds howl;?Ocean is swelling so stormy.--My soul,?Would with the sighs which I utter?Forth thou wouldst flutter!
Long did I view?Far in the West the sail which flew--?Happy my Frithiof to follow?O'er the wave hollow!
Blue billow run?O not so high, for it still sails on!?Stars, for my mariner sparkle,?As the nights darkle!
Spring will appear.?He will come home, but unmet by his dear?Or in the hall, or the dingle,?Or on the shingle.
She'll lie in mould,?All for her love's sake, pallid and cold,?Or she will bleed, by no other?Slain than her brother.
Hawk, left behind!?Thou shalt be mine and I'll prove ever kind:?Ever, wing'd hunter, I'll scatter?Food on thy platter.
Here on his hand?Work'd on my kerchiefs hem thou shalt stand,?Pinions of silver and glowing?Gold-talons showing.
Hawk-pinions tried?Freia {63} one time, and around about hied;?Sought North and South to discover?Oder her lover.
E'en shouldst thou lend?Me thy brave wings, yet I could not ascend;?Only Death brings me, poor minion,?The divine pinion.
Hunter so free!?Sit on my shoulder and look to the sea;?Spite of our looking and yearning,?He's not returning.
When I'm at rest,?And he comes safe, do thou mind my behest:?O with best greetings receive him,?Frithiof, who'll grieve him.
THE DELIGHTS OF FINN MAC COUL {65}
From the Ancient Irish.
Finn Mac Coul 'mongst his joys did number?To hark to the boom of the dusky hills;?By the wild cascade to be lull'd to slumber,?Which Cuan Na Seilg with its roaring fills.?He lov'd the noise when storms were blowing,?And billows with billows fought furiously,?Of Magh Maom's kine the ceaseless lowing,?And deep from the glen the calves' feeble cry;?The noise of the chase from Slieve Crott pealing,?The hum from the bushes Slieve Cua below,?The voice of the gull o'er the breakers wheeling,?The vulture's scream, over the sea flying slow;?The mariners' song from the distant haven,?The strain from the hill of the pack so free,?From Cnuic Nan Gall the croak of the raven,?The voice from Slieve Mis of the streamlets three;?Young Oscar's voice, to the chase proceeding,?The howl of the dogs, of the deer in quest;?But to recline where the cattle were feeding?That was the delight which pleas'd him best.?Delighted was Oscar, the generous-hearted,?To listen when shields rang under the blow:?But nothing to him such delight imparted?As fighting with heroes and laying them low.
CAROLAN'S LAMENT.
From the Irish.
The arts of Greece,