BEAR SONG.

FROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.

The squirrel that's sporting Amid the green leaves, Full oft, with its rustle, The hunter deceives; Who starts--and believing That booty is nigh, His heart, for a moment, With pleasure beats high.

"Now, courage!" he mutters, And crouching below A thunder-split linden, He waits for his foe: "Ha! joy to the hunter; A monstrous bear E'en now is approaching, And bids me prepare.

"Hark! hark! for the monarch Of forests, ere long, Will breathe out his bellow, Deep-throated and strong:"

Thus saying, he gazes Intently around; But, death to his wishes!

Can hear not a sound:

Except when, at moments, The wind rising shrill Wafts boughs from the bushes, Across the lone hill.

Wo worth, to thee, squirrel, Amid the green leaves, Full oft thy loud rustle The hunter deceives.

NATIONAL SONG.

FROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.

King Christian stood beside the mast; Smoke, mixt with flame, Hung o'er his guns, that rattled fast Against the Gothmen, as they pa.s.s'd: Then sunk each hostile sail and mast In smoke and flame.

"Fly!" said the foe: "fly! all that can, Nor wage, with Denmark's Christian, The dread, unequal game."

Niels Juul look'd out, and loudly cried, "Quick! now's the time:"

He hoisted up his banner wide, And fore and aft his foemen plied; And loud above the battle cried, "Quick! now's the time."

"Fly!" said the foe, "'t is Fortune's rule, To deck the head of Denmark's Juul With Glory's wreath sublime."

Once, Baltic, when the musket's knell Rang through the sky, Down to thy bosom heroes fell And gasp'd amid the stormy swell; While, from the sh.o.r.e, a piercing yell Rang through the sky!

"G.o.d aids me," cried our Tordenskiold; "Proud foes, ye are but vainly bold; Strike, strike, to me, or fly!"

Thou Danish path to fame and might, Dark-rolling wave, Receive a friend who holds as light The perils of the stormy fight; Who braves, like thee, the tempest's might; Dark rolling wave, O swiftly bear my bark along, Till, crown'd with conquest, lull'd with song, I reach my bourne--the grave.

THE OLD OAK.

Here have I stood, the pride of the park, In winter with snow on my frozen bark; In spring 'mong the flowers that smiling she spread, And among my own leaves when summer was fled.

Three hundred years my top I have rais'd, Three hundred years I have sadly gaz'd O'er Nature's wide extended scene; O'er rushing rivers and meadows green, For though I was always willing to rove, I never could yet my firm foot move.

They fell'd my brother, who stood by my side, And flung out his arms so wide, so wide; How envy I him, for how blest is he, As the keel of a vessel he sails so free Around the whole of the monstrous earth; But I am still in the place of my birth.

I once was too haughty by far to complain, But am become feeble through age and pain; And therefore I often give vent to my woes, When through my branches the wild wind blows.

A night like this, so calm and clear, I have not seen for many a year; The milk-white doe and her tender fawn Are skipping about on the moonlight lawn; And there, on the verge of my time-worn root, Two lovers are seated, and both are mute: Her arm encircles his youthful neck, For none are present their love to check.

This night would almost my sad heart cheer, Had I one hope or one single fear.

LINES TO SIX-FOOT THREE.

A lad, who twenty tongues can talk And sixty miles a day can walk; Drink at a draught a pint of rum, And then be neither sick nor dumb Can tune a song, and make a verse, And deeds of Northern kings rehea.r.s.e Who never will forsake his friend, While he his bony fist can bend; And, though averse to brawl and strife Will fight a Dutchman with a knife.

O that is just the lad for me, And such is honest six-foot three.

A braver being ne'er had birth Since G.o.d first kneaded man from earth: O, I have cause to know him well, As Ferroe's blacken'd rocks can tell.

Who was it did, at Suderoe, The deed no other dar'd to do?

Who was it, when the Boff {f:31} had burst, And whelm'd me in its womb accurst-- Who was it dash'd amid the wave, With frantic zeal, my life to save?

Who was it flung the rope to me?

O, who, but honest six-foot three!

Who was it taught my willing tongue, The songs that Braga {f:32} fram'd and sung?

Who was it op'd to me the store Of dark unearthly Runic lore, And taught me to beguile my time With Denmark's aged and witching rhyme: To rest in thought in Elvir shades, And hear the song of fairy maids; Or climb the top of Dovrefeld, Where magic knights their muster held?

Who was it did all this for me?

O, who, but honest six-foot three!

Wherever fate shall bid me roam, Far, far from social joy and home; 'Mid burning Afric's desert sands, Or wild Kamschatka's frozen lands; Bit by the poison-loaded breeze, Or blasts which clog with ice the seas; In lowly cot or lordly hall, In beggar's rags or robes of pall, 'Mong robber-bands or honest men, In crowded town or forest den, I never will unmindful be Of what I owe to six-foot three.

That form which moves with giant-grace; That wild, though not unhandsome, face; That voice which sometimes in its tone Is softer than the wood-dove's moan, At others, louder than the storm Which beats the side of old Cairn Gorm; {f:33} That hand, as white as falling snow, Which yet can fell the stoutest foe; And, last of all, that n.o.ble heart, Which ne'er from honour's path would start, Shall never be forgot by me-- So farewell, honest six-foot three!

NATURE'S TEMPERAMENTS.

FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.

SADNESS.

Lo, a pallid fleecy vapour Far along the East is spread; Every star has quench'd its taper, Lately glimmering over head.

On the leaves, that bend so lowly, Drops of crystal water gleam; Yawning wide, the peasant slowly Drives afield his sluggish team.

Dreary looks the forest, lacking Song of birds that slumber mute; No rough swain is yet attacking, With his bill, the beech's root.

Night's terrific ghostly hour Backward through time's circle flies; No shrill clock from moss-grown tower Bids the dead men wake and rise.

Wearied out with midnight riot Mystic Nature slumbers now; Mouldering bodies rest in quiet, 'Neath their tomb-lids damp and low; Sad and chill the wind is sighing Through the reeds that skirt the pool, All around looks dead or dying, Wrapt in sorrow, clad in dool.

GLEE.

Roseate colours on heaven's high arch Are beginning to mix with the blue and the gray, Sol now commences his wonderful march, And the forests' wing'd denizens sing from the spray.

Gaily the rose Is seen to unclose Each of her leaves to the brightening ray.

Waves on the lake Rise, sparkle, and break: O Venus, O Venus, thy shrine is prepar'd, Far down in the valley o'erhung by the grove; Where, all the day, Philomel warbles, unscar'd, Her silver-ton'd ditty of pleasure and love.

Innocence smiling out-carrols the lark, And the bosom of guilt becomes tranquil again; Nightmares and visions, the fiends of the dark, Have abandon'd the blood and have flown from the brain.

Higher the sun Up heaven has run, Beaming so fierce that we feel him with pain; Man, herb, and flower, Droop under his power.

O Venus, O Venus, thy shrine is prepar'd, Far down in the valley o'erhung by the grove Where, all the day, Philomel warbles, unscar'd, Her silver-ton'd ditty of pleasure and love.

MADNESS.