OLAF.--'Tis well: fate shall decide. We separate,
And woe to thee when next we meet again.
HAKON.--Aye, woe to me if then I crush thee not.
OLAF.--Heaven shall strike thee with its fiery might!
HAKON.--No, with his hammer Thor the cross will smite!
From the Danish of ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAeGER.
Translation of SIR FRANK C. LASCELLES.
* * * * *
A DANISH BARROW
ON THE EAST DEVON COAST.
Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!
A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,
Whoe'er he was, I warrant him
Upon whose mound the single sheep
Browses and tinkles in the sun,
Within the narrow vale alone.
Lie still, old Dane! This restful scene
Suits well thy centuries of sleep:
The soft brown roots above thee creep,
The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen,
And,--vain memento of the spot,--The
turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.
Lie still! Thy mother-land herself
Would know thee not again: no more
The Raven from the northern shore
Hails the bold crew to push for pelf,
Through fire and blood and slaughtered kings
'Neath the black terror of his wings.
And thou,--thy very name is lost!
The peasant only knows that here
Bold Alfred scooped thy flinty bier,
And prayed a foeman's prayer, and tost
His auburn head, and said, "One more
Of England's foes guards England's shore,"
And turned and passed to other feats,
And left thee in thine iron robe,
To circle with the circling globe,
While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats
The giant warrior to a crust
Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.
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