THE HAIL-STORM. FROM THE NORSE.

Sigvald Jarl was a famous Sea Rover, who, when unengaged in his predatory expeditions, resided at Jomsborg, in Denmark. He was the terror of the Norwegian coasts, which he ravaged and pillaged almost at his pleasure. Hacon Jarl, who at that time sat on the Norwegian throne, being informed that Sigvald meditated a grand descent, and knowing that he himself was unable to oppose him, had recourse to his God, Thorgerd, to whom he sacrificed his son Erling. In what manner Thorgerd assisted him and his forces, when the Danes landed, will best be learned from the bold song which the circumstance gave rise to, and which the following is a feeble attempt to translate.

When from our ships we bounded, I heard, with fear astounded, The storm of Thorgerd's waking, From Northern vapours breaking; With flinty masses blended, Gigantic hail descended, And thick and fiercely rattled Against us there embattled.

To aid the hostile maces, It drifted in our faces; It drifted, dealing slaughter, And blood ran out like water— Ran reeking, red, and horrid, From batter'd cheek and forehead; We plied our swords, but no men Can stand 'gainst hail and foemen.

And demon Thorgerd raging To see us still engaging, Shot, downward from the heaven, His shafts of flaming levin; Then sank our brave in numbers, To cold eternal slumbers; There lay the good and gallant, Renown'd for warlike talent.

Our captain, this perceiving, The signal made for leaving, And with his ship departed, Downcast and broken-hearted; War, death, and consternation, Pursu'd our embarkation; We did our best, but no men Can stand 'gainst hail and foemen.



THE ELDER-WITCH.

According to the Danish tradition, there is a female Elf in the elder tree, which she leaves every midnight; and, having strolled among the fields, returns to it before morning.

Though tall the oak, and firm its stem, Though far abroad its boughs are spread, Though high the poplar lifts its head, I have no song for them. A theme more bright, more bright would be The winsome, winsome elder tree, Beneath whose shade I sit reclin'd;— It holds a witch within its bark, A lovely witch who haunts the dark, And fills with love my mind.

When ghosts, at midnight, leave their graves, And rous'd is every phantom thing; When mermaids rise and sweetly sing In concert with the waves; When Palnatoka, {f:29} on his steed, Pursues the elves across the mead, Or gallops, gallops o'er the sea, The witch within the elder's bark, The lovely witch who haunts the dark, Comes out, comes out to me.

Of leaves the fairies make our bed; The knight, who moulders 'neath the elm, {f:30} Starts up with spear and rusted helm,— By him the grace is said; And though her kiss is cold at times, And does not scent of earthly climes, Though glaring is her eye, yet still The witch within the elder's bark, The lovely witch who haunts the dark, I prize, and ever will.

Yet, once I lov'd a mortal maid, And gaz'd, enraptur'd, on her charms, Oft circled in each other's arms, Together, here we stray'd;— But, soon, she found a fairer youth, And I a fairer maid, forsooth! And one more true, more true to me, The witch within the elder's bark, The lovely witch who haunts the dark, Has been more true to me.



ODE. FROM THE GAELIC.

"Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd."

Oh restless, to night, are my slumbers; Life yet I retain, but not gladness; My heart in my bosom is wither'd, And sorrow sits heavy upon me. For cold, in her grave-hill, is lying The maid whom I gaz'd on, so fondly, Whose teeth were like chalk from the quarry, Whose voice was more sweet than harp music. Like foam that subsides on the water, Just where the wild swan has been playing; Like snow, by the sunny beam melted, My love, thou wert gone on a sudden. Salt tears I let fall in abundance, When memory bringeth before me That eye, like the placid blue heaven; That cheek, like the rose in its glory. Sweet object of warmest affection, Why could not thy beauty protect thee? Why, sparing so many a thistle, Did Death cut so lovely a blossom? Here pine I, forlorn and abandon'd, Where once I was cheerful and merry: No joy shall e'er shine on my visage, Until my last hour's arrival. O, like the top grain on the corn-ear, Or, like the young pine, 'mong the bushes; Or, like the moon, 'mong the stars shining, Wert thou, O my love, amongst women!



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 pass'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 shore, a piercing yell Rang through the sky! "God 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 rehearse 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 God 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 noble 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.

What darkens, what darkens?—'t is heaven's high roof: What lightens?—'t is Heckla's flame, shooting aloof: The proud, the majestic, the rugged old Thor, The mightiest giant the North ever saw, Transform'd to a mountain, stands there in the field, With ice for his corslet, and rock for his shield; With thunder for voice, and with fire for tongue, He stands there, so frightful, with vapour o'erhung. On that other side of the boisterous sea Black Vulcan, as haughty as ever was he, Stands, chang'd to a mountain, call'd Etna by name, Which belches continually oceans of flame. Much blood have they spilt, and much harm have they done, For both, when the ancient religions were gone, Combin'd their wild strength to destroy the new race, Who were boldly beginning their shrines to deface. O, Jesus of Nazareth, draw forth the blade Of vengeance, and speed to thy worshippers' aid; Beat down the old gods, cut asunder their mail— Amen!—brother Christians, why look ye so pale.



THE VIOLET-GATHERER. FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.

Pale the moon her light was shedding O'er the landscape far and wide; Calmly bright, all ills undreading, Emma wander'd by my side.

Night's sad birds their harsh notes utter'd, Perching low among the trees; Emma's milk-white kirtle flutter'd Graceful in the rising breeze:

Then, in sweetness more than mortal, Sang a voice a plaintive air, As we pass'd the church's portal, Lo, a ghostly form stood there!

"Emma, come, thy mother's calling; Lone I lie in night and gloom, Whilst the sun and moon-beams, falling, Glance upon my marble tomb."

Emma star'd upon the figure,— Wish'd to speak, but vainly tried, Press'd my hand with loving vigour, Trembled—faulter'd—gasp'd—and died!

Home I bore my luckless maiden, Home I bore her in despair; Chilly blasts, with night-dew laden, Rustled through her streaming hair.

Plunging then amid the forest, Soon I found the stately tree, Under which, when heat was sorest, She was wont to sit with me.

Down my cheek ran tears in fever, While with axe its stem I cut; Soon it fell, and I with lever Roll'd it straight to Emma's hut.

Kiss'd her oft, and love empassion'd Sung a song in wildest tones; While the oaken boards I fashion'd, Doom'd to hide her lovely bones.

Thereupon I sought the bower, Where she kept her single hive; Morning shone on tree and flower, All around me look'd alive.

Stung by bees in thousand places, Out I took the yellow comb; Emma, deck'd in all her graces, Past my vision seem'd to roam.

Soon of wax I form'd a taper, O'er my love it cast its ray, 'Till the night came, clad in vapour, When in grave I laid her clay.

Deep below me sank the coffin, While my tears fell fast as rain; Deep it sank, and I, full often, Thought to heave it up again.

Soon as e'er the stars, so merry, Heaven's arch next night illum'd, Sad I sought the cemetery, Where my true love lay entomb'd.

Then, in sweetness more than mortal, Sang a voice a plaintive lay; Underneath the church's portal Emma stood in death array.

"Louis! come! thy love is calling; Lone I lie in night and gloom, Whilst the sun and moon beams, falling, Glance upon my lowly tomb."

"Emma! dear!" I cried in gladness, "Take me too beneath the sod; Leave me not to pine in sadness, Here on earth's detested clod."

"Death should only strike the hoary, Yet, my Louis, thou shalt die, When the stars again in glory, Shine upon the midnight sky."

Tears bedeck'd her long eyelashes, While she kiss'd my features wan; Then, like flame that dies o'er ashes, All at once the maid was gone.

Therefore, pluck I painted violets, Which shall strew my lifeless clay, When, to night, the stars have call'd me Unto joys that last for aye.



ODE TO A MOUNTAIN-TORRENT. FROM THE GERMAN OF STOLBERG.

How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam, And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill, When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home, 'Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine-trees are shaken—they yield to thy shocks, And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground, The rocks fly before thee—thou seizest the rocks, And whirl'st them like pebbles contemptuously round.

The sun-beams have cloth'd thee in glorious dyes, They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow Those hovering columns of vapour that rise Forth from the bubbling cauldron below.

But why art thou seeking the ocean's dark brine? If grandeur makes happiness, sure it is found, When forth from the depths of the rock-girdled mine Thou boundest, and all gives response to thy sound.

Beware thee, O torrent, of yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,— Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.

True, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon, To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays, When ting'd with the light of the wandering moon, Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays.

But, torrent, what is it? what is it?—behold That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare, What is the summer sun's purple and gold To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.

Abandon, abandon, thy headlong career— But downward thou rushest—my words are in vain, Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.

Then haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod; Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,— Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.



RUNIC VERSES.

O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong.

Slaughter'd chiefs, that buried under Heaps of marble, long have lain, Song can rend your tomb asunder, Give ye life and strength again.

When around his dying capture, Fierce, the serpent draws his fold, Song can make him, wild with rapture, Straight uncoil, and bite the mould.

When from keep and battled tower, Flames to heaven upward strain, Song has o'er them greater power, Than the vapours dropping rain.

It can quench the conflagration Striding o'er the works of art; But nor song nor incantation Can appease love's cruel smart.

O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong.



THOUGHTS ON DEATH. FROM THE SWEDISH OF C. LOHMAN.

Perhaps 't is folly, but still I feel My heart-strings quiver, my senses reel, Thinking how like a fast stream we range Nearer and nearer to yon dread change, When soul and spirit filter away, And leave nothing better than senseless clay.

Yield, beauty, yield; for the grave does gape, And horribly alter'd reflects thy shape,— For ah! think not those childish charms Will rest unrifled in its cold arms, And think not there, that the rose of love Will bloom on thy features as here above.

Let him who roams at vanity fair, In robes that rival the tulip's glare, Think on the chaplet of leaves which round His fading forehead will soon be bound; Think on each dirge the priests will say When his cold corse is borne away.

Let him who seeketh for wealth uncheck'd By fear of labour—let him reflect, The gold he wins will brightly shine, When he has perish'd with all his line. Though man may rave and vainly boast, We are but ashes when at the most.



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FROM THE SWEDISH.

So hot shines the sun upon Nile's yellow stream, That the palm-trees can save us no more from his beam; Now comes the desire for home, in full force, And Northward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

Now dim underneath us, through distance we view The green grassy earth, and the ocean's deep blue; There tempests and frequent disasters arise, Whilst free and untroubled we wend through the skies.

Lo, high among mountains a meadow lies spread, And there we alight, and get ready our bed; There hatch we our eggs, and beneath the chill pole We wait while the summer months over us roll.

No hunter, desirous to make us his prey, Invades our lone valley by night or by day; But green-mantled fairies their merry routs hold, And fearless the pigmy {f:34} there hammers its gold.

But when pallid winter, again on the rocks Shakes down in a shower the snow from his locks, Then comes the desire for heat, in full force, And Southward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

To the verdant Savannah, and palm-shaded plain, Where the Nile rolls his water, we hurry again; There rest we till summer's sun, waxing too hot, Makes us wish for our native, our hill-girded spot.



THE BROKEN HARP.

O thou, who, 'mid the forest trees, With thy harmonious trembling strain, Could'st change at once to soothing ease, My love-sick bosom's cruel pain: Thou droop'st in dreary silence now, With shiver'd frame, and broken string, While here, unhelp'd, beneath the bough I sit, and feebly strive to sing.

The moon no more illumes the ground; In night and vapour dies my lay; For with thy sweet and melting sound Fled, all at once, her silver ray: O soon, O soon, shall this sad heart, Which beats so low, and bleeds so free, O'ercome by its fell load of smart, Be broke, O ruin'd harp, like thee!



SCENES.

Observe ye not yon high cliff's brow, Up which a wanderer clambers slow, 'T is by a hoary ruin crown'd, Which rocks when shrill winds whistle round; That is an ancient knightly hold,— Alas! it droops, deserted, cold; And sad and cheerless seems to gaze, Back, back, to yon heroic days, When youthful Kemps, {f:35} completely arm'd, And lovely maids around it swarm'd.

You, in the tower, a hole may see; A window there has ceas'd to be. From that once lean'd a damsel bright, In evening's red and fading light, And star'd intently down the way, Up which should come her lover gay: But, time it flies on rapid wing— Far off a church is towering, Within it stand two marble stones, That rest above the lovers' bones. But see, the wanderer, with pain, Has reach'd the pile he wish'd to gain; Whilst Sol, behind the ruin'd walls, Down into sacred nature falls.

See, there, two hostile nobles fight, With tiger-rage and giant-might. There's seen no smoke, there's heard no shot, For guns and powder yet were not. 'T was custom then, when foemen warr'd, To win or lose with spear and sword: A wild heroic song they yell, And each the other seeks to fell. Oft, oft, her ownself to destroy, Her own hand nature does employ. There casts the hill up fire-flakes, And Earth's gigantic body quakes: There, lightnings through the high blue flash, And ocean's billows wildly dash: There, men 'gainst men their muscles strain, And deal out death, and wounds, and pain. O Nature! to thyself show less Of hate, and more of tenderness.

How dusky is the air around; We are no more above the ground; But, down we wend within the hill, Whose springs our ears with hissings fill. See, there, how rich the ruddy gold Winds snakeways, 'midst the clammy mould And hard green stone. By torches' ray, The harvest there men mow away. But, see ye not yon gath'ring cloud, Which 'gainst them cometh paley proud; That holds the spirit of the hill, Who brings death in its hand so chill: If down they do not quickly fall, Most certainly 't will slay them all; For sorely wrathful is its mood, Because they break its solitude: Because its treasure off they bear, And fling light o'er its gloomy lair. 'T is white, and Kobbold is the name Which it from oldest days does claim.

Now, back at once into time we go, For many a hundred years, I trow. A gothic chamber salutes your sight: A taper gleams feebly through the night; A ghostly man by the board you see, With his hand to his temples muses he: Parchments, with age discolour'd and dun; Ancient shields all written upon; Tree-bark, bearing ciphers half defac'd; Stones with Runes and characters grac'd; Things of more worth than ye are aware, On the mighty table are pil'd up there. He gazes now in exstatic trance Through the casement, out into nature's expanse. Whene'er we sit at the lone midnight, And stare out into the dubious light, Whilst the pallid moon is peering o'er Ruin'd cloister and crumbling tower, Feelings so wondrous strange come o'er us; The past, and the future, arise before us; The present fadeth, unmark'd, away In the garb of insignificancy. He gazes up into nature's height, The noble man with his eye so bright; He gazes up to the starry skies, Whither, sooner or later, we hope to rise; And now he takes in haste the pen, And the spirit of Oldom flows from it amain; The scatter'd Goth-songs he changes unto An Epic which maketh each bosom to glow. Thanks to the old Monk, toiling thus— They call him Saxo Grammaticus.

An open field before you lies, A wind-burst o'er its bosom sighs, Now all is still, all seems asleep; 'Midst of the field there stands a heap, Upon the heap stand Runic stones, Thereunder rest gigantic bones. From Arild's time, that heap stands there, But now 't is till'd with utmost care, In order that its owner may Thereoff reap golden corn one day. Oft has he tried, the niggard soul, The mighty stones away to roll, As useless burdens of his ground; But they for that too big were found. See, see! the moon through cloud and rack Looks down upon the letters black: And when the ghost its form uprears He shines upon its bursting tears— For oh! the moon's an ancient man, Describe him, mortal tongue ne'er can, He shines alike, serene and bright, At midmost hour of witching night, Upon the spot of love and glee, And on the gloomy gallows-tree. Upon each Rune behold him stare, While off he hastes through fields of air; He understands those signs, I'll gage, Whose meaning lies in sunken age; And if he were in speaking state, No doubt the old man could relate Strange things that have on earth occurr'd, Of which fame ne'er has said a word; But since with look, with look alone, He cannot those events make known, He waketh from his height sublime Mere longing for the dark gone time.



THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE. FROM THE GERMAN.

This piece is not translated for the sentiments which it contains, but for its poetical beauties. Although the path of human life is rough and thorny, the mind may always receive consolation by looking forward to the world to come. The mind which rejects a future state has to thank itself for its utter misery and hopelessness.

The evening shadows fall upon the grave On which I sit; it is no common heap,— Below its turf are laid the bones of one, Who, sick of life and misery, did quench The vital spark which in his bosom burn'd.

The shadows deepen, and the ruddy tinge Which lately flooded all the western sky Has now diminish'd to a single streak, And here I sit, alone, and listen to The noise of forests, and the hum of groves.

This is the time to think of nature's God, When birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite Their various-sounding voices in his praise: Shall man alone refuse to sing it—yes, For man, alone, has nought to thank him for.

There's not a joy he gives to us on earth That is not dash'd with bitterness and gall, Only when youth is past, and age comes on, Do we find quiet—quiet is not bliss, Then tell me, God, what I've to thank thee for.

But to recur to him who rests beneath— He had a heart enthusiastic, warm, And form'd for love—no prejudice dwelt there; He roam'd about the world to find a heart Which felt with his, he sought, and found it not.

Or if he found it, providence stepp'd in, And tore the cherish'd object from his sight, Or fill'd its mind with visions weak and vain— Could he survive all this? ah, no! he died,— Died by the hand which injur'd none but him.

And did he die unpitied and unwept,— Most probably, for there are fools who think 'T is crime in man to take what is his own— And 't was on account they laid him here, Within this sweet, unconsecrated, spot.

There comes a troop of maidens and of youths Home from their labour—hark! they cease their song, And, pointing to the grave, with trembling hands, They make a circuit, thinking that in me The ghost of the self-murderer they view— Which, fame says, wanders here.



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Mrs. Lloyd, Bawdeswell

Miss Lloyd, Bawdeswell

Miss L. Lloyd, Bawdeswell

Miss E. Lloyd, Bawdeswell

Mr. R. Lloyd

Mr. J. Lloyd, Welsh Pool

Mr. H. Marshall, Ashby

Mr. H. Marshall, Norwich

Mr. W. Matchett

Rev. C. Millard

Mr. Mills, Pulham

Mr. F. Mills

A. Morrison, Esq., Eaton Hall

Mrs. Morrison

G. Morse, Esq.

Rev. G. Munnings, Dereham

J. Neales, Esq., London

Mr. Newton

Mr. E. Newton

Mr. W. Nichols

Mr. B. Norgate

T. Oliver, Esq., Yarmouth

C. S. Onley, Esq. M.P.

J. Parkinson, Esq.

Mr. P. Paterson, Glasgow

Mrs. J. Pertwee, Fingringhoe Hall

R. Plumptre, Esq.

Mr. Press

Mr. P. Pullen

W. Quarles, Esq., Foulsham

W. Rackham, Esq.

Mr. W. Roberts

J. Robertson, Esq., London

W. Robertson, Esq., London

Etienne Compte de la Roche, Brest, 2 copies

N. Simpson, Esq., London

W. Slous, Esq., London

Sir James Smith

J. Sparham, Esq., Palgrave

Mr. W. Stark

Mr. J. Stark

J. Stewart, Esq.

R. Stoughton, Esq., Sparham

Rev. A. T. Suckling

Mr. P. Thompson, London

Mr. J. Thompson, Dereham

J. Timbs, Esq., London

Mr. G. Thurtell, Eaton

Mr. J. Thurtell

Mr. B. Sadler

S. Salter, Esq., London

Capt. R. Sayer

P. Scott, Esq.

Mr. Sendall

Mrs. Simpson

W. Simpson, Esq. Jun.

W. W. Simpson, Esq., London

Mrs. E. Thurtell

Mr. J. Turner, London

Mr. Turner

J. Vincent, Esq., London

S. Weir, Esq., Manchester

Rev. G. Widrow, Manchester

Mr. Wilson

Mr. Winter

Mr. I. Wiseman

Hon. Col. Wodehouse

E. Wodehouse, Esq. M.P.

D. Woods, Esq., Dereham

Mr. I. Young, London, 2 copies

Mr. L. Young, London



APPENDIX No. 1. A Bibliographical Note by Clement Shorter.

George Borrow commenced his literary career with a translation of Klinger's "Faustus" in 1825, and by a compilation of "Celebrated Trials" in the same year. Both these books appeared in London while he was engaged as a bookseller's hack, as described in "Lavengro." In 1826 Borrow returned to Norwich, and there he issued from the printing-house of S. Wilkin, in the Upper Haymarket, these "Romantic Ballads." He had worked hard at collecting subscribers, and two hundred copies were reserved for Norwich at half a guinea each copy; the remaining three hundred out of an edition of five hundred were sent to London. Some of these bear the imprint of John Taylor, Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, 1826, while the remainder bear the imprint of Wightman & Cramp, of Paternoster Row, in the same year. Dr. Knapp only knew of the Taylor edition, because that is referred to in the correspondence. Copies, however, of the Wightman & Cramp edition are in existence, and the title-page will be found reproduced with those of the first and second issue in the opening pages of this volume. Borrow sent copies to Lockhart, and Cunningham advised gifts to other reviewers; but not a single review of the book appeared. Yet his subscription list "amply paid all expenses," as Borrow states in a letter to Cunningham. That list reveals the fact that such diverse persons as Dr. Bathurst, Bishop of Norwich, and Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. Weare, were among the Norwich subscribers, while Benjamin Haydon, John Timbs, and Thomas Campbell paid their half-guineas from London. Thurtell, we may add, was hanged before the book appeared.



APPENDIX No. 2. Facsimile of Borrow's Manuscript from the Collection of Clement Shorter.

{i:Manuscript of The deceived Merman—part 1: borrow1.jpg}

{i:Manuscript of The deceived Merman—part 2: borrow2.jpg}



Footnotes:

{f:1} The goddess of death—according to the Northern mythology.

{f:2} The paradise of the Northern mythology.

{f:3} Moe in Danish signifies Maid, and is pronounced nearly like "May." May is Old English for Maid.

{f:4} The Fairies.—Ellefolk. Dan.

{f:5} Giants.—Jette. Dan.

{f:6} Dovrefeld is the highest mountain in Norway, and in Europe.

{f:7} Some of the many powers attributed to "Runic verses" will be found described in the song so intituled, in the latter part of this volume.

{f:8} Boune, to get ready.

{f:9} Rede, advise. Raader.—Dan.

{f:10} Woxen, grown. Voxen.—Dan.

{f:11} Jesus Christ.

{f:12} Grene shaw, green wood.—Old English.

{f:13} Brute-carl, dyre-carl.—Original.

{f:14} By this nose under the chin must be understood, that the elf has so long and crooked a nose, that it reaches and turns up under his chin. Crooked noses are, in all stories, allowed to be an ingredient of fiendish physiognomy.

{f:15} Svobt udi maard.—Original.

{f:16} Slaae mig et mit Ledemod sonder.

{f:17} Burly, strong.

{f:18} Rok og teen. The Rok is no longer used in England, though still common in the North. It is a hazle stick, more than a yard long, round which the wool is wound. It is affixed to the side of the spinner, under the left arm.

{f:19} By scattering "Runes," or Runic letters, over graves, provided they formed a particular rhyme, the ancient Scandinavians imagined that the dead might be aroused.

{f:20} Han laerer de Kiaempers Ryg at verke.

{f:21} To ride at Dyst, to battle on horseback.

{f:22} It was formerly the custom in Denmark, upon St. John's day, to celebrate the arrival of Summer, by troops of youths and maids going out into the woods, and thence returning bedecked with leaves and branches. This ceremony was called "bringing Summer to town."

{f:23} Blank, clear, shining.—Dan.

{f:24} Called in Danish Kiaempe-steene; these stones either mark the burial place of a warrior, or the spot where some very remarkable circumstance has occurred.

{f:25} These were ancient Danish monarchs renowned in song and tale, for warlike exploits and strange adventures. Not far from the Bridge of Vaere in the diocese of Roeskild, is King Frode's grave-hill, which, according to tradition, contains immense treasures, and is the richest in all the land. "Around the King's neck is a gold chain, so long that its other end reaches round his feet." See Thiele's Danske Folkesagn.

{f:26} Denmark's wisest and greatest king. He entertained a warm friendship for James the First of England, and, attended by his court, came to London to visit him. The ceremonies and rejoicings which this event gave rise to, are well described in an old German book, at present in the British Museum.

{f:27} Tordenskiold Juul and Hvidtfeld—celebrated Danish admirals. The memory of Tordenskiold is sacred among the peasantry, on account of the victories obtained by him over the Swedes. It is reported of him in Jutland, that when the shot of the enemy was directed thick and fast against him, he would shake the leaden bullets from out the folds of his clothes.

{f:28} In the Northern mythology, the God of war and strength. He is girded by a belt of bear-sinews, and bears a hammer called "Miolner," which means the shatterer, and with which he destroys giants, demons, and other foes of Odin the supreme God.

{f:29} See preface to "Waldemar's Chase," p. 115.

{f:30} It was frequently the practice of the ancient Norsemen, after having entombed their dead kings and heroes, to plant oaks or other trees over them, in order to prevent their remains being disturbed with facility. In that sublimest of all poems, "The Incantation of Hervor," is a passage to the following effect:

Hervadr, Hiorvadr, Hrani and Angantyr, I wake ye all under the roots of the trees.

{f:31} Between the islands of Ferroe the Sea exhibits a phenomenon, called, in the dialect of the Islanders, the Boff. Whilst the salt stream runs strong and glassy through its narrow channel, it is suddenly deformed by seven successive breakers, huge and foamy, which occur without any apparent cause, and infallibly overwhelm any boat which may chance to be in the way of their fury.

{f:32} The ancient Northern god of music and poetry.

{f:33} A mountain in the Scottish Highlands.

{f:34} The Duergar, or Dwarf-elves, of Scandinavia are famous for the dexterity with which they fabricate ornaments of every kind, from the gold which they dig out of the depths of the hills.

{f:35} Kemp, a warrior.—Old Eng. Dan. Kiempe.

THE END