war bearing,
In their eye star lustre.

“I, som rave iblinde,
Skal finde
Et ældgammelt Minde,
Der skal komme og svinde!
Dets gyldne Sider
Skal Præget bære,
Afældste Tider.

“Ye who blind are straying,
And praying,
Shall an ag’d relic meet,
Which shall come and shall fleet,
Its red sides golden,
The stamp displaying
Of the times most olden.

Af det kan I lære,
Med andagtsfuld Ære
I vor Gave belönne!
Det skjönneste Skjönne,
En Mö
Skal Helligdommen finde!”

That shall give ye a notion
To hold in devotion
Our gift, is your duty!
A maiden, of beauty
Most rare.
Shall find the token!”

Saa sjunge de og svinde,
Lufttonerne döe.

They vanished; this spoken
Their tones die in air.

Hrymfaxe, den sorte,
Puster og dukker
Og i Havet sig begraver;
Morgenens Porte
Delling oplukker,
Og Skinfaxe traver
I straalende Lue
Paa Himmelens Bue.

Black Hrymfax, weary,
Panteth and bloweth,
And in sea himself burieth;
Belling, cheery,
Morn’s gates ope throweth;
Forth Skinfax hurrieth,
On heaven’s bridge prancing,
And with lustre glancing.

Og Fuglene synge;
Dugperler bade
Blomsterblade,
Som Vindene gynge;
Og med svævende Fjed
En Mö hendandser
Til Marken afsted.
Violer hende krandser,
Hendes Rosenkind brænder,
Hun har Liljehænder;
Let som et Hind,
Med muntert Sind
Hun svæver og smiler;
Og som hun iler
Og paa Elskov grubler,
Hun snubler—
Og stirrer og skuer
Gyldne Luer
Og rödmer og bæver
Og skjælvende hæver
Med undrende Aand
Udaf sorten Muld
Med snehvide Haand,
Det röde Guld.

En sagte Torden
Dundrer;
Hele Norden
Undrer.

The little birds quaver,
Pearls from night’s weeping;
The flowers are steeping
In the winds which waver;
To the meadows, fleet
A maiden boundeth;
Violet fillet neat
Her brows surroundeth;
Her cheeks are glowing,
Lilly hands she’s showing;
Light as a hind,
With sportive mind
She smiling frisketh.
And as on she whisketh,
And thinks on her lover,
She trips something over;
And, her eyes declining,
Beholds a shining,
And red’neth and shaketh,
And trembling uptaketh
With wondering sprite
From the dingy mould,
With hand snow-white,
The ruddy gold.
A gentle thunder
Pealeth;
The whole North wonder
Feeleth.

Og hen de stimle
I store Vrimle;
De grave, de söge
Skatten at foröge.
Men intet Guld!
Deres Haab har bedraget:
De see kun det Muld,
Hvoraf det er taget.

Forth rush with gabble
A countless rabble;
The earth they’re upturning,
For the treasure burning.
But there’s no gold!
Their hope is mistaken;
They see but the mould,
From whence it is taken.

Et Sekel svinder!

An age by rolleth.

Over Klippetinder
Det atter bruser.
Stormens Sluser
Bryde med Vælde
Over Norges Fjelde
Til Danmarks Dale.
I Skyernes Sale
De forklarede Gamle
Sig atter samle.

Again it howleth
O’er the tops of the mountains.
Of the rain the fountains
Burst with fury;
The spirits of glory
From