Norge’s highlands,
To Denmark’s islands,
In the halls of ether
Again meet together.

“For de sjeldne Faa,
Som vor Gave forstaae,
Som ei Jordlænker binde
Men hvis Sjæle sig hæve
Til det Eviges Tinde;
Som ane det Höie
I Naturens Öie;
Som tilbedende bæve
For Guddommens Straaler
I Sole, Violer,
I det Mindste, det Störste,
Som brændende törste
Efter Livets Liv;
Som, o store Aand
For de svundne Tider!
Se dit Guddomsblik
Paa Helligdommens Sider:
For dem lyder atter vort Bliv.

“For the few there below
Who our gift’s worth know,
Who earth’s fetters spurn all,
And whose souls are soaring
To the throne of th’ Eternal;
Who in eye of Nature
Behold the Creator;
And tremble adoring,
’Fore the rays of his power
In the sun, in the flower,
In the greatest and least,
And with thirst are possest
For of life the spring;
Who, O powerful sprite
Of the times departed!
See thy look bright
From the relic’s sides darted:
For them our Be once more shall ring.

“Naturens Sön,
Ukjændt i Lön,
Men som sine Fædre
Kraftig og stor,
Dyrkende sin Jord,
Ham vil vi hædre,
Han skal atter finde!”
Saa syngende de svinde.

“Nature’s son, whose name
Is unknown to fame,
But his acre tilling,
Strong-armed and tall,
Like his forefathers all,
Him to honour we’re willing,
He shall find the second token!”
They vanished, this spoken.

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

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

Ved lune Skov
Öxnene traekke
Den tunge Plov
Over sorten Dække.

By the bright green shaw
The oxen striding
The heavy plough draw,
The soil dividing.

Da standser Ploven
En Gysen farer
Igjennem Skoven;
Fugleskaren
Pludsclig tier;
Hellig Taushed
Alt indvier.

The plough stops; sorest
Of shudders rushes
Right through the forest;
The bird-quire hushes
Sudden its strains;
Holy silence
O’er all reigns.

Da klinger i Muld
Det gamle Guld.

Then rings in the mould
The ancient gold.

Tvende Glimt fra Oldtidsdage
   Funkle i de nye Tider;
Selsomt vendte de tilbage,
   Gaadefyldt paa blanke Sider.

Glimpses two from period olden
   Lo! in modern time appearing;
Strange returned those glimpses golden,
   On their sides enigmas bearing.

Skjulte Helligdom omsvæver
   Deres gamle Tegn og mærker;
Guddomsglorien ombæver
   Evighedens Underværker.

Holiness mysterious hovers
   O’er their signs, of meaning pond’rous;
Glory of the Godhead covers
   These eternal works so wondrous.

Hædre dem ved Bön og Psalter;
   Snart maaske er hver forsvunden.
Jesu Blod paa Herrens Alter
   Fylde dem, som Blod i Lunden.

Reverence them, for nought is stable;
   They may