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.
