And gentle, as an unweaned child.
Sing, sing of haunted shores and shelves,
St. Oluf and his spiteful elves,
Of that wise dame, in true love need,
Who of the clear stream formed the steed -
How youthful Svend, in sorrow sharp,
The inspired strings rent from his harp;
And Sivard, in his cloak of felt,
Danced with the green oak at his belt -
Or sing the Sorceress of the wood,
The amorous Merman of the flood -
Or elves that, o'er the unfathomed stream,
Sport thick as motes in morning beam -
Or bid me sail from Iceland Isle,
With Rosmer and fair Ellenlyle,
What time the blood-crow's flight was south,
Bearing a man's leg in its mouth.
Though rough and rude, those strains are rife
Of things kin to immortal life,
Which touch the heart and tinge the cheek,
As deeply as divinest Greek.
In simple words and unsought rhyme,
Give me the songs of olden time.



THE DEATH-RAVEN.
FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.