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As the goblet ringing flies apart,
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;

And through the rift, the wild flames start;
The guests in dust are scattered all,
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe, with fire and sword;
He in the night had scaled the wall,
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord,
But holds in his hand the crystal tall,
The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone,
The grey-beard in the desert-hall,
He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton,
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside,
Down must the stately columns fall;
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride;
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball
One day like the Luck of Edenhall!”

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* This poem is placed by Mr. Longfellow amongst his translations: we had always supposed it to be original, and still think it bears internal evidence of being from his own pen.

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FROM GRAF VON PLATEN.

How I started up in the night, in the night,
Drawn on without rest or reprieval,

The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sigh
As I wandered so light

In the night, in the night,

Through the gate with the arch mediæval.

The mill-brook rushed through the rocky height,

I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning;

Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,
As they glided so light

In the night, in the night,

Yet backward not one was returning.

O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,

The stars in melodious existence;

And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;-
They sparkled so light

In the night, in the night,

Through the magical measureless distance.

And upward I gazed, in the night, in the night,
And again on the waves in their fleeting;

Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight,
Now silence thou light

In the night, in the night,

The Remorse in thy heart that is beating.

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TRANSLATIONS FROM THE DANISH.

KING CHRISTIAN.

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.-FROM JOHANNES EVALD.

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He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,
And smote upon the foe full sore,

And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar,

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Now is the hour!"

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Thy murky sky!

Then champions to thine arms were sent;

Terror and Death glared where he went;
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent

Thy murky sky!

From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol',

Let each to Heaven commend his soul,

And fly!

Path of the Dane to fame and might!
Dark-rolling wave!

Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Proudly as thou the tempest's might,
Dark-rolling wave!

And amid pleasures and alarms,
And war and victory, be thine arms
My grave!

THE ELECTED KNIGHT.

[The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the translation.]

SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain,

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide,
But never, ah never, can meet with the man

A tilt with him dare ride.

He saw under the hill-side

A Knight full well equipped;

His steed was black, his helm was barred;
He was riding at full speed.

He wore upon his spurs

Twelve little golden birds;

Anon he spurred his steed with a clang,
And there sat all the birds and sang.

He wore upon his mail

Twelve little golden wheels;

Anon in eddies the wild wind blew,

And round and round the wheels they flew.

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"I am not Christ the Great,

Thou shalt not yield thee yet;

I am an Unknown Knight,

Three modest Maidens have me bedight."

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"Art thou a Knight elected,

And have three Maidens thee bedight;
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day,
For all the Maidens' honour!"

The first tilt they together rode

They put their steeds to the test;
The second tilt they together rode,
They proved their manhood best;
The third tilt they together rode,
Neither of them would yield;
The fourth tilt they together rode,
They both fell on the field.

Now lie the lords upon the plain,

And their blood runs unto death;
Now sit the Maidens in the high tower,
The youngest sorrows till death.

CHILDHOOD.

THERE was a time when I was very small,
When my whole frame was but an ell in height,

Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall,

And therefore I recall it with delight.

I sported in my tender mother's arms,

And rode a-horseback on best father's knee;

Alike were sorrows, passions, and alarms,

And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me. Then seemed to me this world far less in size, Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far; Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise, And longed for wings that I might catch a star.

I saw the moon behind the island fade,

And thought, "O, were I on that island there, I could find out of what the moon is made,

Find out how large it is, how round, how fair!" Wondering, I saw God's sun through western skies, Sink in the ocean's golden lap at night,

And yet upon the morrow early rise,

And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light; And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father, Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung together, Dropped, clustering, from his hand o'er all the sky.

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