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Title: Cantata
Author: George Borrow [
More Titles by Borrow]
This is Denmark's holyday;
Dance, ye maidens!
Sing, ye men!
Tune, ye harpers!
Blush, ye heroes!
This is Denmark's holyday.
ONE VOICE.
In right's enjoyment, in the arm of love,
Beneath the olive's shadow,
The Daneman sat;
Whilst wet and steaming wav'd the bloody flag
Above the regions of the sunny South.
Pure was our heaven,--
Pure and blue;
For, with his pinions, angel Peace dispell'd
All reek and vapour from mild virtue's sphere;
Then lower'd Battle's blood-bespatter'd son
Upon our coast,--
And haggard Envy lent to him her torch,
Which sparkled high with hell's sulphureous light,
Then fled the genius of peace, and wept.
A SECOND VOICE.
But mighty thunders peal'd; the earth it shook,
While rattled all the moss-grown giant stones, {f:1}
And Oldom's sunken grave-hill rais'd itself;
Then started Skiold and Frode,
And Svend, and Knud, and Waldemar, {f:2}
In copper hauberks up, and pointing to
Rust-spots of blood on faulchion and on shield--
They vanish'd:
And in the Gothic aisles, high arch'd and dim,
Wild flutter'd of itself, the ancient banner
Which hung above a hero's bones;
The faulchion clatter'd loud and ceaselessly
Within the tomb of Christian the Fourth, {f:3}
By Tordenskiold's {f:4} chapel on the strand,
Wild rose the daring Mermaid's witching song;
The stones were loosen'd round about the grave
Where lay great Juul;
And Hvidtfeld, clad in a transparent mist,
With smiles cherubic beaming on his face,
Stray'd, arm in arm, with his heroic brothers,
Along the deep.
FOOTNOTES:
{f:1} Called in Danish Kiaempe-steene; these stones either mark the burial place of a warrior, or the spot where some very remarkable circumstance has occurred.
{f:2} These were ancient Danish monarchs renowned in song and tale, for warlike exploits and strange adventures. Not far from the Bridge of Vaere in the diocese of Roeskild, is King Frode's grave-hill, which, according to tradition, contains immense treasures, and is the richest in all the land. "Around the King's neck is a gold chain, so long that its other end reaches round his feet." _See Thiele's Danske Folkesagn_.
{f:3} Denmark's wisest and greatest king. He entertained a warm friendship for James the First of England, and, attended by his court, came to London to visit him. The ceremonies and rejoicings which this event gave rise to, are well described in an old German book, at present in the British Museum.
{f:4} Tordenskiold Juul and Hvidtfeld--celebrated Danish admirals. The memory of Tordenskiold is sacred among the peasantry, on account of the victories obtained by him over the Swedes. It is reported of him in Jutland, that when the shot of the enemy was directed thick and fast against him, he would shake the leaden bullets from out the folds of his clothes.
CHORUS.
We felt the presence of one and all;
The old flags wav'd in the arsenal,
A wondrous spirit went round, went round
The Northern ground.
ONE VOICE.
Then waken'd Thor, {f:5}
And drew around his loins the mighty belt
Of bear-sinews;
With love fraternal harden'd he his shield,
With eager haste he sharp'd his blunted glaive,
And, with the iron of his hammer, touch'd
Each Dane's and every Norman's breast--
Shot his heroic flame therein, and smil'd!
Footnotes:
{f:5} In the Northern mythology, the God of war and strength. He is girded by a belt of bear-sinews, and bears a hammer called "Miolner," which means the shatterer, and with which he destroys giants, demons, and other foes of Odin the supreme God.
MANY VOICES.
And Denmark and Norway smil'd.
LOUD CHORUS.
Upon the water,
Upon the land,
We boun'd for slaughter,
At Thor's command.
MAIDENS.
Then fell our tears so quickly,
We breath'd, we breath'd so thickly,
While scarce our lips could stammer forth
Prayers for you, and for the North.
MATRONS.
And we, and we, with breasts that smarted,
Knelt, lowly knelt, whilst firm ye stood,
From us and from affection parted,
In reek and smoke, in brothers' blood!
CHORUS OF MEN.
Tenderness comes from God;
Woman and man in its praise should sing;
But tenderness flies at honour's nod;
We offer all up to our land and King.
ONE VOICE.
What sang ye, warlike throngs?
Repeat, repeat this day,
One of the simple, nervous, songs
Ye murmur'd out, when, hot with wrongs,
Ye waited the coming fray.
UNIVERSAL CHORUS.
We love, we all love thee, beneficent Peace, &c.
SOLO.
Like the wave of the wild North main,
Foaming and frothing came on our foe;
Proud of his triumphs, proud of his train,
He thought to lay us low:
But, from Denmark's lines of oak,
A horrible, horrible volley outbroke;
Then tumbled his mast,
His courage fell fast;
And the wave, which resembled his furious mood,
Was now with his blood embrued.
CHORUS.
This is Denmark's holyday;
Dance, ye maidens!
Sing, ye men!
Tune, ye harpers!
Blush, ye heroes!
This is Denmark's holyday.
A VOICE.
But, hark! what sobbing and what mournful notes
Are mixing with our hymns of ardent joy!
Hush, hush, be still;
A band of white-rob'd maids approaches slow,
With lily chaplets round their yellow locks,
With heavy tear-drops in their sunken eye;
Broken and trembling sounds
The melancholy song,
Accompanied by harp-tones rising mild.
YOUTHFUL MAIDENS.
Love, with rosy fetter,
Held us firmly bound;
Pure unmix'd enjoyment
Grateful here we found.
Bosom, bosom meeting,
'Gainst our youths we press'd;
Bright the moon arose, then,
Glad to see us blest.
Denmark's honour beckon'd,
Loud the canon roar'd;
Perish'd in the battle
They whom we ador'd.
Sweet is, grave, thy slumber,
Free from care and noise;
Short are earthly sorrows,--
Endless heaven's joys.
SUDDEN CHORUS OF THE SLAIN WARRIORS IS HEARD FROM ON HIGH.
From the heavenly, clear, invisible, home
Our voices come:
No joy can resemble the joy which reigns
In our seraph veins.
Lov'd ones, lov'd ones, weep for us not,
Soon shall ye here partake of our lot;
High o'er the stars' extremest line
The sun of affection more bright shall shine:
Brothers, brothers, 't is sweet to die
For the land of our birth, and the maid of our eye.
Blest are ye who like us shall fall;
The righteous Jehovah rewards, above,
Courage and love:
Hallelujah, peace be with you all!
[The end]
George Borrow's poem: Cantata
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