made a holiday trip to Sweden, and was
received
with great enthusi-
asm.
asm.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v18 - Mom to Old
On
every side I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of unknown text-
ure, and colored with the most enchanting hues. These forms
presented the appearance of what might be called, for want of a
more specific definition, foliated clouds of the highest rarity; that
is, they undulated and broke into vegetable formations, and were
tinged with splendors compared with which the gilding of our
autumn woodlands is as dross compared with gold. Far away
into the illimitable distance stretched long avenues of these gas-
eous forests, dimly transparent, and painted with prismatic hues
of unimaginable brilliancy. The pendent branches waved along
the fluid glades until every vista seemed to break through half-
lucent ranks of many-colored drooping silken pennons. What
seemed to be either fruits or flowers, pied with a thousand hues,
lustrous and ever varying, bubbled from the crowns of this fairy
foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers, no forms animate or
inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast auroral copses that
## p. 10739 (#619) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10739
floated serenely in the luminous stillness, with leaves and fruits
and flowers gleaming with unknown fires, unrealizable by mere
imagination.
How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus con-
demned to solitude! I had hoped at least to discover some new
form of animal life,-perhaps of a lower class than any with
which we are at present acquainted, but still some living organ-
ism. I found my newly discovered world, if I may so speak, a
beautiful chromatic desert.
While I was speculating on the singular arrangements of the
internal economy of Nature, with which she so frequently splin-
ters into atoms our most compact theories, I thought I beheld a
form moving slowly through the glades of one of the prismatic
forests. I looked more attentively, and found that I was not
mistaken. Words cannot depict the anxiety with which I awaited
the nearer approach of this mysterious object. Was it merely
some inanimate substance, held in suspense in the attenuated
atmosphere of the globule? or was it an animal endowed with.
vitality and motion? It approached, flitting behind the gauzy,
colored veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly revealed, then
vanishing. At last the violet pennons that trailed nearest to me
vibrated; they were gently pushed aside, and the form floated out
into the broad light.
It was a female human shape. When I say human, I mean
it possessed the outlines of humanity,- but there the analogy
ends. Its adorable beauty lifted it illimitable heights beyond the
loveliest daughter of Adam.
I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms of this
divine revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes of mystic violet,
dewy and serene, evade my words. Her long, lustrous hair fol-
lowing her glorious head in a golden wake, like the track sown
in heaven by a falling star, seems to quench my most burning
phrases with its splendors. If all the bees of Hybla nestled
upon my lips, they would still sing but hoarsely the wondrous
harmonies of outline that inclosed her form.
She swept out from between the rainbow curtains of the
cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. Her
motions were those of some graceful naiad, cleaving, by a mere
effort of her will, the clear unruffled waters that fill the cham-
bers of the sea. She floated forth with the serene grace of a
frail bubble ascending through the still atmosphere of a June
## p. 10740 (#620) ##########################################
10740
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
day. The perfect roundness of her limbs formed suave and
enchanting curves. It was like listening to the most spiritual
symphony of Beethoven the divine, to watch the harmonious flow
of lines. This indeed was a pleasure cheaply purchased at any
price. What cared I, if I had waded to the portal of this wonder
through another's blood? I would have given my own to enjoy
one such moment of intoxication and delight.
Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and forgetful
for an instant of everything save her presence, I withdrew my
eye from the microscope eagerly. Alas! as my gaze fell on the
thin slide that lay beneath my instrument, the bright light from
mirror and from prism sparkled on a colorless drop of water!
There, in that tiny bead of dew, this beautiful being was forever
imprisoned. The planet Neptune was not more distant from me
than she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to the micro-
scope.
Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which I
subsequently bestowed on her) had changed her position. She
had again approached the wondrous forest, and was gazing ear-
nestly upwards. Presently one of the trees - as I must call them
-unfolded a long ciliary process, with which it seized one of the
gleaming fruits that glittered on its summit, and sweeping slowly
down, held it within reach of Animula. The sylph took it in her
delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was so entirely
absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to the task of
determining whether this singular plant was or was not instinct
with volition.
I watched her as she made her repast, with the most pro-
found attention. The suppleness of her motions sent a thrill of
delight through my frame; my heart beat madly as she turned.
her beautiful eyes in the direction of the spot in which I stood.
What would I not have given to have had the power to precipi-
tate myself into that luminous ocean, and float with her through
those groves of purple and gold! While I was thus breathlessly
following her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed to
listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant ether in
which she was floating, like a flash of light, pierced through the
opaline forest, and disappeared.
Instantly a series of the most singular sensations attacked
me. It seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. The luminous
sphere was still before me, but my daylight had vanished. What
## p. 10741 (#621) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10741
caused this sudden disappearance? Had she a lover or a hus-
band? Yes, that was the solution! Some signal from a happy
fellow-being had vibrated through the avenues of the forest, and
she had obeyed the summons.
The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this conclusion,
startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that my reason
forced upon me. I battled against the fatal conclusion,- but
It was so. I had no escape from it. I loved an ani-
in vain.
malcule!
It is true that, thanks to the marvelous power of my micro-
scope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead of presenting
the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures that live and strug-
gle and die in the more easily resolvable portions of the water-
drop, she was fair and delicate and of surpassing beauty. But
of what account was all that? Every time that my eye was
withdrawn from the instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of
water, within which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that
could make my life lovely.
Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment pierce
the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to separate us, and
whisper all that filled my soul, I might consent to be satisfied
for the rest of my life with the knowledge of her remote sympa-
thy. It would be something to have established even the faint-
est personal link to bind us together, to know that at times,
when roaming through those enchanted glades, she might think
of the wonderful stranger who had broken the monotony of her
life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her heart!
But it could not be. No invention of which human intel-
lect was capable could break down the barriers that nature had
erected. I might feast my soul upon her wondrous beauty, yet
she must always remain ignorant of the adoring eyes that day
and night gazed upon her, and even when closed, beheld her in
dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room,
and flinging myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a
child.
## p. 10742 (#622) ##########################################
10742
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
THE LOST STEAMSHIP
O, THERE! Fisherman, hold your hand!
Tell me, what is that far away,-
There, where over the isle of sand
Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?
See! it rocks with a ghastly life,
Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife:
Tell me what is it, fisherman, pray? »
"H
"That, good sir, was a steamer stout
As ever paddled around Cape Race;
And many's the wild and stormy bout
She had with the winds in that selfsame place:
But her time was come; and at ten o'clock
Last night she struck on that lonesome shore;
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,
And at dawn this morning she was no more. "
"Come, as you seem to know, good man,
The terrible fate of this gallant ship,
Tell me about her all that you can;
And here's my flask to moisten your lip.
Tell me how many she had aboard,—
Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,-
How did it fare with her human hoard?
Lost she many, or lost she few? »
"Master, I may not drink of your flask,
Already too moist I feel my lip;
But I'm ready to do what else you ask,
And spin you my yarn about the ship:
'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night,
When she struck the breakers and went ashore;
And scarce had broken the morning's light
Than she sank in twelve feet of water or more.
"But long ere this they knew her doom,
And the captain called all hands to prayer;
And solemnly over the ocean's boom
Their orisons wailed on the troublous air.
And round about the vessel there rose
Tall plumes of spray as white as snow,
## p. 10743 (#623) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10743
Like angels in their ascension clothes,
Waiting for those who prayed be ow.
So these three hundred people clung
As well as they could to spar and rope;
With a word of prayer upon every tongue,
Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.
But there was no blubbering weak and wild,-
Of tearful faces I saw but one:
A rough old salt, who cried like a child,
And not for himself, but the captain's son.
"The captain stood on the quarter-deck,
Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand;
Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck,
Sometimes he sadly looked to land.
And often he smiled to cheer the crew
-
But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim
Till over the quarter a huge sea flew;
And that was the last they saw of him.
"I saw one young fellow with his bride,
Standing amidships upon the wreck;
His face was white as the boiling tide,
And she was clinging about his neck.
And I saw them try to say good-by,
But neither could hear the other speak;
So they floated away through the sea to die-
Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek.
"And there was a child, but eight at best,
Who went his way in a sea she shipped;
All the while holding upon his breast
A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.
And as the boy and the bird went by,
Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,
They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry,
And together the three went down to rest.
"And so the crew went one by one,
Some with gladness, and few with fear;
Cold and hardship such work had done,
That few seemed frightened when death was near.
Thus every soul on board went down,-
Sailor and passenger, little and great;
## p. 10744 (#624) ##########################################
10744
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
The last that sank was a man of my town,
A capital swimmer,- the second mate. "
"Now, lonely fisherman, who are you
That say you saw this terrible wreck?
How do I know what you say is true,
When every mortal was swept from the deck?
Where were you in that hour of death?
How did you learn what you relate? "
His answer came in an under-breath,—
"Master, I was the second mate! "
## p. 10745 (#625) ##########################################
10745
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
(1779-1850)
BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE
HE greatest of Danish poets was born in Copenhagen, Novem-
ber 14th, 1779, just a quarter of a century after the death
of Holberg. His ancestry was more German than Danish,
and his descent from four generations of organists may fairly be
reckoned as having some influence in the determination of his artistic
bent. His youth was careless and singularly happy; he applied him-
self indifferently to his studies, read a good
many books, and wrote boyish verses, tales,
and dramatic sketches. His interest in the
drama even impelled him to study for the
actor's profession, and during a year or two
he played minor parts on the stage of the
Royal Theatre. His youthful literary efforts
were of insignificant value, and there was
little that was stimulating in the literary
surroundings of his early years. Holberg
had left nothing that could be called a
school, and the classical tradition that he
had maintained was carried on feebly
enough by a few third-rate poets. This
tradition received its death-blow
hands of Wessel, the one poet contemporary with Ewald who was
a real literary force, and whose satirical play Kjærlighed uden
Strömper (Love without Stockings) had killed classical tragedy in
Denmark as effectively as 'Don Quijote' killed chivalrous romance
in Spain. The exquisite talent of Ewald had blossomed and passed
away, its seed to all seeming having fallen upon stony ground. Jens
Baggesen, a graceful poet and a master of both pathos and humor, a
typical transition figure, striving to escape from a past which he felt
to be outworn, but lacking the discernment of the pioneer, was the
most conspicuous writer of the closing years of the century; but it
was quite evident that no word of his was to be the "open sesame"
of the new treasure-house of the spirit.
at the
That word was soon to be spoken by the young Oehlenschläger,
who had tired of the play-actor's calling, and entered the University
OEHLENSCHLÄGER
## p. 10746 (#626) ##########################################
10746
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
as a law student. But he found jurisprudence less tempting than the
opportunity - offered soon after his entrance-of competing for a
prize by writing an essay on the subject of the desirability of substi-
tuting the Norse for the Greek mythology in Scandinavian literature.
It is hardly necessary to say which side of the argument he took;
and although his essay failed to win the prize, it shows us to what
extent the ideals that were to control his future creative activity
were already shaping themselves in his mind. Meanwhile, the events
were hastening that were to give his genius the needed impulse,
and help him to the discovery of his true self. After eighty years
of peace his country got a taste of warfare in the first year of the
present century. The French revolutionary movement and the Napo-
leonic wars suddenly drew Denmark within their vortex, and a wave
of passionate patriotism swept over the land when an English fleet
under Nelson attacked the Danes in the harbor of Copenhagen. This
event and its attendant surge of national feeling stimulated the young
law student to renewed poetical exertions; and although his work
was still amateurish and tentative, it struck a new note and gave
evidence of a new energy. But the influence that was to operate
most powerfully in shaping his poetical destiny was intellectual rather
than political. It was the great revolution in taste and sentiment
that had been creating a new literature in Germany, and that is
called, somewhat vaguely, the Romantic Movement.
Oehlenschläger's mental condition at this time was like that of a
bud ready to burst open with the first hour of sunlight; almost that
of a powder magazine needing but a spark for the liberation of its
imprisoned force. The sunlight hour or the spark-to leave the
reader his choice of metaphors-was provided by a young Norwe-
gian, Henrik Steffens by name, who came to Copenhagen in the
summer of 1802, after having spent four years in Germany in the
Jena-Weimar circle of Schelling, Fichte, A. W. Schlegel, Schiller,
and Goethe. During the first year of his stay in Denmark, Steffens
gave courses of lectures in which philosophy and literature and art
received fresh and suggestive discussion, just as they were receiving
similar discussion by Coleridge in England at almost exactly the
same time. Oehlenschläger was introduced to Steffens soon after the
arrival of the latter, and lost no time in improving the acquaintance.
His first call upon his new friend was at eleven o'clock one morn-
ing, and the conversation that began between them was kept up for
sixteen hours without a break. At three the next morning, Steffens
offered his guest a bed, and the young poet snatched a few hours
of restless sleep. Returning to his lodgings, he took pen and ink,
and straightway composed 'Guldhornene' (The Golden Horns); with
which work, says the historian Hansen, "the romantic period of
## p. 10747 (#627) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10747
Danish literature begins. "
The horns in question were two relics
of antiquity that had been unearthed not long before and placed on
exhibition. Their history "becomes a symbol for the newly awakened
poet: the golden horns, with their strange carvings and mysterious
runic inscriptions, are gifts of the gods bestowed upon men to remind
them of their divine origin; of the ties, half forgotten, that bind them
to the distant past. " Once started upon his new career, Oehlen-
schläger went forward with all the impetuosity of youth. Abandon-
ing the works upon which he had been engaged, and which were
almost ready for the press, he so gave himself up to the new impulse
that by Christmas of this memorable year a fresh volume of 'Poems'
was ready for publication. These 'Poems,' bearing the date of the
next year (1803), included lyrics, ballads, and a dramatic piece, and
proved nothing less than a revelation of the hitherto unknown possi-
bilities of Danish song. Nothing like them had ever before been writ-
ten in the language, and nothing save the lyrical impulse of Ewald
had even remotely foreshadowed such a production. In the words
of P. L. Möller, the book became "the corner-stone of nineteenth-
century Danish poetry. No other Danish book has so wonderful
fragrance of culture-history, breathes forth such a wealth of glowing
memories, of fiery ardor, of the joy of life, and of impossible hopes
for the future. "
The years immediately following were the richest of Oehlenschlä-
ger's life. He produced in rapid succession Förste Sang af Edda'
(First Song of the Edda); the prose Vaulundurs Saga'; the cycle of
lyrical impressions de voyage called 'Langelands-Rejsen' (A Journey to
Langeland); the awkwardly named 'Jesu Christi Gjentagne Liv i den
Aarlige Natur' (The Life of Christ Annually Repeated in Nature),
which was a series of poems with the pantheistic inspiration of No-
valis and Schelling; and most important of all, the dramatic fairy
tale 'Aladdin,' wherein the rich free fantasy of the poet's youthful
imagination found its most complete and adequate expression. This
poem, based upon the familiar Eastern tale, became deeply significant
for Danish culture. It is the gospel of genius, the glorification of
the magic power that commands the deepest secrets of existence, the
song of the joy of life and the new birth of the spirit after an age
of prosaic and uninspired "enlightenment. " The works above men-
tioned, together with a few others,- all the product of a little over
two years of activity,- were collected into the two volumes of 'Poet-
iske Skrifter (Poetical Writings), published in 1805, just before the
author left Denmark for Germany. The poet Hauch, writing of these
volumes, spoke as follows: "Nearly everything I had previously read
of poetry seemed to give me only momentary glimpses of the temple
of the gods, as in the distance it now and then revealed itself to my
## p. 10748 (#628) ##########################################
10748
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
vision; but Oehlenschläger, next to Shakespeare, was the one who
threw the temple wide open for me, so that the fullness of its divine
splendor streamed upon me. "
Oehlenschläger's foreign journey, begun in 1805, extended over
four years. For a time he lived in Halle with Steffens and Schleier-
macher, and then visited other German cities. In Berlin he made
the acquaintance of Fichte, and in Weimar read a German translation
of his 'Aladdin' to Goethe. A long stay in Paris followed; then a
winter in Coppet, as the guest of Madame de Staël; finally a spring
and summer in Rome, where he contracted a warm friendship for
Thorvaldsen. Six important poetical works resulted from these four
years of rich experience and broadening ideals. Hakon Jarl' (Earl
Hakon), 'Baldur hin Gode' (Balder the Good), and Thors Rejse til
Jöthunhejm' (Thor's Journey to Jötunheim), were written in Germany,
'Palnatoke' and 'Axel og Valborg' in Paris, and 'Correggio' in Rome.
As these are the greatest of Oehlenschläger's works, they call for
more than a mere designation. It had long been an article of his
literary creed, that the most important work to be done for Danish
poetry was that of giving a new life to the literature of Edda and
Saga, and that he was himself the man best fitted for the task.
Hakon Jarl,' a tragedy in five acts and in blank iambic verse, was
the first result of this impulse. It deals with the deeply interesting
period of the introduction of Christianity into Norway. "The day
was come," we read in the 'Heimskringla,' "when foredoomed was
blood-offering and the men of blood-offerings, and the holy faith
come in their stead, and the true worship. " The day was near the
close of the tenth century, when Olaf Trygvesön fared from Dublin
to Norway, and overthrew Earl Hakon, the great heathen chieftain.
Oehlenschläger's treatment of this splendid theme is well-balanced
and impressive. He makes us feel the tremendous significance of the
struggle, and views the issue with the impartial eye of the artist.
'Palnatoke deals with the same period, taking us to Denmark soon
after the forced introduction of Christianity under Harald Blaatand.
The tragedy is a worthy counterpart to 'Hakon Jarl,' and is distin-
guished by a similar strength, directness, and fine dramatic work-
manship. It is a curious fact that the interest of 'Palnatoke' is
created and sustained without the introduction of a single female
character, and with hardly an allusion to the part played by woman
in human life. 'Axel og Valborg' atones for this deficiency — if such
it be in the fullest measure; for it is a love tragedy in a sense
almost as exclusive as 'Romeo and Juliet,' and is steeped from
beginning to end in the purest romantic sentiment. It is difficult to
speak in measured terms of this beautiful work; the other tragedies
of Oehlenschläger compel admiration in various degrees and forms,
## p. 10749 (#629) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10749
but this commands affection rather than admiration, and has a place
all by itself in the heart. This sweet and tender story of the two
cousins, forbidden to marry by the canon law, but at last united in
death, is dramatized with such simplicity, pathos, and depth of poetic
feeling, that the effect upon either spectator or reader is simply
overwhelming. It occupies the highest place in Danish literature,
and is equaled by but few tragedies in any other modern literature.
'Baldur hin Gode,' written under the influence of Sophocles, as ex-
pounded by Schleiermacher, is a tragedy in the older poetic form
of iambic hexameter, and seeks to deal with the fascinating myth
of Balder's death after the manner of the Greeks. Thors Rejse til
Jöthunhejm is an epic in five songs, and is interesting as furnishing
the prologue to 'Nordens Guder' (The Gods of the North), the poet's
greatest work in the non-dramatic field, produced many years later.
'Correggio,' the chief result of his Italian sojourn, was first written
in German, of which language Oehlenschläger thought himself a mas-
ter, which he distinctly was not. The character of the painter in
this play is conceived rather passively than actively, and the balance.
inclines too far toward the side of pure emotion to make the work as
effective as it might otherwise have been.
Oehlenschläger had left Denmark in the flush of youthful success;
when he returned in 1809, he was acclaimed with but few dissenting
voices as the greatest of Danish poets, and all sorts of honors were
heaped upon him. The following year he married, and was made
professor of æsthetics in the University. "Comedies and novels end
with the wedding of the hero," he says in his autobiography; "for
only the struggle, not the acquired position, lends itself to their treat-
ment. " Although an account of Oehlenschläger's career may hardly
end with his marriage and settlement in life, it must be said that the
remaining forty years of his existence, although they added many
volumes to the series of his writings, brought but little increase to
his fame. In a certain sense indeed they diminished that fame; for
when the first outburst of enthusiasm had died away the voice of the
detractor began to be heard, and for many years the poet was com-
pelled to defend himself in a critical warfare that enlisted among his
opponents some of the strongest and acutest minds among his con-
temporaries. Grundtvig. Baggesen, and Heiberg were the leaders in
this onslaught. Grundtvig, the strongest of the three, claimed that
Oehlenschläger was lacking in the historical sense, and charged him
with a lack of religious seriousness. Baggesen's attack was chiefly
concerned with minute questions of philology and æsthetics.
It was
reserved for Heiberg, a calmer writer, to review Oehlenschläger's work
in the spirit of an enlightened and impersonal æsthetic criticism, and
to pass upon it the judgment that has been substantially accepted by
posterity.
## p. 10750 (#630) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10750
For twenty years after his return to Denmark in 1809, Oehlen-
schläger kept hard at work, lecturing at the University, defending
himself against his critics, and producing a great amount of original
work of various sorts, from the occasional set of verses to the tragedy
and the epic-cycle. One year of this period (1816-17) was spent
abroad, in what the poet called "a voluntary ostracism," the journey
being undertaken in a moment of petulance resulting from Baggesen's
persistent critical onslaughts. The list of works produced during this
score of years is so lengthy, and the greater number of them so
unmistakably inferior to their predecessors, that only a few need be
named at all. 'Nordens Guder' (The Gods of the North), the great
epic-cycle of the Scandinavian Pantheon, is the consummation of
Oehlenschläger's efforts to utilize the Norse mythology for the pur-
poses of modern poetry. 'Den Lille Hyrdedreng' (The Little Shep-
herd Boy) was a dramatic idyl so beautiful as almost to silence for
a time the critics of the poet. Hrolf Krake,' another considerable
poem, deals with the epic material previously handled by Ewald.
Öen i Sydhavet (The Isle in the Southern Sea) is a prose romance
of great length, the only important work of the sort attempted by
Oehlenschläger. The principal tragedies of these twenty years are
'Stærkodder,' 'Hagbarth og Signe,' 'Erik og Abel,' 'Væringerne i
Miklagaard' (The Varangians in Micklegarth), Karl den Store' (Karl
the Great), and Langbarderne' (The Lombards).
In the summer of 1829, the poet, just completing his fiftieth year.
made a holiday trip to Sweden, and was received with great enthusi-
asm. He took part in the annual celebration of the University of
Lund, presided over by Tegnér, the greatest of Swedish poets. Here
he was crowned in the Cathedral of Lund as "the Adam of skalds,
the king of Northern singers. " Immediately after the ceremony he
returned to Copenhagen, and a few days later had the pleasure of
receiving Tegnér upon Danish soil, where the festivities of Lund were
echoed. When his fiftieth birthday fell, he received a striking dem-
onstration from the students of his own University. The remaining
twenty years of his life (for he rounded out the full Scriptural tale)
were no less active than the twenty just preceding. They were
marked by the same uninterrupted succession of new productions; few
of which, however, proved worthy of his genius, although the old fire
and deep poetic feeling flashed out now and then, to the surprise of
both critics and friends. Among the tragedies of this closing period
the following may be named: Tordenskjold,' 'Sokrates' (the poet's
only dramatic handling of a Greek theme), 'Olaf den Hellige' (Olaf the
Holy), 'Dina,' and 'Amleth. ' The latter of these tragedies is partic-
ularly interesting as an attempt to reconstruct the historical Hamlet
of Saxo's chronicle, in contrast with Shakespeare's purely imaginat-
ive creation. Other works of this period were 'Norgesrejsen' (The
## p. 10751 (#631) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10751
Journey to Norway), 'Digtekunsten' (The Art of Poetry), 'Örvarodds
Saga,' and 'Landet Fundet og Forsvundet' (The Found and Van-
ished Land), the latter a dramatic handling of the Norse discovery
of Vinland. His last production was a hero-poem upon the subject
of 'Regnar Lodbrok'; and ends with the pathetic words, "The old
skald sang for the last time of the old Norse heroes. " The poet's
'Erindringer' (Recollections), upon which he had been engaged for
several years, remained to be published after his death. The series
of works thus completed fills, in the standard edition, no less than
forty volumes, of which four contain the 'Erindringer,' ten the trage-
dies, and twenty-six the miscellaneous productions in verse and prose.
They stand as a lasting monument to the genius of the greatest poet
of Denmark; as the living memorial of their author's singularly rich,
fruitful, and fortunate career.
Outwardly, the score of years that crowned Oehlenschläger's life
were comparatively uneventful. A trip to Norway in 1833, and a
second visit to Sweden in 1847, were the most noteworthy episodes.
Meanwhile, in face of the broadening fame of the poet, and his
strengthened hold upon the minds and hearts of his fellow-country-
men, the wave of adverse criticism that had at one time risen so
high was steadily subsiding; and even his most determined opponents
came to recognize the indebtedness of the nation to the man who,
whatever his lapses from a high standard of production, had never-
theless created a new literature for Denmark, and awakened the
creative spirit that was now displaying itself on every hand.
It was
during these last years of Oehlenschläger's life that most of the men
arose who have shaped nineteenth-century Danish literature. These
were the years of the early successes of the novelists Ingemann,
Blicher, Goldschmidt, and St. Aubain; of the poets Hertz, Paludan-`
Müller, Winther, and Ploug; of the philosopher Kierkegaard, and the
story-teller Hans Christian Andersen. Widely divergent as were the
paths of these men, Oehlenschläger justly felt that they were all in
some sense his successors, and that he had given the impulse which
was resulting in so marked an expansion of the national literature.
And nearly all of these men joined to do him honor in the celebra-
tion of his seventieth birthday; an occasion which evoked tributes of
heartfelt admiration even from Heiberg and Grundtvig, his most
inveterate critics. A few weeks later, he lay upon his death-bed. At
his request, his son read to him a scene from his own 'Sokrates';
and he also expressed the wish that this tragedy should be presented
at the theatre as a memorial performance after his death. A few
hours later, towards midnight, January 20th, 1850, he passed quietly.
away, retaining full consciousness almost to the last moment. He
was buried in the Frederiksberg church-yard, where a massive block
## p. 10752 (#632) ##########################################
10752
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
of stone marks his grave. Hans Christian Andersen tells us that
when a short time after the entombment, fresh wreaths were brought
to replace the old ones upon the grave, it was found that a song-
bird had made its nest in the withered leaves.
Atta Payer
THE DEDICATION OF ALADDIN›
TO GOETHE
B
ORN in far northern clime,
Came to mine ears sweet tidings in my prime
From fairy-land;
Where flowers eternal blow,
Where power and beauty go,
Knit in a magic band.
Oft, when a child, I'd pore
In rapture on the ancient saga lore;
When on the wold
The snow was falling white,
I, shuddering with delight,
Felt not the cold.
When with his pinion chill
The winter smote the castle on the hill,
It fanned my hair;
I sat in my small room,
And through the lamp-lit gloom
Saw Spring smile fair.
And though my love in youth.
Was all for Northern energy and truth,
And Northern feats,
Yet for my fancy's feast
The flower-appareled East
Unveiled its sweets.
To manhood as I grew,
From North to South, from South to North, I flew;
I was possessed
By yearnings to give voice in song
To all that had been struggling long
Within my breast.
## p. 10753 (#633) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10753
I heard bards manifold,
But at their minstrelsy my heart grew cold;
Dim, colorless, became
My childhood's visions grand;
Their tameness only fanned
My wilder flame.
Who did the young bard save?
Who to his eye a keener vision gave,
That he the child
Amor beheld, astride
The lion, far off ride,
Careering wild?
Thou, great and good! Thy spell-like lays
Did the enchanted curtain raise
From fairy-land,
Where flowers eternal blow,
Where power and beauty go,
Knit in a loving band.
Well pleased thou heardest long
Within thy halls the stranger-minstrel's song;
XVIII-673
Taught to aspire
By thee, my spirit leapt
To bolder heights, and swept
The German lyre.
Oft have I sung before;
And many a hero of our Northern shore,
With grave stern mien,
By sad Melpomene
Called from his grave, we see
Stalk o'er the scene.
And greeting they will send
To friend Aladdin cheerly as a friend:
The oak's thick gloom
Prevails not wholly where
Warbles the nightingale, and fair
Flowers waft perfume.
On thee, to whom I owe
New life, what shall my gratitude bestow?
Naught has the bard
## p. 10754 (#634) ##########################################
10754
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
Save his own song! And this
Thou dost not, trivial as the tribute is,
With scorn regard.
From Sir Theodore Martin's translation of Aladdin. '
SONG
From Aladdin'
HE moon shines bright aloft
O'er wood and dingle,
The birds in cadence soft
Their warblings mingle;
The breezes from the hill
Come sighing, sighing,
And to their voice the rill
Sends sweet replying.
THE
But one flower in the wold
Droops wan and sickly;
Death at its heart is cold-
"Twill perish quickly.
But yonder, chaplets twine
Forever vernal,
And in God's presence shine
Through springs eternal.
O moonlight pale! thy rays
Soon, softly creeping,
Shall paint my paler face
In death-trance sleeping.
Smile then on Death, that he
May gently take me,
And where no sorrows be,
Ere morn awake me!
Droops on its stem the flower:
Come, sweetly stealing,
Angel of death, and shower
Soft dews of healing!
Oh, come! Beneath thy blight
My soul shall quail not!
Yonder is endless light,
And joys that fail not!
Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.
## p. 10755 (#635) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
Hakon
FROM AXEL AND VALBORG›
Axel enters with King Hakon, who is wounded in the right arm.
A**
XEL - Here are we safe awhile, my lord and king!
Here in God's holy house. Come, sit you down,
And let me bind for you your wounded arm;
A warrior ought to know the art of healing;
One has not always help at hand. The wound
Is deep, but yet not dangerous. Now, had we
A piece of linen only!
Axel-
Hakon
[He feels in his bosom, draws out a cloth, and starts; but instantly com-
poses himself, and says: ]
-
―――
Axel-
Axel-
Nay, calm yourself.
Hakon And with this cloth you wish to bind my arm?
Axel So that you may not die from loss of blood.
Hakon You wish to bind it with this very cloth
Wherewith I rent your life in twain?
Hakon
――
Axel-
―――――
---
This your kindness
Wounds me more deep than Erling Skakke's sword.
Be thou not wounded by my faithfulness,—
Far other was its purpose.
-
Here is linen.
Axel, why startest thou? Almighty God!
I know that cloth too well.
It is another cloth.
My lord!
Nay, nay! It is
The very cloth which that malicious Knud
Cut with my sword 'twixt you and Valborg, Axel!
I know it. Oh, swathe not my arm with this:
It burns me
――
- tortures me with double pain.
Nay, it is natural a wound should burn,
And bandaging a sore is always painful.
Be calm, and rest yourself a moment, King!
10755
Then in your left hand take your sword, and come
Once more with Axel 'gainst your haughty foe:
The presence of their king supports his people,
And I will serve instead of your right hand.
Hakon Is it contempt,-a lurking, proud revenge?
Or is it natural high-mindedness?
How shall I understand you, Axel? Think you
To heap up coals of fire on Hakon's head?
## p. 10756 (#636) ##########################################
10756
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
By God and man! I will be true to you;
I will not harm you; I will ne'er forsake you.
Hakon - This generosity but hurts me more.
O most unhappy Hakon Herdebred!
Thy bravest warrior despises thee.
Axel By God in heaven, and by my Valborg, Hakon!
I do respect you.
Axel
Hakon
I believe you, kinsman:
That was a solemn oath,- well is it so;
For Hakon acted like an ardent lover
Upon the throne - not like a coward, Axel!
Axel Who feels the power of love, and does not know
Its mighty workings?
Hakon
Now your words are drawn
Out of my very heart, my gallant hero;
Your faithfulness and kindness move me so.
[With sudden wildness]-
And yet, did I perceive that you believed
This were but woman's weakness, only caused
By this my pain of body, Axel Thordson,
With my left hand I would draw forth my sword,
And challenge you to fight for life and death.
Axel I swore by Valborg that I do respect you.
Hakon-You swear it. Then you shall esteem me too;
-
For I will make to you a sacrifice.
The sacrifice is great;-'tis needful, Axel,
That you should know its costliness!
My King!
Axel-
Hakon-I well know what I hazard by the offer
Of such a gift at such a time as this:
"Now has the proud and foolish youth at last
Opened his eyes; and now he can perceive
How his throne stands in need of brave defense.
Now does he need his warriors' faithfulness;
And therefore does he purchase friend with maid,
In the despair and anguish of his heart. "
Ha, I would hate you, Axel! I would call you
A cold and cruel and barbarian foe,
If you could dream of such a motive.
-
Axel-
Sire!
Hakon-For Valborg loses Hakon Norway's realm,
But Valborg-loses he for Valborg's sake.
Think of the value of my gift! Gives one
The greater for the less, to satisfy
One's selfishness?
## p. 10757 (#637) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10757
Axel-
O Hakon! noble kinsman!
Hakon - Yes, I have blindly erred, and your pure soul,
Your noble mind, have opened now mine eyes;
And of free-will, because I wish the good,
Do I subdue the passion of my breast,
And give you back your Valborg-give you back
That which to me is dearest in the world.
Misjudge me not,-oh, see my sacrifice!
I see it,—and God sees it, noble King!
Axel
Hakon And now embrace me!
Axel-
Hold your wounded arm!
Hakon - The wound no longer burns: this linen cloth
Hurts me no more; it cools me, like the juice
Of healing herbs fresh gathered.
Axel-
Hakon
Axel-
――――
――
Axel-
Hakon
Axel
And now let Erling overcome me.
Has overcome himself: his victory
Is greatest.
[The noise increases; Axel throws the King's purple mantle, which has
been unloosed during the bandaging, over his own shoulders. ]
Hakon-What do you, Axel?
O my King!
Hakon
But it shall not be the last:
The other victory must now be gained.
[Noise is heard outside the church. ]
Be calm, my King! Rest yet a moment longer!
Your golden helm is heavy, and your head
Needs some relief; give me your helmet. Here-
Take mine instead; it is a lighter one.
The Captain-
Nay, be still, my lord!
I hear men coming-possibly our foes:
Let Axel be a shield to you!
[A troop of the enemy rushes in. ]
There stands he!
There stands he! See you? with the golden helmet
And purple robe. It is the King. Rush in —
Rush in on him, and cut him down!
O Axel!
Now do I understand your strange behavior.
Give me my helmet back!
Nay, draw your sword;
Place yourself so that your right arm may be
## p. 10758 (#638) ##########################################
10758
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
Protected by my body. When you see
An opening, strike- and then draw back again.
[He cries]
Come on, ye paltry wretches! Here stands Hakon.
His sword is drawn, you see; he does not fear
Your coward onslaught in the house of God.
Come on, ye murderers! who do not dare
To stand up man 'gainst man in honest fight,
But think to win base gold by Hakon's murder.
My fiery lion's-tongue is gleaming bright;
Axel-
-
Come, let it slake its thirst in traitors' blood!
Hakon [drawing his sword]-
He would befool you! Here stands Norway's chief,
And with his left hand will he punish you.
Peace, Axel Thordson! you are wounded. Hakon
Can well defend himself.
-
The Enemy -
Down with him! down!
[A fight. Noise is heard outside, of other warriors; there is a cry-]
To help! to help! the King has been attacked.
The Hostile Warrior [to Axel]-
Aha! help comes too late!
[He wounds him.
Haste! flee away.
Hakon is slain! Come on, and cut your way
To Erling through the Biarkebeiners' ranks.
Hakon is slain; — away!
Sigurd of Reine and Wilhelm rush in with a number of Biarkebeiners
Sigurd-
Ha, cut and thrust!
Pursue the murderers!
Sigurd to the King]-
-
[The enemy is put to flight. ]
Your life is saved!
[He becomes aware of Axel. ]
What! Axel in the royal robe and helmet?
All bleeding, too?
Axel [to the King]-
Now take your helm again!
It is too heavy now for me. Go, Sire!
And leave me with my comrade here alone.
Hakon- My brother! is your wound-
Axel-
Nay, leave me, King!
Charge boldly on the foe; revenge this treachery;
Follow with Sigurd and his bark-clad warriors!
## p. 10759 (#639) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10759
Sigurd Yes, Hakon! even Norway's forests
Hakon [to his warriors-pointing at Axel]-
Have armed themselves to fight for Throndhjem's lord.
Look at these warriors! Gotha-dwellers! Bears!
Stems of the forest pines, all gathered here
From many a mountain ridge. For want of armor,
This rugged bark protects their gallant hearts.
These stems of alder, with their sharpened points
Hardened by fire, supply the place of spears.
In such wise fight they for their humble hearths,
And the king's honor.
every side I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of unknown text-
ure, and colored with the most enchanting hues. These forms
presented the appearance of what might be called, for want of a
more specific definition, foliated clouds of the highest rarity; that
is, they undulated and broke into vegetable formations, and were
tinged with splendors compared with which the gilding of our
autumn woodlands is as dross compared with gold. Far away
into the illimitable distance stretched long avenues of these gas-
eous forests, dimly transparent, and painted with prismatic hues
of unimaginable brilliancy. The pendent branches waved along
the fluid glades until every vista seemed to break through half-
lucent ranks of many-colored drooping silken pennons. What
seemed to be either fruits or flowers, pied with a thousand hues,
lustrous and ever varying, bubbled from the crowns of this fairy
foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers, no forms animate or
inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast auroral copses that
## p. 10739 (#619) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10739
floated serenely in the luminous stillness, with leaves and fruits
and flowers gleaming with unknown fires, unrealizable by mere
imagination.
How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus con-
demned to solitude! I had hoped at least to discover some new
form of animal life,-perhaps of a lower class than any with
which we are at present acquainted, but still some living organ-
ism. I found my newly discovered world, if I may so speak, a
beautiful chromatic desert.
While I was speculating on the singular arrangements of the
internal economy of Nature, with which she so frequently splin-
ters into atoms our most compact theories, I thought I beheld a
form moving slowly through the glades of one of the prismatic
forests. I looked more attentively, and found that I was not
mistaken. Words cannot depict the anxiety with which I awaited
the nearer approach of this mysterious object. Was it merely
some inanimate substance, held in suspense in the attenuated
atmosphere of the globule? or was it an animal endowed with.
vitality and motion? It approached, flitting behind the gauzy,
colored veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly revealed, then
vanishing. At last the violet pennons that trailed nearest to me
vibrated; they were gently pushed aside, and the form floated out
into the broad light.
It was a female human shape. When I say human, I mean
it possessed the outlines of humanity,- but there the analogy
ends. Its adorable beauty lifted it illimitable heights beyond the
loveliest daughter of Adam.
I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms of this
divine revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes of mystic violet,
dewy and serene, evade my words. Her long, lustrous hair fol-
lowing her glorious head in a golden wake, like the track sown
in heaven by a falling star, seems to quench my most burning
phrases with its splendors. If all the bees of Hybla nestled
upon my lips, they would still sing but hoarsely the wondrous
harmonies of outline that inclosed her form.
She swept out from between the rainbow curtains of the
cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. Her
motions were those of some graceful naiad, cleaving, by a mere
effort of her will, the clear unruffled waters that fill the cham-
bers of the sea. She floated forth with the serene grace of a
frail bubble ascending through the still atmosphere of a June
## p. 10740 (#620) ##########################################
10740
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
day. The perfect roundness of her limbs formed suave and
enchanting curves. It was like listening to the most spiritual
symphony of Beethoven the divine, to watch the harmonious flow
of lines. This indeed was a pleasure cheaply purchased at any
price. What cared I, if I had waded to the portal of this wonder
through another's blood? I would have given my own to enjoy
one such moment of intoxication and delight.
Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and forgetful
for an instant of everything save her presence, I withdrew my
eye from the microscope eagerly. Alas! as my gaze fell on the
thin slide that lay beneath my instrument, the bright light from
mirror and from prism sparkled on a colorless drop of water!
There, in that tiny bead of dew, this beautiful being was forever
imprisoned. The planet Neptune was not more distant from me
than she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to the micro-
scope.
Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which I
subsequently bestowed on her) had changed her position. She
had again approached the wondrous forest, and was gazing ear-
nestly upwards. Presently one of the trees - as I must call them
-unfolded a long ciliary process, with which it seized one of the
gleaming fruits that glittered on its summit, and sweeping slowly
down, held it within reach of Animula. The sylph took it in her
delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was so entirely
absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to the task of
determining whether this singular plant was or was not instinct
with volition.
I watched her as she made her repast, with the most pro-
found attention. The suppleness of her motions sent a thrill of
delight through my frame; my heart beat madly as she turned.
her beautiful eyes in the direction of the spot in which I stood.
What would I not have given to have had the power to precipi-
tate myself into that luminous ocean, and float with her through
those groves of purple and gold! While I was thus breathlessly
following her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed to
listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant ether in
which she was floating, like a flash of light, pierced through the
opaline forest, and disappeared.
Instantly a series of the most singular sensations attacked
me. It seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. The luminous
sphere was still before me, but my daylight had vanished. What
## p. 10741 (#621) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10741
caused this sudden disappearance? Had she a lover or a hus-
band? Yes, that was the solution! Some signal from a happy
fellow-being had vibrated through the avenues of the forest, and
she had obeyed the summons.
The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this conclusion,
startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that my reason
forced upon me. I battled against the fatal conclusion,- but
It was so. I had no escape from it. I loved an ani-
in vain.
malcule!
It is true that, thanks to the marvelous power of my micro-
scope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead of presenting
the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures that live and strug-
gle and die in the more easily resolvable portions of the water-
drop, she was fair and delicate and of surpassing beauty. But
of what account was all that? Every time that my eye was
withdrawn from the instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of
water, within which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that
could make my life lovely.
Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment pierce
the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to separate us, and
whisper all that filled my soul, I might consent to be satisfied
for the rest of my life with the knowledge of her remote sympa-
thy. It would be something to have established even the faint-
est personal link to bind us together, to know that at times,
when roaming through those enchanted glades, she might think
of the wonderful stranger who had broken the monotony of her
life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her heart!
But it could not be. No invention of which human intel-
lect was capable could break down the barriers that nature had
erected. I might feast my soul upon her wondrous beauty, yet
she must always remain ignorant of the adoring eyes that day
and night gazed upon her, and even when closed, beheld her in
dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room,
and flinging myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a
child.
## p. 10742 (#622) ##########################################
10742
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
THE LOST STEAMSHIP
O, THERE! Fisherman, hold your hand!
Tell me, what is that far away,-
There, where over the isle of sand
Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?
See! it rocks with a ghastly life,
Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife:
Tell me what is it, fisherman, pray? »
"H
"That, good sir, was a steamer stout
As ever paddled around Cape Race;
And many's the wild and stormy bout
She had with the winds in that selfsame place:
But her time was come; and at ten o'clock
Last night she struck on that lonesome shore;
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,
And at dawn this morning she was no more. "
"Come, as you seem to know, good man,
The terrible fate of this gallant ship,
Tell me about her all that you can;
And here's my flask to moisten your lip.
Tell me how many she had aboard,—
Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,-
How did it fare with her human hoard?
Lost she many, or lost she few? »
"Master, I may not drink of your flask,
Already too moist I feel my lip;
But I'm ready to do what else you ask,
And spin you my yarn about the ship:
'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night,
When she struck the breakers and went ashore;
And scarce had broken the morning's light
Than she sank in twelve feet of water or more.
"But long ere this they knew her doom,
And the captain called all hands to prayer;
And solemnly over the ocean's boom
Their orisons wailed on the troublous air.
And round about the vessel there rose
Tall plumes of spray as white as snow,
## p. 10743 (#623) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10743
Like angels in their ascension clothes,
Waiting for those who prayed be ow.
So these three hundred people clung
As well as they could to spar and rope;
With a word of prayer upon every tongue,
Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.
But there was no blubbering weak and wild,-
Of tearful faces I saw but one:
A rough old salt, who cried like a child,
And not for himself, but the captain's son.
"The captain stood on the quarter-deck,
Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand;
Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck,
Sometimes he sadly looked to land.
And often he smiled to cheer the crew
-
But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim
Till over the quarter a huge sea flew;
And that was the last they saw of him.
"I saw one young fellow with his bride,
Standing amidships upon the wreck;
His face was white as the boiling tide,
And she was clinging about his neck.
And I saw them try to say good-by,
But neither could hear the other speak;
So they floated away through the sea to die-
Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek.
"And there was a child, but eight at best,
Who went his way in a sea she shipped;
All the while holding upon his breast
A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.
And as the boy and the bird went by,
Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,
They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry,
And together the three went down to rest.
"And so the crew went one by one,
Some with gladness, and few with fear;
Cold and hardship such work had done,
That few seemed frightened when death was near.
Thus every soul on board went down,-
Sailor and passenger, little and great;
## p. 10744 (#624) ##########################################
10744
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
The last that sank was a man of my town,
A capital swimmer,- the second mate. "
"Now, lonely fisherman, who are you
That say you saw this terrible wreck?
How do I know what you say is true,
When every mortal was swept from the deck?
Where were you in that hour of death?
How did you learn what you relate? "
His answer came in an under-breath,—
"Master, I was the second mate! "
## p. 10745 (#625) ##########################################
10745
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
(1779-1850)
BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE
HE greatest of Danish poets was born in Copenhagen, Novem-
ber 14th, 1779, just a quarter of a century after the death
of Holberg. His ancestry was more German than Danish,
and his descent from four generations of organists may fairly be
reckoned as having some influence in the determination of his artistic
bent. His youth was careless and singularly happy; he applied him-
self indifferently to his studies, read a good
many books, and wrote boyish verses, tales,
and dramatic sketches. His interest in the
drama even impelled him to study for the
actor's profession, and during a year or two
he played minor parts on the stage of the
Royal Theatre. His youthful literary efforts
were of insignificant value, and there was
little that was stimulating in the literary
surroundings of his early years. Holberg
had left nothing that could be called a
school, and the classical tradition that he
had maintained was carried on feebly
enough by a few third-rate poets. This
tradition received its death-blow
hands of Wessel, the one poet contemporary with Ewald who was
a real literary force, and whose satirical play Kjærlighed uden
Strömper (Love without Stockings) had killed classical tragedy in
Denmark as effectively as 'Don Quijote' killed chivalrous romance
in Spain. The exquisite talent of Ewald had blossomed and passed
away, its seed to all seeming having fallen upon stony ground. Jens
Baggesen, a graceful poet and a master of both pathos and humor, a
typical transition figure, striving to escape from a past which he felt
to be outworn, but lacking the discernment of the pioneer, was the
most conspicuous writer of the closing years of the century; but it
was quite evident that no word of his was to be the "open sesame"
of the new treasure-house of the spirit.
at the
That word was soon to be spoken by the young Oehlenschläger,
who had tired of the play-actor's calling, and entered the University
OEHLENSCHLÄGER
## p. 10746 (#626) ##########################################
10746
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
as a law student. But he found jurisprudence less tempting than the
opportunity - offered soon after his entrance-of competing for a
prize by writing an essay on the subject of the desirability of substi-
tuting the Norse for the Greek mythology in Scandinavian literature.
It is hardly necessary to say which side of the argument he took;
and although his essay failed to win the prize, it shows us to what
extent the ideals that were to control his future creative activity
were already shaping themselves in his mind. Meanwhile, the events
were hastening that were to give his genius the needed impulse,
and help him to the discovery of his true self. After eighty years
of peace his country got a taste of warfare in the first year of the
present century. The French revolutionary movement and the Napo-
leonic wars suddenly drew Denmark within their vortex, and a wave
of passionate patriotism swept over the land when an English fleet
under Nelson attacked the Danes in the harbor of Copenhagen. This
event and its attendant surge of national feeling stimulated the young
law student to renewed poetical exertions; and although his work
was still amateurish and tentative, it struck a new note and gave
evidence of a new energy. But the influence that was to operate
most powerfully in shaping his poetical destiny was intellectual rather
than political. It was the great revolution in taste and sentiment
that had been creating a new literature in Germany, and that is
called, somewhat vaguely, the Romantic Movement.
Oehlenschläger's mental condition at this time was like that of a
bud ready to burst open with the first hour of sunlight; almost that
of a powder magazine needing but a spark for the liberation of its
imprisoned force. The sunlight hour or the spark-to leave the
reader his choice of metaphors-was provided by a young Norwe-
gian, Henrik Steffens by name, who came to Copenhagen in the
summer of 1802, after having spent four years in Germany in the
Jena-Weimar circle of Schelling, Fichte, A. W. Schlegel, Schiller,
and Goethe. During the first year of his stay in Denmark, Steffens
gave courses of lectures in which philosophy and literature and art
received fresh and suggestive discussion, just as they were receiving
similar discussion by Coleridge in England at almost exactly the
same time. Oehlenschläger was introduced to Steffens soon after the
arrival of the latter, and lost no time in improving the acquaintance.
His first call upon his new friend was at eleven o'clock one morn-
ing, and the conversation that began between them was kept up for
sixteen hours without a break. At three the next morning, Steffens
offered his guest a bed, and the young poet snatched a few hours
of restless sleep. Returning to his lodgings, he took pen and ink,
and straightway composed 'Guldhornene' (The Golden Horns); with
which work, says the historian Hansen, "the romantic period of
## p. 10747 (#627) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10747
Danish literature begins. "
The horns in question were two relics
of antiquity that had been unearthed not long before and placed on
exhibition. Their history "becomes a symbol for the newly awakened
poet: the golden horns, with their strange carvings and mysterious
runic inscriptions, are gifts of the gods bestowed upon men to remind
them of their divine origin; of the ties, half forgotten, that bind them
to the distant past. " Once started upon his new career, Oehlen-
schläger went forward with all the impetuosity of youth. Abandon-
ing the works upon which he had been engaged, and which were
almost ready for the press, he so gave himself up to the new impulse
that by Christmas of this memorable year a fresh volume of 'Poems'
was ready for publication. These 'Poems,' bearing the date of the
next year (1803), included lyrics, ballads, and a dramatic piece, and
proved nothing less than a revelation of the hitherto unknown possi-
bilities of Danish song. Nothing like them had ever before been writ-
ten in the language, and nothing save the lyrical impulse of Ewald
had even remotely foreshadowed such a production. In the words
of P. L. Möller, the book became "the corner-stone of nineteenth-
century Danish poetry. No other Danish book has so wonderful
fragrance of culture-history, breathes forth such a wealth of glowing
memories, of fiery ardor, of the joy of life, and of impossible hopes
for the future. "
The years immediately following were the richest of Oehlenschlä-
ger's life. He produced in rapid succession Förste Sang af Edda'
(First Song of the Edda); the prose Vaulundurs Saga'; the cycle of
lyrical impressions de voyage called 'Langelands-Rejsen' (A Journey to
Langeland); the awkwardly named 'Jesu Christi Gjentagne Liv i den
Aarlige Natur' (The Life of Christ Annually Repeated in Nature),
which was a series of poems with the pantheistic inspiration of No-
valis and Schelling; and most important of all, the dramatic fairy
tale 'Aladdin,' wherein the rich free fantasy of the poet's youthful
imagination found its most complete and adequate expression. This
poem, based upon the familiar Eastern tale, became deeply significant
for Danish culture. It is the gospel of genius, the glorification of
the magic power that commands the deepest secrets of existence, the
song of the joy of life and the new birth of the spirit after an age
of prosaic and uninspired "enlightenment. " The works above men-
tioned, together with a few others,- all the product of a little over
two years of activity,- were collected into the two volumes of 'Poet-
iske Skrifter (Poetical Writings), published in 1805, just before the
author left Denmark for Germany. The poet Hauch, writing of these
volumes, spoke as follows: "Nearly everything I had previously read
of poetry seemed to give me only momentary glimpses of the temple
of the gods, as in the distance it now and then revealed itself to my
## p. 10748 (#628) ##########################################
10748
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
vision; but Oehlenschläger, next to Shakespeare, was the one who
threw the temple wide open for me, so that the fullness of its divine
splendor streamed upon me. "
Oehlenschläger's foreign journey, begun in 1805, extended over
four years. For a time he lived in Halle with Steffens and Schleier-
macher, and then visited other German cities. In Berlin he made
the acquaintance of Fichte, and in Weimar read a German translation
of his 'Aladdin' to Goethe. A long stay in Paris followed; then a
winter in Coppet, as the guest of Madame de Staël; finally a spring
and summer in Rome, where he contracted a warm friendship for
Thorvaldsen. Six important poetical works resulted from these four
years of rich experience and broadening ideals. Hakon Jarl' (Earl
Hakon), 'Baldur hin Gode' (Balder the Good), and Thors Rejse til
Jöthunhejm' (Thor's Journey to Jötunheim), were written in Germany,
'Palnatoke' and 'Axel og Valborg' in Paris, and 'Correggio' in Rome.
As these are the greatest of Oehlenschläger's works, they call for
more than a mere designation. It had long been an article of his
literary creed, that the most important work to be done for Danish
poetry was that of giving a new life to the literature of Edda and
Saga, and that he was himself the man best fitted for the task.
Hakon Jarl,' a tragedy in five acts and in blank iambic verse, was
the first result of this impulse. It deals with the deeply interesting
period of the introduction of Christianity into Norway. "The day
was come," we read in the 'Heimskringla,' "when foredoomed was
blood-offering and the men of blood-offerings, and the holy faith
come in their stead, and the true worship. " The day was near the
close of the tenth century, when Olaf Trygvesön fared from Dublin
to Norway, and overthrew Earl Hakon, the great heathen chieftain.
Oehlenschläger's treatment of this splendid theme is well-balanced
and impressive. He makes us feel the tremendous significance of the
struggle, and views the issue with the impartial eye of the artist.
'Palnatoke deals with the same period, taking us to Denmark soon
after the forced introduction of Christianity under Harald Blaatand.
The tragedy is a worthy counterpart to 'Hakon Jarl,' and is distin-
guished by a similar strength, directness, and fine dramatic work-
manship. It is a curious fact that the interest of 'Palnatoke' is
created and sustained without the introduction of a single female
character, and with hardly an allusion to the part played by woman
in human life. 'Axel og Valborg' atones for this deficiency — if such
it be in the fullest measure; for it is a love tragedy in a sense
almost as exclusive as 'Romeo and Juliet,' and is steeped from
beginning to end in the purest romantic sentiment. It is difficult to
speak in measured terms of this beautiful work; the other tragedies
of Oehlenschläger compel admiration in various degrees and forms,
## p. 10749 (#629) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10749
but this commands affection rather than admiration, and has a place
all by itself in the heart. This sweet and tender story of the two
cousins, forbidden to marry by the canon law, but at last united in
death, is dramatized with such simplicity, pathos, and depth of poetic
feeling, that the effect upon either spectator or reader is simply
overwhelming. It occupies the highest place in Danish literature,
and is equaled by but few tragedies in any other modern literature.
'Baldur hin Gode,' written under the influence of Sophocles, as ex-
pounded by Schleiermacher, is a tragedy in the older poetic form
of iambic hexameter, and seeks to deal with the fascinating myth
of Balder's death after the manner of the Greeks. Thors Rejse til
Jöthunhejm is an epic in five songs, and is interesting as furnishing
the prologue to 'Nordens Guder' (The Gods of the North), the poet's
greatest work in the non-dramatic field, produced many years later.
'Correggio,' the chief result of his Italian sojourn, was first written
in German, of which language Oehlenschläger thought himself a mas-
ter, which he distinctly was not. The character of the painter in
this play is conceived rather passively than actively, and the balance.
inclines too far toward the side of pure emotion to make the work as
effective as it might otherwise have been.
Oehlenschläger had left Denmark in the flush of youthful success;
when he returned in 1809, he was acclaimed with but few dissenting
voices as the greatest of Danish poets, and all sorts of honors were
heaped upon him. The following year he married, and was made
professor of æsthetics in the University. "Comedies and novels end
with the wedding of the hero," he says in his autobiography; "for
only the struggle, not the acquired position, lends itself to their treat-
ment. " Although an account of Oehlenschläger's career may hardly
end with his marriage and settlement in life, it must be said that the
remaining forty years of his existence, although they added many
volumes to the series of his writings, brought but little increase to
his fame. In a certain sense indeed they diminished that fame; for
when the first outburst of enthusiasm had died away the voice of the
detractor began to be heard, and for many years the poet was com-
pelled to defend himself in a critical warfare that enlisted among his
opponents some of the strongest and acutest minds among his con-
temporaries. Grundtvig. Baggesen, and Heiberg were the leaders in
this onslaught. Grundtvig, the strongest of the three, claimed that
Oehlenschläger was lacking in the historical sense, and charged him
with a lack of religious seriousness. Baggesen's attack was chiefly
concerned with minute questions of philology and æsthetics.
It was
reserved for Heiberg, a calmer writer, to review Oehlenschläger's work
in the spirit of an enlightened and impersonal æsthetic criticism, and
to pass upon it the judgment that has been substantially accepted by
posterity.
## p. 10750 (#630) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10750
For twenty years after his return to Denmark in 1809, Oehlen-
schläger kept hard at work, lecturing at the University, defending
himself against his critics, and producing a great amount of original
work of various sorts, from the occasional set of verses to the tragedy
and the epic-cycle. One year of this period (1816-17) was spent
abroad, in what the poet called "a voluntary ostracism," the journey
being undertaken in a moment of petulance resulting from Baggesen's
persistent critical onslaughts. The list of works produced during this
score of years is so lengthy, and the greater number of them so
unmistakably inferior to their predecessors, that only a few need be
named at all. 'Nordens Guder' (The Gods of the North), the great
epic-cycle of the Scandinavian Pantheon, is the consummation of
Oehlenschläger's efforts to utilize the Norse mythology for the pur-
poses of modern poetry. 'Den Lille Hyrdedreng' (The Little Shep-
herd Boy) was a dramatic idyl so beautiful as almost to silence for
a time the critics of the poet. Hrolf Krake,' another considerable
poem, deals with the epic material previously handled by Ewald.
Öen i Sydhavet (The Isle in the Southern Sea) is a prose romance
of great length, the only important work of the sort attempted by
Oehlenschläger. The principal tragedies of these twenty years are
'Stærkodder,' 'Hagbarth og Signe,' 'Erik og Abel,' 'Væringerne i
Miklagaard' (The Varangians in Micklegarth), Karl den Store' (Karl
the Great), and Langbarderne' (The Lombards).
In the summer of 1829, the poet, just completing his fiftieth year.
made a holiday trip to Sweden, and was received with great enthusi-
asm. He took part in the annual celebration of the University of
Lund, presided over by Tegnér, the greatest of Swedish poets. Here
he was crowned in the Cathedral of Lund as "the Adam of skalds,
the king of Northern singers. " Immediately after the ceremony he
returned to Copenhagen, and a few days later had the pleasure of
receiving Tegnér upon Danish soil, where the festivities of Lund were
echoed. When his fiftieth birthday fell, he received a striking dem-
onstration from the students of his own University. The remaining
twenty years of his life (for he rounded out the full Scriptural tale)
were no less active than the twenty just preceding. They were
marked by the same uninterrupted succession of new productions; few
of which, however, proved worthy of his genius, although the old fire
and deep poetic feeling flashed out now and then, to the surprise of
both critics and friends. Among the tragedies of this closing period
the following may be named: Tordenskjold,' 'Sokrates' (the poet's
only dramatic handling of a Greek theme), 'Olaf den Hellige' (Olaf the
Holy), 'Dina,' and 'Amleth. ' The latter of these tragedies is partic-
ularly interesting as an attempt to reconstruct the historical Hamlet
of Saxo's chronicle, in contrast with Shakespeare's purely imaginat-
ive creation. Other works of this period were 'Norgesrejsen' (The
## p. 10751 (#631) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10751
Journey to Norway), 'Digtekunsten' (The Art of Poetry), 'Örvarodds
Saga,' and 'Landet Fundet og Forsvundet' (The Found and Van-
ished Land), the latter a dramatic handling of the Norse discovery
of Vinland. His last production was a hero-poem upon the subject
of 'Regnar Lodbrok'; and ends with the pathetic words, "The old
skald sang for the last time of the old Norse heroes. " The poet's
'Erindringer' (Recollections), upon which he had been engaged for
several years, remained to be published after his death. The series
of works thus completed fills, in the standard edition, no less than
forty volumes, of which four contain the 'Erindringer,' ten the trage-
dies, and twenty-six the miscellaneous productions in verse and prose.
They stand as a lasting monument to the genius of the greatest poet
of Denmark; as the living memorial of their author's singularly rich,
fruitful, and fortunate career.
Outwardly, the score of years that crowned Oehlenschläger's life
were comparatively uneventful. A trip to Norway in 1833, and a
second visit to Sweden in 1847, were the most noteworthy episodes.
Meanwhile, in face of the broadening fame of the poet, and his
strengthened hold upon the minds and hearts of his fellow-country-
men, the wave of adverse criticism that had at one time risen so
high was steadily subsiding; and even his most determined opponents
came to recognize the indebtedness of the nation to the man who,
whatever his lapses from a high standard of production, had never-
theless created a new literature for Denmark, and awakened the
creative spirit that was now displaying itself on every hand.
It was
during these last years of Oehlenschläger's life that most of the men
arose who have shaped nineteenth-century Danish literature. These
were the years of the early successes of the novelists Ingemann,
Blicher, Goldschmidt, and St. Aubain; of the poets Hertz, Paludan-`
Müller, Winther, and Ploug; of the philosopher Kierkegaard, and the
story-teller Hans Christian Andersen. Widely divergent as were the
paths of these men, Oehlenschläger justly felt that they were all in
some sense his successors, and that he had given the impulse which
was resulting in so marked an expansion of the national literature.
And nearly all of these men joined to do him honor in the celebra-
tion of his seventieth birthday; an occasion which evoked tributes of
heartfelt admiration even from Heiberg and Grundtvig, his most
inveterate critics. A few weeks later, he lay upon his death-bed. At
his request, his son read to him a scene from his own 'Sokrates';
and he also expressed the wish that this tragedy should be presented
at the theatre as a memorial performance after his death. A few
hours later, towards midnight, January 20th, 1850, he passed quietly.
away, retaining full consciousness almost to the last moment. He
was buried in the Frederiksberg church-yard, where a massive block
## p. 10752 (#632) ##########################################
10752
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
of stone marks his grave. Hans Christian Andersen tells us that
when a short time after the entombment, fresh wreaths were brought
to replace the old ones upon the grave, it was found that a song-
bird had made its nest in the withered leaves.
Atta Payer
THE DEDICATION OF ALADDIN›
TO GOETHE
B
ORN in far northern clime,
Came to mine ears sweet tidings in my prime
From fairy-land;
Where flowers eternal blow,
Where power and beauty go,
Knit in a magic band.
Oft, when a child, I'd pore
In rapture on the ancient saga lore;
When on the wold
The snow was falling white,
I, shuddering with delight,
Felt not the cold.
When with his pinion chill
The winter smote the castle on the hill,
It fanned my hair;
I sat in my small room,
And through the lamp-lit gloom
Saw Spring smile fair.
And though my love in youth.
Was all for Northern energy and truth,
And Northern feats,
Yet for my fancy's feast
The flower-appareled East
Unveiled its sweets.
To manhood as I grew,
From North to South, from South to North, I flew;
I was possessed
By yearnings to give voice in song
To all that had been struggling long
Within my breast.
## p. 10753 (#633) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10753
I heard bards manifold,
But at their minstrelsy my heart grew cold;
Dim, colorless, became
My childhood's visions grand;
Their tameness only fanned
My wilder flame.
Who did the young bard save?
Who to his eye a keener vision gave,
That he the child
Amor beheld, astride
The lion, far off ride,
Careering wild?
Thou, great and good! Thy spell-like lays
Did the enchanted curtain raise
From fairy-land,
Where flowers eternal blow,
Where power and beauty go,
Knit in a loving band.
Well pleased thou heardest long
Within thy halls the stranger-minstrel's song;
XVIII-673
Taught to aspire
By thee, my spirit leapt
To bolder heights, and swept
The German lyre.
Oft have I sung before;
And many a hero of our Northern shore,
With grave stern mien,
By sad Melpomene
Called from his grave, we see
Stalk o'er the scene.
And greeting they will send
To friend Aladdin cheerly as a friend:
The oak's thick gloom
Prevails not wholly where
Warbles the nightingale, and fair
Flowers waft perfume.
On thee, to whom I owe
New life, what shall my gratitude bestow?
Naught has the bard
## p. 10754 (#634) ##########################################
10754
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
Save his own song! And this
Thou dost not, trivial as the tribute is,
With scorn regard.
From Sir Theodore Martin's translation of Aladdin. '
SONG
From Aladdin'
HE moon shines bright aloft
O'er wood and dingle,
The birds in cadence soft
Their warblings mingle;
The breezes from the hill
Come sighing, sighing,
And to their voice the rill
Sends sweet replying.
THE
But one flower in the wold
Droops wan and sickly;
Death at its heart is cold-
"Twill perish quickly.
But yonder, chaplets twine
Forever vernal,
And in God's presence shine
Through springs eternal.
O moonlight pale! thy rays
Soon, softly creeping,
Shall paint my paler face
In death-trance sleeping.
Smile then on Death, that he
May gently take me,
And where no sorrows be,
Ere morn awake me!
Droops on its stem the flower:
Come, sweetly stealing,
Angel of death, and shower
Soft dews of healing!
Oh, come! Beneath thy blight
My soul shall quail not!
Yonder is endless light,
And joys that fail not!
Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.
## p. 10755 (#635) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
Hakon
FROM AXEL AND VALBORG›
Axel enters with King Hakon, who is wounded in the right arm.
A**
XEL - Here are we safe awhile, my lord and king!
Here in God's holy house. Come, sit you down,
And let me bind for you your wounded arm;
A warrior ought to know the art of healing;
One has not always help at hand. The wound
Is deep, but yet not dangerous. Now, had we
A piece of linen only!
Axel-
Hakon
[He feels in his bosom, draws out a cloth, and starts; but instantly com-
poses himself, and says: ]
-
―――
Axel-
Axel-
Nay, calm yourself.
Hakon And with this cloth you wish to bind my arm?
Axel So that you may not die from loss of blood.
Hakon You wish to bind it with this very cloth
Wherewith I rent your life in twain?
Hakon
――
Axel-
―――――
---
This your kindness
Wounds me more deep than Erling Skakke's sword.
Be thou not wounded by my faithfulness,—
Far other was its purpose.
-
Here is linen.
Axel, why startest thou? Almighty God!
I know that cloth too well.
It is another cloth.
My lord!
Nay, nay! It is
The very cloth which that malicious Knud
Cut with my sword 'twixt you and Valborg, Axel!
I know it. Oh, swathe not my arm with this:
It burns me
――
- tortures me with double pain.
Nay, it is natural a wound should burn,
And bandaging a sore is always painful.
Be calm, and rest yourself a moment, King!
10755
Then in your left hand take your sword, and come
Once more with Axel 'gainst your haughty foe:
The presence of their king supports his people,
And I will serve instead of your right hand.
Hakon Is it contempt,-a lurking, proud revenge?
Or is it natural high-mindedness?
How shall I understand you, Axel? Think you
To heap up coals of fire on Hakon's head?
## p. 10756 (#636) ##########################################
10756
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
By God and man! I will be true to you;
I will not harm you; I will ne'er forsake you.
Hakon - This generosity but hurts me more.
O most unhappy Hakon Herdebred!
Thy bravest warrior despises thee.
Axel By God in heaven, and by my Valborg, Hakon!
I do respect you.
Axel
Hakon
I believe you, kinsman:
That was a solemn oath,- well is it so;
For Hakon acted like an ardent lover
Upon the throne - not like a coward, Axel!
Axel Who feels the power of love, and does not know
Its mighty workings?
Hakon
Now your words are drawn
Out of my very heart, my gallant hero;
Your faithfulness and kindness move me so.
[With sudden wildness]-
And yet, did I perceive that you believed
This were but woman's weakness, only caused
By this my pain of body, Axel Thordson,
With my left hand I would draw forth my sword,
And challenge you to fight for life and death.
Axel I swore by Valborg that I do respect you.
Hakon-You swear it. Then you shall esteem me too;
-
For I will make to you a sacrifice.
The sacrifice is great;-'tis needful, Axel,
That you should know its costliness!
My King!
Axel-
Hakon-I well know what I hazard by the offer
Of such a gift at such a time as this:
"Now has the proud and foolish youth at last
Opened his eyes; and now he can perceive
How his throne stands in need of brave defense.
Now does he need his warriors' faithfulness;
And therefore does he purchase friend with maid,
In the despair and anguish of his heart. "
Ha, I would hate you, Axel! I would call you
A cold and cruel and barbarian foe,
If you could dream of such a motive.
-
Axel-
Sire!
Hakon-For Valborg loses Hakon Norway's realm,
But Valborg-loses he for Valborg's sake.
Think of the value of my gift! Gives one
The greater for the less, to satisfy
One's selfishness?
## p. 10757 (#637) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10757
Axel-
O Hakon! noble kinsman!
Hakon - Yes, I have blindly erred, and your pure soul,
Your noble mind, have opened now mine eyes;
And of free-will, because I wish the good,
Do I subdue the passion of my breast,
And give you back your Valborg-give you back
That which to me is dearest in the world.
Misjudge me not,-oh, see my sacrifice!
I see it,—and God sees it, noble King!
Axel
Hakon And now embrace me!
Axel-
Hold your wounded arm!
Hakon - The wound no longer burns: this linen cloth
Hurts me no more; it cools me, like the juice
Of healing herbs fresh gathered.
Axel-
Hakon
Axel-
――――
――
Axel-
Hakon
Axel
And now let Erling overcome me.
Has overcome himself: his victory
Is greatest.
[The noise increases; Axel throws the King's purple mantle, which has
been unloosed during the bandaging, over his own shoulders. ]
Hakon-What do you, Axel?
O my King!
Hakon
But it shall not be the last:
The other victory must now be gained.
[Noise is heard outside the church. ]
Be calm, my King! Rest yet a moment longer!
Your golden helm is heavy, and your head
Needs some relief; give me your helmet. Here-
Take mine instead; it is a lighter one.
The Captain-
Nay, be still, my lord!
I hear men coming-possibly our foes:
Let Axel be a shield to you!
[A troop of the enemy rushes in. ]
There stands he!
There stands he! See you? with the golden helmet
And purple robe. It is the King. Rush in —
Rush in on him, and cut him down!
O Axel!
Now do I understand your strange behavior.
Give me my helmet back!
Nay, draw your sword;
Place yourself so that your right arm may be
## p. 10758 (#638) ##########################################
10758
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
Protected by my body. When you see
An opening, strike- and then draw back again.
[He cries]
Come on, ye paltry wretches! Here stands Hakon.
His sword is drawn, you see; he does not fear
Your coward onslaught in the house of God.
Come on, ye murderers! who do not dare
To stand up man 'gainst man in honest fight,
But think to win base gold by Hakon's murder.
My fiery lion's-tongue is gleaming bright;
Axel-
-
Come, let it slake its thirst in traitors' blood!
Hakon [drawing his sword]-
He would befool you! Here stands Norway's chief,
And with his left hand will he punish you.
Peace, Axel Thordson! you are wounded. Hakon
Can well defend himself.
-
The Enemy -
Down with him! down!
[A fight. Noise is heard outside, of other warriors; there is a cry-]
To help! to help! the King has been attacked.
The Hostile Warrior [to Axel]-
Aha! help comes too late!
[He wounds him.
Haste! flee away.
Hakon is slain! Come on, and cut your way
To Erling through the Biarkebeiners' ranks.
Hakon is slain; — away!
Sigurd of Reine and Wilhelm rush in with a number of Biarkebeiners
Sigurd-
Ha, cut and thrust!
Pursue the murderers!
Sigurd to the King]-
-
[The enemy is put to flight. ]
Your life is saved!
[He becomes aware of Axel. ]
What! Axel in the royal robe and helmet?
All bleeding, too?
Axel [to the King]-
Now take your helm again!
It is too heavy now for me. Go, Sire!
And leave me with my comrade here alone.
Hakon- My brother! is your wound-
Axel-
Nay, leave me, King!
Charge boldly on the foe; revenge this treachery;
Follow with Sigurd and his bark-clad warriors!
## p. 10759 (#639) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10759
Sigurd Yes, Hakon! even Norway's forests
Hakon [to his warriors-pointing at Axel]-
Have armed themselves to fight for Throndhjem's lord.
Look at these warriors! Gotha-dwellers! Bears!
Stems of the forest pines, all gathered here
From many a mountain ridge. For want of armor,
This rugged bark protects their gallant hearts.
These stems of alder, with their sharpened points
Hardened by fire, supply the place of spears.
In such wise fight they for their humble hearths,
And the king's honor.
