308 
of being termed poetry, appeared. 
To expect excellence, at a time when 
nations were just beginning to emerge 
from the night and gloom of barbarism, 
would be unreasonable; but still they 
exhibit a freshness, and a noble sim- 
plicity, which is far more dear to the 
literary enthusiast than the dressed-up 
charms of art. They form a national 
literature, of which Denmark has rea- 
son to be proud; for many of those 
now extant are as ancient as her lan- 
guage itself. They form a continued 
chain of narrative, from the end of the 
fourteenth century to the beginning of 
the eighteenth; in which the private 
actions of kings, and other distinguish- 
ed persons, are frequently introduced, 
disguised under the shape of an in- 
teresting fiction. But,among the very 
best of the Danish ballads, are those in 
which the characters and events are 
entirely imaginary. Mr. George Lewis 
was the first person who gave the 
British public an idea of this ancient 
poetry ; and, although his translations 
are made from secondary sources, 
(for he was unacquainted with the lan- 
guage,) I believe they are read with 
much more pleasure than those which 
have been made by other hands from 
the originals. 
There are some ballads, especially 
those in a_ collection called the 
“‘ Elskov’s Visoer” (Love Tales), of a 
superior kind, and which display a fine 
moral. Such is the song of “Skion 
Middel,” of which the following is 
nearly a literal translation :— 
The maiden was lacing so tightly her vest, 
That forth spouted milk from each lily-white breast; 
That saw the queen-mother, who quickly begun: 
« What mateest the milk from thy bosom to run?” 
**Oh! this is not milk, ma eead mother, | vow 
It is but the mead I was drinking just now.” P 
“Ha! out on thee, minion, these eyes have their 
sight,— 
Would’st tell me that mead in its colour is white ?” 
“Well, well! since the proofs are so glaring and 
wrong: 
I own that Sir Middel has done me a wrong.” 
**Ha! was he the miscreant? dear shall he pa 
For the cloud he has cast on our honour’s bright 
ray; 
Vl hang him up. Yes! I will hang him with scorn, 
And burn thee to ashes at breaking of morn!” 
The maiden departed in anguish and woe, 
And straight to Sir Middel it lists her to go. 
Arriv’d at the portal, she sounded the bell : 
«Now wake ye, love, if thou art living and well.” 
Sir Middel he heard her, and sprung orn his bed, 
Not knowing her voice, in confusion he said, 
“* Away! for I have neither candle nor light, 
Aud I swear that no mortal shall enter this night.” 
“*Now busk ye, Sir Middel, in Christ’s holy name; 
I fly from my mother, who knows of my shame. 
She’ll hang thee up; yes! she will hang thee with 
scorn, 
And burn me to ashes, at breaking of morn.” 
“‘Ha! laugh at her threat?ninys, so empty and wild ; 
She neither shall hang me, nor burn thee, my child. 
Collect what is precious in jewels and garb, 
And I’ll to the stable, and saddle my barb. 
News from Parnassus, No. XXVIII. 
[Nov. 1, 
He gave her the cloak that he us’d at his need, 
And he lifted her up on the broad-bosom’d steed. 
The forest is gain’d, and the city is past. 
When her eyes to the heaven she wistfully cast. 
“‘What ails thee, dear maid; we had better now 
stay, 
For thou ath fatigu’d by the length of the way.” 
“<1 am not futigu’d by the length of the way, 
But my seat is uneasy, it lists me to say.” 
He spread on the heather his mantle so wide— 
“Now Bs thee, my love, and 1’ll watch by thy 
side. 
“© Jesus! that one of my inaidens were near; 
The pains of a mother are on me, I fear.” 
«Thy maidens are now at a distance from thee, 
And thou art alone in the forest with me.” 
“*Twere better to perish again and again, 
Than thou shouldst stand by me, and guze on my 
ain, 
“But take off thy kerchief, and cover my head, 
And perhaps [ may stand in the wise-woman’s 
stead.” 
“O Christ! that I had but a draught of the wave, 
Toquench my death-thirst, and my temples to lave.”? 
Sir Middel was to her so faithful aud true, 
And 8 fetch’d her the drink in her gold-spangled 
shoe; 
The fountain was distant, bat when he drew near, 
Two nightingales sat there, and sung in his ear: 
**Vhy love she is dead, and for ever at rest, 
With two little babes, that lie cold on her breast.”” 
Such was their song, but he heeded them not, 
And trae’d bis way back to the desolate spot; 
Bat ah! what a spectacle burst on his view, 
For all they had told him was fatally true. 
He dug a deep grave by the side of a tree, 
And buried therein the unfortunate three. 
As he clamp’d the mould down with bis iron-heel’d 
oot, 
He thought that the babies scream’d under his foot ; 
Then placing his weapon against a grey stone, 
He cast himself on it, and died with a groan. 
Ye maidens of Nanway, henceforward beware, 
For love, when unbridled, will end in despair. 
Such were ballads before men had 
adopted that overloaded style which 
considerably diminishes poetic effect. 
Such a story, in the hands of a writer 
of the present day, would not be con- 
tained in less than two hundred lines. 
He would dwell upon the terror of the 
maid when first discovered, and then 
inform us, how lovely she looked even 
in the midst of her grief. When 
mounted behind her lover, there would 
be a description of the desert tracts 
they passed through; and the noise 
and clatter of the horse’s hoof would 
be thundered every moment into our 
ears. Here, on the contrary, we find 
nothing but whatis strictly necessary ; 
we pass on to the mournful catastrophe, 
and pay to the hero and heroine a tear 
of pity for their unfortunate fate. It 
may be classed among the second 
order of ballads ; for, as all the feelings 
are not aroused, it certainly does not 
belong to the first. But, even through 
the disadvantageous medium of the 
present translation, I believe its real 
merit may be discovered. 
One would almost imagine, in pe- 
rusing it, that it had been written by 
an English poet, some hundred and 
fifty years ago; so closely does it re- 
semble many of the old ballads in the 
collections of Percy and others. It is 
a great 
