THE GOLD HORNS TRANSLATED BY GEORGE BORROW _from the Danish of_ ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER EDITED _with an Introduction by_ EDMUND GOSSE, C.B. LONDON: PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION 1913 _Copyright in the United States of America_ _by Houghton_, _Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_. INTRODUCTION Early in the present year Mr. Thos. J. Wise discovered among the miscellaneous MSS. of Borrow a fragment which proved to be part of a version of Oehlenschläger’s _Gold Horns_. His attention being drawn to the fact, hitherto unknown, that Borrow had translated this famous poem, he sought for, and presently found, a complete MS. of the poem, and from this copy the present text has been printed. The paper on which it is written is watermarked 1824, and it is probable that the version was composed in 1826. The hand-writing coincides with that of several of the pieces included in the _Romantic Ballads_ of that year, and there can be little doubt that Borrow intended _The Gold Horns_ for that volume, and rejected it at last. He was conscious, perhaps, that his hand had lacked the skill needful to reproduce a lyric the melody of which would have taxed the powers of Coleridge or of Shelley. Nevertheless, his attempt seems worthy of preservation. _The Gold Horns_ marks one of the most important stages in the history of Scandinavian literature. It is the earliest, and the freshest, specimen of the Romantic Revival in its definite form. In this way, it takes in Danish poetry a place analogous to that taken by _The Ancient Mariner_ in English poetry. The story of the events which led to the composition of _The Gold Horns_ is told independently, by Steffens and by Oehlenschläger in their respective Memoirs, and the two accounts tally completely. Adam Gottlob Oehlenschläger (1779–1850), the greatest poet whom the North of Europe has produced, had already attracted considerable renown and even profit by his writings, which were in the classico-sentimental manner of the late 18th century, when, in the summer of 1802, the young Norwegian philosopher, Henrik Steffens, arrived in Copenhagen from Germany, where he had imbibed the new romantic ideas. He began to give lectures on æsthetics, and these awakened a turmoil of opposition. Among those who heard him, no one was more scandalised than Oehlenschläger, then in his twenty-third year. He was not acquainted with Steffens, but in the course of the autumn they happened to meet at a restaurant in Copenhagen, when they instantly experienced a violent mutual attraction. Steffens has described how deep an impression was made upon him by the handsome head, flashing eyes, and graceful vivacity of the poet, while Oehlenschläger bears witness to being no less fascinated by the gravity and enthusiasm of the philosopher. The new friends found it impossible to part, and sixteen hours had gone by, and 3 a.m. had struck, before Oehlenschläger could tear himself away from the company of Steffens. He scarcely slept that night, and rose in a condition of bewilderment and rapture. His first act, after breakfast, was to destroy a whole volume of his own MS. poetry, which was ready for press, and for which a publisher had promised him a handsome sum of money. His next was to sit down and write _The Gold Horns_, a manifesto of his complete conversion to the principles of romanticism. Later in the day he presented himself again at Steffens’ lodgings, bringing the lyric with him, “to prove,” as he says, “to Steffens that I was a poet at last beyond all doubt or question.” His new friend received him with solemn exultation. “Now you are indeed a poet,” he said, and folded him in his arms. The conversion of Oehlenschläger to romanticism meant the conquest of Danish literature by the new order of thought. Oehlenschläger has explained what it was that suggested to him the leading idea of his poem. Two antique horns of gold, discovered some time before in the bogs of Slesvig, had been recently stolen from the national collection at Rosenborg, and the thieves had melted down the inestimable treasures. Oehlenschläger treats these horns as the reward for genuine antiquarian enthusiasm, shown in a sincere and tender passion for the ancient relics of Scandinavian history. From a generation unworthy to appreciate them, the _Horns_ had been withdrawn, to be mysteriously restored at the due romantic hour. He was, when he came under the influence of Steffens, absolutely ripe for conversion, filled with the results of his Icelandic studies, and with an imagination redolent of _Edda_ and the Sagas. To this inflammable material, Henrik Steffens merely laid the torch of his intelligence. It is impossible to pretend that Borrow has caught the enchanting beauty and delicacy of the Danish poem. But he has made a gallant effort to reproduce the form and language of Oehlenschläger, and we have thought it not without interest to print opposite his version the whole of the original Danish. EDMUND GOSSE. GULDHORNENE {10} THE GOLD HORNS De higer og söger Upon the pages I gamle Böger, Of the olden ages, I oplukte Höie, And in hills where are lying Med speidende Öie, The dead, they are prying; Paa Sværd og Skjolde, On armour rusty, I mulne Volde, In ruins musty, Paa Runestene, On Rune-stones jumbled, Blandt smuldnede Bene. With bones long crumbled. Oldtids Bedrifter Eld’s deeds, through guesses Anede trylle, Beheld, are delighting, Men i Mulm de sig hylle, But mist possesses De gamle Skrifter. The ancient writing. Blikket stirrer, The eye-ball fixed is, Sig Tanken forvirrer, The thought perplexed is; I Taage de famle. In darkness they’re groping “I gamle, gamle, Their mouths they’re op’ing: Forsvundne Dage! “Ye days long past, Da det straalte paa Jorden, When the North was uplighted, Da Östen var i Norden, And with earth heav’n united, Giver Glimt tilbage!” A glimpse back cast.” Skyen suser, The clouds are bustling, Natten bryser, The night blasts rustling, Gravhöien sukker, Sighs are breaking, Rosen sig lukker. From grave-hills quaking, De sig möde, de sig möde, The regions were under De forklarede Höie, Thunder. Kampfarvede, röde, Of the mighty and daring, Med Stjerneglands i Öie. The ghosts there muster, Stains of war bearing, In their eye star lustre. “I, som rave iblinde, “Ye who blind are straying, Skal finde And praying, Et ældgammelt Minde, Shall an ag’d relic meet, Der skal komme og svinde! Which shall come and shall fleet, Dets gyldne Sider Its red sides golden, Skal Præget bære, The stamp displaying Afældste Tider. Of the times most olden. Af det kan I lære, That shall give ye a notion Med andagtsfuld Ære To hold in devotion I vor Gave belönne! Our gift, is your duty! Det skjönneste Skjönne, A maiden, of beauty En Mö Most rare. Skal Helligdommen finde!” Shall find the token!” Saa sjunge de og svinde, They vanished; this spoken Lufttonerne döe. Their tones die in air. Hrymfaxe, den sorte, Black Hrymfax, weary, Puster og dukker Panteth and bloweth, Og i Havet sig begraver; And in sea himself burieth; Morgenens Porte Belling, cheery, Delling oplukker, Morn’s gates ope throweth; Og Skinfaxe traver Forth Skinfax hurrieth, I straalende Lue On heaven’s bridge prancing, Paa Himmelens Bue. And with lustre glancing. Og Fuglene synge; The little birds quaver, Dugperler bade Pearls from night’s weeping; Blomsterblade, The flowers are steeping Som Vindene gynge; In the winds which waver; Og med svævende Fjed To the meadows, fleet En Mö hendandser A maiden boundeth; Til Marken afsted. Violet fillet neat Violer hende krandser, Her brows surroundeth; Hendes Rosenkind brænder, Her cheeks are glowing, Hun har Liljehænder; Lilly hands she’s showing; Let som et Hind, Light as a hind, Med muntert Sind With sportive mind Hun svæver og smiler; She smiling frisketh. Og som hun iler And as on she whisketh, Og paa Elskov grubler, And thinks on her lover, Hun snubler— She trips something over; Og stirrer og skuer And, her eyes declining, Gyldne Luer Beholds a shining, Og rödmer og bæver And red’neth and shaketh, Og skjælvende hæver And trembling uptaketh Med undrende Aand With wondering sprite Udaf sorten Muld From the dingy mould, Med snehvide Haand, With hand snow-white, Det röde Guld. The ruddy gold. En sagte Torden A gentle thunder Dundrer; Pealeth; Hele Norden The whole North wonder Undrer. Feeleth. Og hen de stimle Forth rush with gabble I store Vrimle; A countless rabble; De grave, de söge The earth they’re upturning, Skatten at foröge. For the treasure burning. Men intet Guld! But there’s no gold! Deres Haab har bedraget: Their hope is mistaken; De see kun det Muld, They see but the mould, Hvoraf det er taget. From whence it is taken. Et Sekel svinder! An age by rolleth. Over Klippetinder Again it howleth Det atter bruser. O’er the tops of the mountains. Stormens Sluser Of the rain the fountains Bryde med Vælde Burst with fury; Over Norges Fjelde The spirits of glory Til Danmarks Dale. From Norge’s highlands, I Skyernes Sale To Denmark’s islands, De forklarede Gamle In the halls of ether Sig atter samle. Again meet together. “For de sjeldne Faa, “For the few there below Som vor Gave forstaae, Who our gift’s worth know, Som ei Jordlænker binde Who earth’s fetters spurn all, Men hvis Sjæle sig hæve And whose souls are soaring Til det Eviges Tinde; To the throne of th’ Eternal; Som ane det Höie Who in eye of Nature I Naturens Öie; Behold the Creator; Som tilbedende bæve And tremble adoring, For Guddommens Straaler ’Fore the rays of his power I Sole, Violer, In the sun, in the flower, I det Mindste, det Störste, In the greatest and least, Som brændende törste And with thirst are possest Efter Livets Liv; For of life the spring; Som, o store Aand Who, O powerful sprite For de svundne Tider! Of the times departed! Se dit Guddomsblik See thy look bright Paa Helligdommens Sider: From the relic’s sides darted: For _dem_ lyder atter vort Bliv. For them our Be once more shall ring. “Naturens Sön, “Nature’s son, whose name Ukjændt i Lön, Is unknown to fame, Men som sine Fædre But his acre tilling, Kraftig og stor, Strong-armed and tall, Dyrkende sin Jord, Like his forefathers all, Ham vil vi hædre, Him to honour we’re willing, Han skal atter finde!” He shall find the second token!” Saa syngende de svinde. They vanished, this spoken. Hrymfaxe, den sorte, Black Hrymfax weary Puster og dukker Panteth and bloweth, Og i Havet sig begraver: And in sea himself buried; Morgenens Porte And Belling cheery Delling oplukker; Morn’s gates ope throweth; Skinfaxe traver Forth Skinfax hurrieth, I straalende Lue On heaven’s bridge prancing, Paa Himmelens Bue. And with lustre glancing. Ved lune Skov By the bright green shaw Öxnene traekke The oxen striding Den tunge Plov The heavy plough draw, Over sorten Dække. The soil dividing. Da standser Ploven The plough stops; sorest En Gysen farer Of shudders rushes Igjennem Skoven; Right through the forest; Fugleskaren The bird-quire hushes Pludsclig tier; Sudden its strains; Hellig Taushed Holy silence Alt indvier. O’er all reigns. Da klinger i Muld Then rings in the mould Det gamle Guld. The ancient gold. Tvende Glimt fra Oldtidsdage Glimpses two from period olden Funkle i de nye Tider; Lo! in modern time appearing; Selsomt vendte de tilbage, Strange returned those glimpses Gaadefyldt paa blanke Sider. golden, On their sides enigmas bearing. Skjulte Helligdom omsvæver Holiness mysterious hovers Deres gamle Tegn og mærker; O’er their signs, of meaning Guddomsglorien ombæver pond’rous; Evighedens Underværker. Glory of the Godhead covers These eternal works so wondrous. Hædre dem ved Bön og Psalter; Reverence them, for nought is Snart maaske er hver stable; forsvunden. They may vanish, past all Jesu Blod paa Herrens Alter seeking. Fylde dem, som Blod i Lunden. Let Christ’s blood on Christ’s own table Fill them, once with red blood reeking. Men I see kun Guldets Lue, But their majesty unviewing, Ikke de Ærværdighöie! And their lustre but Sæte dem som Pragt tilskue descrying, For et mat, nysgjerrigt Öie! Them as spectacles ye’re shewing To the silly and the prying. Himlen sortner, Storme brage! Storm-winds bellow, blackens Visse Time, du er kommen. heaven! Hvad de gav, de tog tilbage— Comes the hour of melancholy; Evig bortsvandt Helligdommen. Back is taken what was given,— Vanished is the relic holy. LONDON: Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W. _Edition limited to Thirty Copies_. Footnotes: {10} The left-hand column contains the even pages of the printed pamphlet, and the right-hand column the corresponding odd pages which appear opposite them.—DP. --- Provided by LoyalBooks.com ---