“Yes, to the latest breath we’ll fight!”
His seamen answer’d, cheering;
Around was death in horrors dight,
But still they fought unfearing,
Till the fire reach’d the powder-store,
And all died heroes midst its roar. 
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.

And Hvidfeld’s fame shall ne’er decay,
His gallant seamens’ never;
A worthy countryman shall they
In every Dane find ever;
When Denmark dear to us shall cry,
Like them will we grim death defy. 
Our native ground shall still abound
With warriors gallant-hearted.

BIRTING.

A Fragment. 
From the Ancient Danish.

It was late at evening tide,
Sinks the day-star in the wave,
When alone Orm Ungarswayne
Rode to seek his father’s grave.

Late it was at evening hour,
When the steeds to streams are led;
Let me now, said Orm the young,
Wake my father from the dead.

It was bold Orm Ungarswayne
Stamp’d the hill with mighty foot: 
Riv’n were wall and marble-stone,
Shook the mountain to its root.

It was bold Orm Ungarswayne
Struck the hill with such a might,
That it was a miracle,
That the hill fell not outright.

From the hill Orm’s father cried,
Where so long, so long he’d lain;
“Cannot I in quiet lie
Deep within my dark domain?

Who upon my hill doth stand? 
Who doth dare disturb my bones? 
Cannot I in quiet lie
’Neath my heavy roof of stones?

Who doth dare my sleep to scare? 
Who brings down this ruin all? 
Let him fear, for now I swear
That by Birting he shall fall.”

“I’m Orm Ungarswayne, thy son,
Youngest son, O father dear: 
And to beg a mighty boon
In my need I seek thee here.”

“If thou be Orm Ungarswayne,
Orm the kempion bold and free,
Silver, gold, last year I told—­
All thou cravedst—­o’er to thee.”

“Thou wast free of gold and fee,
Glittering trash of little worth—­
Birting now I crave of thee,
Birting bravest sword of earth.”

“Never shalt thou Birting win,
To obtain the King’s fair daughter,
Till to Ireland thou hast been,
And aveng’d thy father’s slaughter.”

“Give to me the Birting sword,
And with Birting bid me thrive,
Or I will thy sheltering hill
Into thousand atoms rive.”

“Stretch thou down thy right hand here,
Take the falchion from my side;
If thou break thy father’s hill,
Dreadful wo will thee betide.”

From the hill he Birting stretch’d,
Plac’d the hilt within his grasp: 
“Strong of hand and valiant stand,
That thy foes before thee gasp.”

From the hill he Birting stretch’d,
Plac’d the hilt within his hold: 
“Save good fate on thee await,
I shall never be consol’d.”

INGEBORG’S LAMENTATION.