voyages of the Northmen in America; Dina, and The Gods of the North. A complete edition of his Poetiske Skrifter (Poetical Writings) was published at Copenhagen in thirty-two volumes (1857-65).

"ALADDIN:" DEDICATION TO GOETHE.

Born 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 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 shine 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-apparelled East

Unveiled its sweets.

To manhood as I grew,

From North to South, from South to North I flew ; I was possest

By yearnings to give voice in song

To all that had been struggling long

Within my breast.

VOL. XVIII.-3

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 eyes keener vision gave

That he the child

The lion, far-off ride,

Amor beheld, astride

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.

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,

By sad Melpomene

With grave, stern mien,

Stalk o'er the scene.

Called from his grave, we see

And greeting they will send

To friend Aladdin cheerily as a friend.

Prevails not wholly where

The oak's thick gloom

Flowers waft perfume.

Warbles the nightingale, and fair

On thee, to whom I owe

New life, what shall my gratitude bestow?
Naught has the bard

Save his own song! And this

Thou dost not-trivial as the tribute is—
With scorn regard.

-Translation of THEODORE MARTIN.

ON TRACE OF THE MAGIC LAMP.

[NOUREDDIN, the enchanter, is seated by a table on which is a little chest filled with white sand. Upon this sand he half-consciously traces lines; then speaks.]

Noureddin.-A wondrous treasure! The greatest in the world?—

Hid in a cavern ?—Where ?—In Asia ?—
And where in Asia?-Hard by Ispahan!

Deep in the earth; high overarched with rocks
Girt round with lofty mountains. Holy Allah!
What mighty mystery begins to dawn
Upon me? Shall I reach the goal, at last,
At midnight hour, after the silent toil

Of forty weary years? I question further:

What is this matchless prize?-A copper lamp? How's this! An old, rust-eaten, copper lamp !— And what, then, is its virtue ?-How!" Concealed, Known but to him that owns it." And shall I

(Scarce dares my tongue give the bold question voice), Shall I, then, e'er the happy owner be?

See! the fine sand, like water interblends,

And of the stylus leaves no trace behind.

All's dark!-Yet stay!-With surging waves it heaves, This arid sea, as when the tempest sweeps

With eddying blast through Biledulgerid.

What mean these furrows?—I am to draw forth

A poem that lies eastward in the hall,

Old, dust-begrimed; and, wheresoe'er my eyes,
When I so open it, chance to fall,

I am to read, and all shall then be clear.

[He rises slowly, and takes an old folio, which he opens, and reads.]

"Fair Fortune's boons are scattered wide and far

In single sparkles only found and rare,
And all her gifts in a few combined are.

"Earth's choicest flowerets bloom not everywhere:
Where mellows ripe the vine's inspiring tide,
With bane and bale doth Nature wrestle there.

"In the lush Orient's sultry palm-groves glide
Fell serpents through rank herbage noiselessly,
And there death-dealing venom doth abide.

"Darkness and storm deface the Northern sky;
Yet there no sudden shock o'erwhelms the land,
And steadfast cliffs the tempest's rage defy.

“Life's gladsome child is led by Fortune's hand;
And what the sage doth moil to make his prize,
When in the sky the pale stars coldly stand,

"From his own breast leaps forth in wondrous wise.
Met by boon Fortune midway, he prevails,
Scarce weeting how, in whatsoe'er he tries.

"'Tis ever thus that Fortune freely hails

Her favorite, and on him her blessings showers,
Even as to heaven the scented flower exhales.

"Unwooed she comes at unexpected hours;
And little it avails to rack thy brain,

And ask where lurk her long reluctant powers.

"Fain wouldst thou grasp-Hope's portal shuts amain
And all thy fabric vanishes in air;

Unless foredoomed by Fate thy toils are vain,
Thy aspirations doomed to meet despair."

These lines were woven in a mortal's brain,
A sorry rhymer's little conversant
With Nature's deep and tender mysteries:
Kindly she tenders me the hidden prize.
Is it that she, with woman's waywardness,
May make a mock of me? Not so: on fools
She wastes not her sage accents; the pure light

Is not a meteor-light that leads astray.

With a grave smile, her finger indicates

Where lies the treasure she has marked for mine.-
Yes! I divine the hidden import well
Of that enigma she prepared for me;
In the unconscious poet's mystic song
The needful powers are by no one possessed;
To lift great loads must many hands combine:

To me 'twas given, with penetrating soul,
To fathom Nature's inmost mysteries;
But I am not the outward instrument.

"Life's gladsome child!"-That means some creature

gay,

By nature dowered, instead of intellect,
With body only, and mere youthful bloom.
A young, dull-witted boy shall be my aid;
And, all unconscious of its priceless worth,
Secure and place the treasure in my hands.
Is it not so, thou mighty Solomon ?

[Traces lines in the sand.]

Yes, yes, it is! A fume of incense will
Disclose to me the entrance to the rock.
And a rose-cheeked, uneducated boy
Will draw the prize for my advantage forth,
As striplings do in Europe's lotteries.
O holy prophet, take my fervent thanks!
My mind's exhausted with its deep research.
The goal achieved, my overwearied frame
Longs for repose. Now, will I sleep in peace.
To-morrow-by the magic of my ring

I stand in Asia. The succeeding day
Beholds me here, and with the wondrous lamp!
-Translation of THEODORE MARTIN.

THE SCANDINAVIAN WARRIORS AND BARDS.

Oh! great was Denmark's land in time of old!
Wide to the South her branch of glory spread;
Fierce to the battle rushed her heroes bold,

Eager to join the revels of the dead;

While the fond maiden flew with smiles to fold
Round her returning warrior's vesture red
Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired,
When to the breast of love, exhausted, he retired.

Nor bore they only to the field of death

The bossy buckler and the spear of fire;
The bard was there, with spirit-stirring breath,
His bold heart quivering as he swept the wire,