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THE GRAVE.

The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within ;
There thou art fast detained
And Death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell.
There thou shalt dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends ;
Thou hast no friend,
Who will come to thee,
Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee;
Who will ever open
The door for thee
And descend after thee,
For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.

KING CHRISTIAN.

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.-FROM THE DANISII OF JOHANNES EVALD.

KING CARISTIAN stood by the lofty mast

In mist and smoke;
His sword was hammering fast,
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ;

Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,

In mist and smoke.
“ Fly !” shouted they, “fly, be who can !
Who braves of Denmark's Christian

The stroke?

Nils Juel* gave heed to the tempest's roar,

Now is the hour !
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,
And smote upon the foe full sore,
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar,

“ Now is the hour !”
“Fly !” shouted they, “for shelter fly!
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy

The power ?

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent

Thy murky sky!
Then champions to thine arms were sent ;
Terror and Death glared where he went ;
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent

Thy murky sky!
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol',
Let each to Heaven commend his soul,

And fly!

Path of the Dane to fame and might!

Dark-rolling wave!
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Proudly as thou the tempest's might,

Dark-rolling wave!
And amid pleasures and alarms,
And war and victory, be thine arms

My grave! * Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thundershield. In childhood he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel.

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The landlord's daughter filled their cups,

Around the rustic board ;
Then sat they all so calm and still,

And spake not one rude word.

But, when the maid departed,

A Swabian raised his hand,
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,

Long live the Swabian land !

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“ The greatest kingdom upon earth

Cannot with that compare ;
With all the stout and hardy men

And the nut-brown maidens there."

“Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,

And dashed his beard with wine ; “ I had rather live in Lapland,

Than that Swabian land of thine !

“The goodliest land on all this earth,

It is the Saxon land !
There have I as many maidens

As fingers on this hand !”.

"Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon!"

A bold Bohemian cries ; “If there's a heaven upon this earth,

In Bohemia it lies.

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And then the landlord's daughter

Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, “Ye may no more contend,-

There lies the happiest land !”

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