Title: The Gold Horns
Author: Oehlenschläger, Adam Gottlob, 1779-1850
Language: English
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Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org.  Many thanks to Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library,
UK, for kindly supplying the images from which this transcription was
made.



                              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.





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