played," says Möinichen, "somewhat the same part in the Valhalla that Momus did at Olympus," except that Lokè delighted in doing harm as well as in creating mirth. This member of the Northern mythology is represented as very handsome, but wily, and not to be trusted. "Hrolf Krake" and "Helge" are also favourites among the Danes. Then there are several volumes of "Samlede Digte" by Oehlenschlæger ("Collected Poems"), on every possible subject-solemn, grave, serene, gay; for the gifted poet appears to have been a perfect Proteus in his writings. Some of these are quite little gems. We lament that the limits of a magazine must prevent our giving a selection of them; but, opening a volume at random, we shall transcribe a few of their names: "The two Church Spires,"—"The Wizard of the Hill"—"The Children in the Moon"—"William Shakspeare," whose works he calls, in* this little poem, the "glory of Britain and the world"—"The old Priest"—"To Thorwaldsen"—"The Spectre Knight"—"The Rosebushes"—"Ewald’s Grave"—"The Pharisee"—"Bacchus and Cupid," &c.
From twelve to fifteen hundred pages of these little poems may be supposed to contain a considerable number. Of Oehlenschlæger’s prose romance, "Oen i Sydhavet" ("An Island in the South Sea"), we will not speak, because it does no credit to his genius; but we are tempted to give one of the little snatches of poetry scattered through it. The following is a colloquy between Death and his victims—an odd idea:
VEL ER JEG SVAG, DOG, KLÆRE DÖD.
"Though I am feeble, yet, dear Death,
Awhile let me remain!"
"Old man, thy locks are white as snow.
Still thou art loth with me to go—
But come, thy prayer is vain."
"I am in manhood’s prime; wouldst thou
Then break my staff to-day?"
"The tall pine on the mountain’s side,
By lightning struck, falls in its pride:
My call thou must obey."
"I am a maiden—beauteous, young:
Wouldst hide me in the tomb?"
"Thou for this world art all too fair;
The bright rose never withers where
Thou soon again shalt bloom!"
"So soon a hero canst thou snatch
From glory's bright career?"
"I come, clad as a warrior proud:
What wouldst thou? ’Neath my mailed shroud
No fleshless bones appear."
"Extinguish not, ah yet, dear Death,
Love's fire, that burns so bright!"
"O, I can hold in close embrace—
And though my mouth no warm lips grace,
Behold—my teeth are white!"
"Wouldst tear me from my golden hoard
With merciless commands?”
"Follow! Beneath the earth's black mould
Gold never rusts; and thy dear gold
Shall shine in other hands."
