Yet slumber dare not seek … for yonder slave …
I will but rest awhile—sleep shall not close
These watching eyes. (He throws himself down, and soon falls asleep.)
Karker (rising stealthily). He sleeps at last; he thinks
I am not to be trusted, that I see.
He fears I shall betray him; for his life
King Olaf longs—would gold and honours give.
What want I more from him? He wakes! Help, Thor!
Hakon (rising in his sleep, strides forward, and stands in the centre of the cave).
Guldharald! Graafeld!—what want ye with me?
Leave me in peace, ye did deserve your death;
I vowed ye no false friendship. Girl! go home—
I have no time to dally with thee now.
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Who weeps in yonder grove? Erling—'tis thou!
Oh! this is worst of all—why weepest thou?
Stabbed I too deep? See—see the crimson drops
Amidst the roses trickle from thy breast. (He calls out loudly.)
Oh, Karker, Karker!
Karker. What, Sir Jarl? He falls
Into still deeper sleep.
Hakon. It is all o'er.
There—take thy dagger—plunge it into my heart!
Karker. You will be angry when you wake, my lord.
Hakon. I have deserved it, Karker—thrust well home!
Karker (taking up the dagger). He is my lord, I must obey his will.
Hakon (still sleeping). Ha! haste thee, haste thee, Karker, ere I wake—
For thou or I must die. …
Karker (stabbing him). Then you shall die!
Hakon (starting). It was the avenging hand of heaven that struck.
Now, Tryggvason, thy prophecy's fulfilled!
I feel the lightning darning in my breast. (He dies.)
Karker. 'Tis done I—no pity can avail him now.
And if I groaned and shrieked till I were hoarse,
I could not call him back to life again;
So, from his pocket I shall take the key
And haste to bear him hence. King Olaf will
Reward the deed with silver and with gold.
What's done is done—he asked himself for death.
How should I but obey my lord’s command!
(Exit Karker, carrying out the body.)
The treacherous serf, however, is rewarded according to his deserts by the Christian King Olaf, and is executed for the murder of Hakon.
On the occasion of the funeral of the eminent sculptor, Thorwaldsen, who died in March, 1844, the requiem was written by his intimate friend, Oehlenschlæger. We shall give an extract from it. Three poets lent their aid on this melancholy day. The body of the great artist lay in state in the antique sculpture-room of the Thorwaldsen Museum, which had been founded by him, and to which he had bequeathed all he possessed. While the corpse was being carried out, the students of the Academy of Fine Arts sang a dirge—"The Artists' Farewell to Thorwaldsen"— the words of which were composed by H. P. Holst, the music by Rung.
On the coffin were laid interwoven branches of cypress and palm; the crown-prince and other members of the royal family, the ministers of state, the president and members of the Academy of Fine Arts, officers of
