These lines, headed “Hvad jeg elsker," "What I love," are in a volume of poems, dedicated to Oehlenschiæger, and show, at least, what an amiable man Andersen is. "The Dying Child" has been one of the most praised of Andersen's minor poems, and it has been translated into several languages. That our readers may judge of it for themselves, we give a close English version of it:
Mother, I am tired, and I would fain go sleep;
Oh! let me near thy heart once more sweet slumber seek;
But thou must promise first thou wilt no longer weep,
For so scalding are thy tears, that they burn upon my cheek.
The stormy wind blows loudly, and I shiver with the cold;
But in my dreams, dear mother, all—all is calm around;
And little cherubs smiling, I fancy I behold,
When my weary eyes are closed, and I hear no startling sound.
Mother, dost thou see yon angel at my side?
The sweet songs that he sings, oh, mother, dost thou hear?
See, see! he has two wings, spread out so white and wide;
Oh! surely, 'twas our Lord himself, who bade him thus appear!
Green, and gold, and red, before my eyes are blending;
These, doubtless, are bright flow'rets brought me from the sky,
By yonder shining being, on my bed attending,
Shall I have wings, too, mother, tell me, when I die?
Why dost thou tremble this? my hands why dost thou press?
Why dost thou lay thy check, dear mother, close to mine?
Oh! I can feel 'tis moist, but it does not burn the less;
What dost thou fear for me? I am for ever thine.
Thou must no longer sigh so sadly as thou hast.
If thou wilt still weep on, then I will weep with thee;
But, oh! I feel so faint—my eyes are closing fast—
Oh! mother—mother, see, the angel's kissing me !
One of Andersen's own favourites is "Soldaten," "The Soldier." It has been translated into German, by Chamisso. The following is from the Danish original:
The drums are beating with a muffled sound;
How long the way seems to yon fatal ground!
Would all were over, and he were at rest;
My heart is breaking—bursting in my breast!
I had, in this wide world, one only friend;
'Tis he, who to bis doom of death they send,
With music's clanging strains and martial show;
And I, paraded with the rest, must go!
For the last time God's sun doth he behold;
Soon, soon for him will all be dark and cold!
And now he kneels—and now his eyes they bind—
Oh I may his soul eternal mercy find!
The nine have fired—not one without a sigh:
Eight of the whizzing balls have passed him by;
One only took sure aim of all the nine—
The ball that struck him in the heart was—mine!
