m the Ancient Danish.

It was late at evening tide,
Sinks the day-star in the wave,
When alone Orm Ungarswayne
Rode to seek his father's grave.

Late it was at evening hour,
When the steeds to streams are led;
Let me now, said Orm the young,
Wake my father from the dead.

It was bold Orm Ungarswayne
Stamp'd the hill with mighty foot:
Riv'n were wall and marble-stone,
Shook the mountain to its root.

It was bold Orm Ungarswayne
Struck the hill with such a might,
That it was a miracle,
That the hill fell not outright.

From the hill Orm's father cried,
Where so long, so long he'd lain;
"Cannot I in quiet lie
Deep within my dark domain?

Who upon my hill doth stand?
Who doth dare disturb my bones?
Cannot I in quiet lie
'Neath my heavy roof of stones?

Who doth dare my sleep to scare?
Who brings down this ruin all?
Let him fear, for now I swear
That by Birting he shall fall."

"I'm Orm Ungarswayne, thy son,
Youngest son, O father dear:
And to beg a mighty boon
In my need I seek thee here."

"If thou be Orm Ungarswayne,
Orm the kempion bold and free,
Silver, gold, last year I told--
All thou cravedst--o'er to thee."

"Thou wast free of gold and fee,
Glittering trash of little worth--
Birting now I crave of thee,
Birting bravest sword of earth."

"Never shalt thou Birting win,
To obtain the King's fair daughter,
Till to Ireland thou hast been,
And aveng'd thy father's slaughter."

"Give to me the Birting sword,
And with Birting bid me thrive,
Or I will thy sheltering hill
Into thousand atoms rive."

"Stretch thou down thy right hand here,
Take the falchion from my side;
If thou break thy father's hill,
Dreadful wo will thee betide."

From the hill he Birting stretch'd,
Plac'd the hilt within his grasp:
"Strong of hand and valiant stand,
That thy foes before thee gasp."

From the hill he Birting stretch'd,
Plac'd the hilt within his hold:
"Save good fate on thee await,
I shall never be consol'd."

INGEBORG'S LAMENTATION.

From the Swedish of Tegner.
(An extract from Frithiof's Saga.)

Autumn winds howl;
Ocean is swelling so stormy.--My soul,
Would with the sighs which I utter
Forth thou wouldst flutter!

Long did I view
Far in the West the sail which flew--
Happy my Frithiof to follow
O'er the wave hollow!

Blue billow run
O not so high, for it still sails on!
Stars, for my mariner sparkle,
As the nights darkle!

Spring will appear.
He will come home, but unm