Berngerd_.

Now Berngerd lies in eternal pains,
The boor his horse and cow retains.
A name she left of such evil savour,
So little the poor man did she favour.
_Woe befall her_,_ Berngerd_.

'Tis better to live in humble state,
Than rich with a poor man's curse and hate;
After virtue better to ceaseless strain
Than the wealth of the world with scorn obtain.
_Woe befall her_, _Berngerd_.

DAME MARTHA'S FOUNTAIN

Dame Martha dwelt at Karisegaard,
So many kind deeds she wrought:
If the winter were sharp and the rich man hard,
Her gate the indigent sought.

With her hand the hungry she loved to feed,
To the sick she lent her aid;
The prisoner oft from his chains she freed,
And for souls of sinners pray'd.

Denmark's land was in peril dire,
The Swede around burnt and slew;
The castle of Martha was wrapped in fire,
To the church the good lady flew.

She dwelt in the tower both night and day,
There unto her none repaired;
'Neath the church roof sat the dull owl gray,
And at the good lady stared.

In the house of the Lord she dwelt safe and content
'Till the foes their departure had ta'en;
Then back to her ruined castle she went,
And bade it be builded again.

There found the houseless a cover once more,
And the mouths of the hungry bread;
But all in Karise-By {14} wept sore
When they knew Dame Martha dead.

And when the Dame lay in her coffin and smil'd,
So calm with her pallid face,
O there was never so little a child
But was brought on her to gaze.

The bell on the day of the burial toll'd,
And youth and age shed the tear;
No man was ever so weak or old
But helped to lift the bier.

When they the bier set down for a space,
And rested upon the road,
A fountain sprang forth in that very place,
To this hour has it flow'd.

God bless for ever the pious soul,
Her blessings no lips can tell;
For oft have the sick become sound and whole,
Who drank at Dame Martha's well!

The tower yet stands with gloomy nook,
Where Dame Martha sat of old;
The stranger comes thereon to look,
And to hear the story told.

THE BARD AND THE DREAMS

O'er the sweet smelling meads with his lyre in his hand
The bard was straying;
In the twilight of evening, refreshing and bland,
His chords were playing.
He sang of the flowrets that slept in the tomb,
He sang of the flowrets that poured their perfume,
He sang of the flowrets