

Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org.  Many thanks to Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library,
UK, for kindly supplying the images from which this transcription was
made.





                              THE GOLD HORNS


                              TRANSLATED BY
                              GEORGE BORROW

                           _from the Danish of_
                       ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER

                                  EDITED
                        _with an Introduction by_
                            EDMUND GOSSE, C.B.

                                 LONDON:
                     PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
                                   1913

               _Copyright in the United States of America_
           _by Houghton_, _Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_.




INTRODUCTION


Early in the present year Mr. Thos. J. Wise discovered among the
miscellaneous MSS. of Borrow a fragment which proved to be part of a
version of Oehlenschlager's _Gold Horns_.  His attention being drawn to
the fact, hitherto unknown, that Borrow had translated this famous poem,
he sought for, and presently found, a complete MS. of the poem, and from
this copy the present text has been printed.  The paper on which it is
written is watermarked 1824, and it is probable that the version was
composed in 1826.  The hand-writing coincides with that of several of the
pieces included in the _Romantic Ballads_ of that year, and there can be
little doubt that Borrow intended _The Gold Horns_ for that volume, and
rejected it at last.  He was conscious, perhaps, that his hand had lacked
the skill needful to reproduce a lyric the melody of which would have
taxed the powers of Coleridge or of Shelley.  Nevertheless, his attempt
seems worthy of preservation.

_The Gold Horns_ marks one of the most important stages in the history of
Scandinavian literature.  It is the earliest, and the freshest, specimen
of the Romantic Revival in its definite form.  In this way, it takes in
Danish poetry a place analogous to that taken by _The Ancient Mariner_ in
English poetry.

The story of the events which led to the composition of _The Gold Horns_
is told independently, by Steffens and by Oehlenschlager in their
respective Memoirs, and the two accounts tally completely.  Adam Gottlob
Oehlenschlager (1779-1850), the greatest poet whom the North of Europe
has produced, had already attracted considerable renown and even profit
by his writings, which were in the classico-sentimental manner of the
late 18th century, when, in the summer of 1802, the young Norwegian
philosopher, Henrik Steffens, arrived in Copenhagen from Germany, where
he had imbibed the new romantic ideas.  He began to give lectures on
aesthetics, and these awakened a turmoil of opposition.  Among those who
heard him, no one was more scandalised than Oehlenschlager, then in his
twenty-third year.  He was not acquainted with Steffens, but in the
course of the autumn they happened to meet at a restaurant in Copenhagen,
when they instantly experienced a violent mutual attraction.  Steffens
has described how deep an impression was made upon him by the handsome
head, flashing eyes, and graceful vivacity of the poet, while
Oehlenschlager bears witness to being no less fascinated by the gravity
and enthusiasm of the philosopher.  The new friends found it impossible
to part, and sixteen hours had gone by, and 3 a.m. had struck, before
Oehlenschlager could tear himself away from the company of Steffens.

He scarcely slept that night, and rose in a condition of bewilderment and
rapture.  His first act, after breakfast, was to destroy a whole volume
of his own MS. poetry, which was ready for press, and for which a
publisher had promised him a handsome sum of money.  His next was to sit
down and write _The Gold Horns_, a manifesto of his complete conversion
to the principles of romanticism.  Later in the day he presented himself
again at Steffens' lodgings, bringing the lyric with him, "to prove," as
he says, "to Steffens that I was a poet at last beyond all doubt or
question."  His new friend received him with solemn exultation.  "Now you
are indeed a poet," he said, and folded him in his arms.  The conversion
of Oehlenschlager to romanticism meant the conquest of Danish literature
by the new order of thought.

Oehlenschlager has explained what it was that suggested to him the
leading idea of his poem.  Two antique horns of gold, discovered some
time before in the bogs of Slesvig, had been recently stolen from the
national collection at Rosenborg, and the thieves had melted down the
inestimable treasures.  Oehlenschlager treats these horns as the reward
for genuine antiquarian enthusiasm, shown in a sincere and tender passion
for the ancient relics of Scandinavian history.  From a generation
unworthy to appreciate them, the _Horns_ had been withdrawn, to be
mysteriously restored at the due romantic hour.  He was, when he came
under the influence of Steffens, absolutely ripe for conversion, filled
with the results of his Icelandic studies, and with an imagination
redolent of _Edda_ and the Sagas.  To this inflammable material, Henrik
Steffens merely laid the torch of his intelligence.

It is impossible to pretend that Borrow has caught the enchanting beauty
and delicacy of the Danish poem.  But he has made a gallant effort to
reproduce the form and language of Oehlenschlager, and we have thought it
not without interest to print opposite his version the whole of the
original Danish.

                                                             EDMUND GOSSE.

GULDHORNENE {10}                    THE GOLD HORNS

De higer og soger                   Upon the pages
I gamle Boger,                      Of the olden ages,
I oplukte Hoie,                     And in hills where are lying
Med speidende Oie,                  The dead, they are prying;
Paa Svaerd og Skjolde,              On armour rusty,
I mulne Volde,                      In ruins musty,
Paa Runestene,                      On Rune-stones jumbled,
Blandt smuldnede Bene.              With bones long crumbled.

Oldtids Bedrifter                   Eld's deeds, through guesses
Anede trylle,                       Beheld, are delighting,
Men i Mulm de sig hylle,            But mist possesses
De gamle Skrifter.                  The ancient writing.
Blikket stirrer,                    The eye-ball fixed is,
Sig Tanken forvirrer,               The thought perplexed is;
I Taage de famle.                   In darkness they're groping
"I gamle, gamle,                    Their mouths they're op'ing:
Forsvundne Dage!                    "Ye days long past,
Da det straalte paa Jorden,         When the North was uplighted,
Da Osten var i Norden,              And with earth heav'n united,
Giver Glimt tilbage!"               A glimpse back cast."

Skyen suser,                        The clouds are bustling,
Natten bryser,                      The night blasts rustling,
Gravhoien sukker,                   Sighs are breaking,
Rosen sig lukker.                   From grave-hills quaking,
De sig mode, de sig mode,           The regions were under
De forklarede Hoie,                 Thunder.
Kampfarvede, rode,                  Of the mighty and daring,
Med Stjerneglands i Oie.            The ghosts there muster,
                                    Stains of war bearing,
                                    In their eye star lustre.

"I, som rave iblinde,               "Ye who blind are straying,
Skal finde                          And praying,
Et aeldgammelt Minde,               Shall an ag'd relic meet,
Der skal komme og svinde!           Which shall come and shall fleet,
Dets gyldne Sider                   Its red sides golden,
Skal Praeget baere,                 The stamp displaying
Afaeldste Tider.                    Of the times most olden.

Af det kan I laere,                 That shall give ye a notion
Med andagtsfuld AEre                To hold in devotion
I vor Gave belonne!                 Our gift, is your duty!
Det skjonneste Skjonne,             A maiden, of beauty
En Mo                               Most rare.
Skal Helligdommen finde!"           Shall find the token!"

Saa sjunge de og svinde,            They vanished; this spoken
Lufttonerne doe.                    Their tones die in air.

Hrymfaxe, den sorte,                Black Hrymfax, weary,
Puster og dukker                    Panteth and bloweth,
Og i Havet sig begraver;            And in sea himself burieth;
Morgenens Porte                     Belling, cheery,
Delling oplukker,                   Morn's gates ope throweth;
Og Skinfaxe traver                  Forth Skinfax hurrieth,
I straalende Lue                    On heaven's bridge prancing,
Paa Himmelens Bue.                  And with lustre glancing.

Og Fuglene synge;                   The little birds quaver,
Dugperler bade                      Pearls from night's weeping;
Blomsterblade,                      The flowers are steeping
Som Vindene gynge;                  In the winds which waver;
Og med svaevende Fjed               To the meadows, fleet
En Mo hendandser                    A maiden boundeth;
Til Marken afsted.                  Violet fillet neat
Violer hende krandser,              Her brows surroundeth;
Hendes Rosenkind braender,          Her cheeks are glowing,
Hun har Liljehaender;               Lilly hands she's showing;
Let som et Hind,                    Light as a hind,
Med muntert Sind                    With sportive mind
Hun svaever og smiler;              She smiling frisketh.
Og som hun iler                     And as on she whisketh,
Og paa Elskov grubler,              And thinks on her lover,
Hun snubler--                       She trips something over;
Og stirrer og skuer                 And, her eyes declining,
Gyldne Luer                         Beholds a shining,
Og rodmer og baever                 And red'neth and shaketh,
Og skjaelvende haever               And trembling uptaketh
Med undrende Aand                   With wondering sprite
Udaf sorten Muld                    From the dingy mould,
Med snehvide Haand,                 With hand snow-white,
Det rode Guld.                      The ruddy gold.
En sagte Torden                     A gentle thunder
Dundrer;                            Pealeth;
Hele Norden                         The whole North wonder
Undrer.                             Feeleth.

Og hen de stimle                    Forth rush with gabble
I store Vrimle;                     A countless rabble;
De grave, de soge