Ambrosius Stub: 'Livet som en Seylads'

 

Livet som en Seylads.

Aria

 

Hvad vindes ved Verdens vidtlöftige Hav?

O, tusinde Farer i skummende Trav!

     Man veed kun to Havne,

     Bekiendte af Navne,

Den eene vor. Vugge, den anden vor Grav.

 

Fra Vuggen til Graven maa krydses omkring

Blant Haabets og Frygtens de stridige Ting

     Snart vippe vi oppe

     Paa Bölgernes Toppe,

Snart nærmes vi Grunden i flyvende Spring.

 

Her fristes Ustadigheds Ebbe og Floed,

Een Vagt er saa ond, som en anden er god;

     Hver Time i Glasset,

     Hver Streg paa Compasset

Forandrer, forhöyer, fornedrer vort Mod.

 

Saa hidser en Medbör det nedrige Sind,

Ja puster i Hiertet Dumdristighed ind;

     Vil Farten kun föye

     Vor Attraae og Öye,

Strax blæses vi op af en önskelig Vind.

 

Saa slipper Kleinmodighed Roeret i hast,

Naar Forstavnen dukker for Bölgernes Kast;

     Naar Vindene suse,

     Og Vandene bruse,

Saa skrækkes vi strax for en knagende Mast.

 

Dit Forsyn, o Fader, det förer os hiem,

Det styrer saa sikkert, hvor Söen er slem;

     Vor Gisning kan feile,

     Hvor vi end vil seyle,

Selv stavner vi meere tilbage end frem.

 

 

Life as a sea-journey

Aria

 

What’s won when world’s wide-ranging oceans we brave?

O thousandfold dangers of fast-foaming wave!

     Two harbours alone

     To us are well-known,

The one is our cradle, the other our grave.

 

From cradle to grave we must tack to and fro

Midst all fickle things hope and fear at us throw.

     Borne up on each crest

     We glide on at best,

Then swiftly drop into a trough deep below.

 

We’re tempted by changes in each ebb and flood,

One watch is as bad as the other is good,

     Each turned glass at sea,

     Each compass degree,

Can lighten or heighten or frighten our mood.

 

A fair wind then stirs up the sad, downcast mind,

Yes, makes the heart rash to the point it grows blind,

     If speed we acquire

     To match our desire,

We dash at full sail and leave prudence behind.

 

Faint-hearted, the tiller we often let slip

When at the waves’ raging the bow starts to dip,

     If winds storm and blow

     And waves toss and throw.

We fear in a trice for the mast of our ship.

 

Your providence, Father, will lead us safe home,

It steers us so safely though dire waves and foam,

     Our judgment can fail,

     No matter our trail,

More backwards than forwards we often can roam.