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De vogels
Vanmorgen werd ik wakker
van de vogels.
En ik dacht: waarvan werd ik wakker?
Van de vogels.
Van het licht ook, maar
meer van de vogels.
Het licht zacht zingend,
de vogels keihard.
The birds
This morning I was woken up
by the birds.
And I thought: What was I woken up by?
By the birds.
By the light too, but
more by the birds.
The light singing softly,
the birds at full throat.
MIT HIERTE ALTID VANKER
Mit hierte altid vanker
I JEsu føde-rum,
Did samles mine tanker
I deres hoved-sum.
Der er min længsel hiemme,
Der har min troe sin skat,
Jeg kand dig aldrig glemme,
Du søde jule-nat.
Du mørke stald skal være
Mit hiertes fryde-slot,
Der kand jeg daglig lære,
At glemme verdens spot,
Der kand jeg best besinde,
Hvori min roes bestaaer,
Naar JEsu krybbes minde
Mig ret til hierte gaaer.
Men, ach! hvad skal jeg sige,
Naar jeg vil tænke paa,
At Gud af himmerige
I stalden ligge maa,
At himlens fryd og ære,
Guds væsentlige ord,
Skal saa foragtet være
Paa denne slemme jord.
En perle, der forgiettes,
Saa nøye ledes op,
Den blanke demant settes
I gylden krones top:
Man kaster ey en drue
Blant tørre grene ned:
Skal jeg min Gud da skue
I saadan uselhed?
Hvi skulde herre-sale
Ey for dig pyntet staae?
(Du havde at befale,
I hvor du pegte paa,)
Hvi lod du dig ey svøbe
I lyset som et baand,
Og jordens konger løbe,
At kysse paa din haand?
Hvi lod du ey udspende
En himmel til din telt,
Og stierne-fakler brænde?
O store himmel-helt!
Hvi lod sig ey til syne
En mægtig engle-vagt,
Som dig i silke-dyne
Saa prægtig burde lagt?
Ney! JEsus faaer sit leye
I denne gode juul,
Hvor betlere de pleye
At legge sig i skiul,
Det var og ey hans eget,
Det høe, hvori hand laae,
Hand havde ey saa meget,
Hand kunde ligge paa.
Den sag kand ey begribes,
At JEsus, Gud og mand,
Saa meget hart indknibes
I verdens jammer-stand,
Hand, som med Guddoms vælde
Al verden dømme vil,
Ey har det, hand kand helde
Sit arme hoved til.
En spurre har sin rede
Og sikre hvile-boe,
En svale ey tør lede
Om natte-lye og roe,
En løve veed sin hule,
Hvor hand sin roe kand faae;
Skal da min Gud sig skiule
I andres stald og straae?
Ach! kom! jeg vil oplukke
Mit hierte, siel og sind
Med tusind længsels-sukke,
Kom, JEsu, dog derind!
Det er ey fremmed bolig,
Du har det selv jo kiøbt,
Saa skal du blive trolig
Udi mit hierte svøbt.
Jeg vil med palme-grene
Dit hvile-sted bestrøe,
Min brudgom, dig allene
Jeg leve vil og døe.
Kom! lad min siel erlange
Sin rette qvæge-stund,
At kysse tusind’ gange
Din søde rosen-mund.
MY HEART IS ALWAYS ROAMING
My heart is always roaming
Where once the Christ child lay,
And on that stable homing
My thoughts collect each day.
A refuge for soul’s fretting,
My faith’s most treasured seat,
I’ve no way of forgetting
You Christmas night so sweet.
My heart’s delight and palace
Shall you, dark stable, be,
Where each day I gain solace
From earth’s cruel mockery,
Best weigh there free from danger
The nature of my praise
When thoughts of Jesu’s manger
So set my heart ablaze.
But, ah! What shall I utter
When thinking with a sigh
That heaven’s Lord in but a
Poor manger had to lie,
That heaven’s joy and splendour,
God’s word of precious worth,
Derision now engender
Upon this wretched earth!
A pearl that’s lost with zeal is
Sought out until it’s found,
The diamond’s bright appeal is
Best seen atop a crown,
No grape is thrown down surely
’Mongst branches that are dry:
Shall I see God then poorly
In some mean stable lie?
Why not in halls appointed
With all that’s fine and grand?
(They had, if you’d but pointed,
Been decked at your command)
Why would you not be swathed in
Bright light that formed a band,
And let earth’s kings come craving
To kiss you by the hand?
Why did you keep from raising
A welkin as your tent,
And have star-torches blazing,
Oh hero, heaven-sent?
Why was not on display too
A guardian angel host,
That in silk quilts would lay you,
As did befit you most?
No! Jesu’s bed’s a stable
At this good Christmastide,
Where beggars if they’re able
From winter’s cold will hide,
And all the hay he lay in
Was meant for beasts alone,
He did not have a say in
A thing to call his own.
It is beyond all reason
That Jesus, God and man
This vale of woe as prison
Must suffer for a span,
He, who will judge for ever
The living and the dead,
Has got no place whatever
Where he can lay his head.
A nest has e’en the sparrow,
A safe place to call home,
Nor needs the fleeting swallow
For night-time shelter roam.
Nor does a lion know anguish,
Its cave has rest in store;
Shall then my Saviour languish
On some strange stable’s straw?
Ah! Come! I will throw open
My heart, my soul and mind,
A thousand sighs have spoken,
Come, Jesus, come and find!
It is no unknown chamber,
You bought it with your blood!
Here will you sweetly slumber
In my heart swathed for good.
Your resting-place so holy
Shall strewn with palm-sprigs lie,
My bridegroom, for you solely
I will both live and die.
Come! let my soul find bliss in
The fount to which it’s wed,
A thousand times be kissing
Your sweet mouth rosy red.
Jomfruen i fugleham
Jeg ved vel, hvor en skov hun stander,
hun står foruden under fjord;
der gror inde de fejreste træ,
som nogen mand haver hørt.
Så vinder en svend sin jomfru.
Der gror inde de fejreste træ,
som man kalder silje og linde;
der spiller inde de ærlige dyr,
som man kalder hjorte og hinder.
Der spiller inde både hjorte og hinde
og andre dyr så skønne;
der synger så lidel en nattergal
udi en lind så grøn.
Det spurgte Nilaus Erlandsøn,
[som dyren’ er vant at bede],
han lader sin ganger med det røde guld sko,
og did rider han at lede.
Did red Nilaus Erlandsøn
så såre da mon han lange;
der var han i dage tre,
han kunne ikke fuglen fange.
Så sætte han snaren på alle de træ,
som fuglen var vante at være;
den fugl blev i sin’ øjen snar,
han måtte hende dog ombære.
Han sætte snaren på alle de stier,
som fuglen’ var vant at gange;
den fugl var i sin' øjen så snar,
han kunne hende ikke fange.
Han tog øksen i sin hånd,
han ville det træ neder fælde;
der kom den mand, der skoven åtte,
han skød sin skaft imellem.
“Hugger du neder min fæ’rne skove,
og gør du mig den vælde:
jeg lover dig, Nilaus Erlandsøn,
så dyrt skalt du det gælde.”
Det da mælte den skønne jomfru,
hun stod på højen tinde:
“Ungersvend, vilt du lyde mit råd,
da skalt du fuglen vinde.
Hør du, favren ungersvend,
og vilt du lyde mit råd:
du får ikke af vilden fugl,
uden du haver tammen brad.”
Han skar braden af sin bryst,
han hængte det på lindekvist;
hun flagred’ med sin’ vinger, hun lod vel om,
fuld ondt var braden at miste.
Det da var den lidel nattergal,
hun fik det blodige brad;
så blev hun til skønneste jomfru,
der måtte på jorden gå.
Jomfruen under linden stod
i silkesærk hint røde;
ridderen tog hende udi sin arm,
de klaged hverandre deres nød.
Ridderen tog hende i sin arm,
klapped hende ved hviden kind:
“Sig mig, allerkæreste min,
hvem voldte sorrig din?”
“Jeg sad over min faders bord,
jeg legte med roser og liljer;
min stedmoder kom der gangendes fram,
det var ikke med henders minde.
Så skabte hun mig til en lidel nattergal,
bad mig ad skoven flyve;
min’ syv møer i ulvelige,
bad, de skulde fuglen rive.”
Jomfruen under linden stod,
slog ud sit favre hår;
der kom løbendes henders tjenestemøer,
i ulvelige de var.
Nu haver Nilaus Erlandsøn
forvunden båd’ angest og harm;
nu sover han så gladelig
udi den jomfru henders arm.
Så vinder en svend sin jomfru.
The maid in the guise of a bird
I know where there lies a forest,
far out at the edge of the fjord;
therein there grow the fairest of trees
that ever a man has heard.
So does a man gain his maiden.
Therein there grow the fairest of trees,
that one calls wood-willow and lime.
therein there play the noblest of beasts
that one calls the hart and the hind.
Therein there play both the hart and the hind
and other beasts pleasing to see;
there sings so tiny a nightingale
up in a lime so green.
Of this learned Nilaus Erlandsøn.
[a hunting man known for his skill],
he had his steed shod with shoes of red gold,
and yonder he rode for a kill.
Yonder did ride Nilaus Erlandsøn,
so deep-felt was his rapture;
there he stayed for three whole days,
but never the bird did he capture.
Then traps he did set on all of the trees
the bird would choose to alight on;
the bird it grew so keen of eye
the net he never could tighten.
Then traps he did set on all of the paths
the bird would walk on by nature;
the bird it was so keen of eye
he never was able to catch her.
He took his axe up in his hand,
he would the tree have felled;
the man who owned the forest came,
his spear between he held.
“If you chop down my forefathers’ trees
and do me such a wrong:
I promise you, Nilaus Erlandsøn,
you’ll rue the day ere long.”
Then came the voice of the fair maid,
up from the top of the tree:
‘Young man, should you heed my advice,
Then yours the bird shall be.
Hark you well, you handsome man,
and heed you my advice:
without tame flesh you shall not catch
the wild bird in a trice.”
He cut the tame flesh from his breast,
he hung it from a branch of lime;
she flapped her wings, it pleased her well,
to gain such flesh lost no time.
It was the tiny nightingale
the tame bloody flesh she soon found;
then she became the loveliest maid
that ever had trod the ground.
The maiden under the lime tree stood
in silken shift of red;
the knight he took her by the arm,
their woes to each other they said.
The knight he took her on his arm,
her lily-white cheek he did stroke:
‘Oh tell me, dearest to my heart,
who then did such sorrow provoke?”
“At my father’s table I did sit,
with roses and lilies did play;
my stepmother came into the room,
who wanted to have me away.
She made a small nightingale out of me
and told me to fly to the wood:
my seven maids into wolves were all turned,
told to tear the bird if they could.”
The maiden under the lime tree stood,
tossed her fine golden hair;
out ran her seven maids to her,
as wolves they were all still ensnared.
Now has Nilaus Erlandsøn
defeated all fear and all harm;
now without a single care
he sleeps on his maiden’s arm.
So does a man gain his maiden.
