The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems/To an old Danish Song-Book
TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK.
Welcome, my old friend,Welcome to a foreign fireside,While the sullen gales of autumnShake the windows.
The ungrateful worldHas, it seems, dealt harshly with thee,Since, beneath the skies of Denmark,First I met thee.
There are marks of age,There are thumb-marks on thy margin,Made by hands that clasped thee rudely,At the alehouse.
Soiled and dull thou art;Yellow are thy time-worn pages,As the russet, rain-molestedLeaves of autumn.
Thou art stained with wineScattered from hilarious goblets,As these leaves with the libationsOf Olympus.
Yet dost thou recallDays departed, half-forgotten,When in dreamy youth I wanderedBy the Baltic,—
When I paused to hearThe old ballad of King ChristianShouted from suburban tavernsIn the twilight.
Thou recallest bards,Who, in solitary chambers,And with hearts by passion wasted,Wrote thy pages.
Thou recallest homesWhere thy songs of love and friendshipMade the gloomy Northern winterBright as summer.
Once some ancient Scald,In his bleak, ancestral Iceland,Chanted staves of these old balladsTo the Vikings.
Once in Elsinore,At the court of old King Hamlet,Yorick and his boon companionsSang these ditties.
Once Prince Frederick's GuardSang them in their smoky barracks;—Suddenly the English cannonJoined the chorus!
Peasants in the field,Sailors on the roaring ocean,Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics,All have sung them.
Thou hast been their friend;They, alas! have left thee friendless!Yet at least by one warm firesideArt thou welcome.
And, as swallows buildIn these wide, old-fashioned chimneys,So thy twittering songs shall nestleIn my bosom,—
Quiet, close, and warm,Sheltered from all molestation,And recalling by their voicesYouth and travel.