To An Old Danish Song-Book

Welcome, my old friend,
Welcome to a foreign fireside,
While the sullen gales of autumn
Shake the windows.
,
The ungrateful world
Has, 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-molested
Leaves of autumn.
,
Thou art stained with wine
Scattered from hilarious goblets,
As the leaves with the libations
Of Olympus.
,
Yet dost thou recall
Days departed, half-forgotten,
When in dreamy youth I wandered
By the Baltic,--
,
When I paused to hear
The old ballad of King Christian
Shouted from suburban taverns
In the twilight.
,
Thou recallest bards,
Who in solitary chambers,
And with hearts by passion wasted,
Wrote thy pages.
,
Thou recallest homes
Where thy songs of love and friendship
Made the gloomy Northern winter
Bright as summer.
,
Once some ancient Scald,
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland,
Chanted staves of these old ballads
To the Vikings.
,
Once in Elsinore,
At the court of old King Hamlet
Yorick and his boon companions
Sang these ditties.
,
Once Prince Frederick's Guard
Sang them in their smoky barracks;--
Suddenly the English cannon
Joined 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 fireside
Art thou welcome.
,
And, as swallows build
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys,
So thy twittering songs shall nestle
In my bosom,--
,
Quiet, close, and warm,
Sheltered from all molestation,
And recalling by their voices
Youth and travel.