King Frederik The Seventh (1863)

(See Note 21)     Our King is bereft of a trusty friend!         And in dismay     We lower our banners and sad attend         On his burial day.     But Denmark, in sorrow most deep thou waitest,     For fallen the life that was warmest, greatest,         And fallen the tower         Of mightiest power.     Bewailing the death of their kingly chief,         Men voice their grief.     For Denmark's salvation the man was born         Who now is dead.     When banished in youth from the court in scorn,         To his people he fled.     There throve he right well, there grew he together     With peasants and sailors in foul and fair weather,         While fullness of living         Its schooling was giving;     When ready for Denmark was laid the snare,         Then he was there!     Now soon it was plain, he was peasant-skulled         For their tricks; and hence     The traitors' shrewd schemings were all annulled         By his bit of sense.     He knew but one thing; - what his people thought them,     And therefore in danger he freedom brought them.         The whole was his vision,         He would no scission;     His words were but few, and of these the key:         "It shall not be!"     He stood by the helm like a sailor good,         In no storm remiss;     Of praise the tribute he never would,         But he shall have this!     The ship to the North he unswerving directed, -     In storm or in fog, exposed or protected; -         And fear allaying,         All folk were saying:     "He isn't so stupid as people tell,         For all goes well!"     "On deck every man!" was his last command,         "There's storm again!"     When answered the cry from the mast-head: "Land!"         Oh, then, just then,     Were loosed from the helm the true hands that were steering,     In death he sank down, while the ship began veering -         No, never veering!         To the course adhering!     Now, Denmark, united, with all thy force         Hold straight his course!     He made it his honor, in line to stand,         No rank to know;     But shoulder to shoulder to lend a hand,         And pride forego.     They gather now fruit of his faithful training:     Well drilled, every man at his post is straining.         The course is steady,         For tried and ready     Is many a helmsman, and all their will         Is "Northward still!"     Naught else can they do now, but with good cheer         Hold out they must,     Stand guard in the darkness and have no fear,         In God their trust.     It is sultry and silent, and yearning in sorrow     All breathless they listen and wait for the morrow, -         'T is time for waiting,         Till, night abating,     The eastern sky reddens and bright dawn speeds         The day of deeds!