Johan Ludvig Heiberg (1860)

(See Note 7)     To the grave they bore him sleeping,      Him the aged, genial gardener;     Now the children gifts are heaping      From the flower-bed he made.     There the tree that he sat under,      And the garden gate is open,     While we cast a glance and wonder      Whether some one sits there still.     He is gone. A woman only      Wanders there with languid footsteps,     Clothed in black and now so lonely,      Where his laughter erst rang clear.     As a child when past it going,      Through the fence she looked with longing,     Now great tears so freely flowing      Are her thanks that she came in.     Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring      Whispered to him 'neath the foliage.     She flits softly, gathering, storing      Them as solace for her woe.     ***     Far his wanderings once bore him,      Bore this aged, genial searcher;     One who listening sat before him      Much could learn from time to time.     Life and letters were his ladder      Up toward that which few discover,     Thought's wide realm, with vision gladder      He explored, each summit scaled.     In his manhood he defended      All that greatness has and beauty;     Later he the stars attended      In their silent course to God.     ***     Older men remember rather      "New Year!" ringing o'er the Northland.     How it power had to gather      Leaders to a greater age     Do you him remember leaping      Forth, his horn so gladly winding,     Back the mob on all sides sweeping      From the progress of the great?     Play of thought 'mid tears and laughter,      Fauns and children were about him;     Freedom's beacons high thereafter      Kindled slowly of themselves.     And his words soon found a hearing,      Peace of heart flowed from his music;     All the land thrilled to the nearing      Of a great prophetic choir.     ***     In his manhood he defended      All that greatness has and beauty;     Later he the stars attended      In their silent course to God.     Northern flowers were his pleasure,      As an aged genial gardener,     From his nation's springtime treasure      Culling seed for deathless growth.     Now with humor, now sedately,      He kept planting or uprooting,     While the Danish beech-tree stately      Gave his soul its evening peace.     There the tree we saw him under,      And the garden gate is open,     While we cast a glance and wonder      Whether some one sits there still.