“
The language, in fact, was Danish. After a moment, Nilsson recognized the lyrics, Jacobsen’s Songs of Gurre, and Schönberg’s melodies for them. The call of King Valdemar’s men, raised from their coffins to follow him on the spectral ride that he was condemned to lead, snarled forth. “Be greeted, King, here by Gurre Lake! Across the island our hunt we take, From stringless bow let the arrow fly That we have aimed with a sightless eye. We chase and strike at the shadow hart, And dew like blood from the wound will start. Night raven swinging And darkly winging, And leafage foaming where hoofs are ringing, So shall we hunt ev’ry night, they say, Until that hunt on the Judgment Day. Holla, horse, and holla, hound, Stop awhile upon this ground! Here’s the castle which erstwhile was. Feed your horses on thistledown; Man may eat of his own renown.” She started to go on with the next stanza, Valdemar’s cry to his lost darling; but she faltered and went directly to his men’s words as dawn breaks over them. “The cock lifts up his head to crow, Has the day within him, And morning dew is running red With rust, from off our swords. Past is the moment! Graves are calling with open mouths, And earth sucks down ev’ry light-shy horror. Sink ye, sink ye! Strong and radiant, life comes forth With deeds and hammering pulses. And we are death folk, Sorrow and death folk, Anguish and death folk. To graves! To graves! To dream-bewildered sleep— Oh, could we but rest peaceful!
”
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