Den Mand Er Ikke Stort Bevendt, Som Praler Af Sin Hjerne


Den Mand er ikke stort bevendt, som praler af sin Hjerne;
det er jo kun den skrumpne Nød, som rasler med sin Kjærne.

by Hans Vilhelm Kaalund.

Cavaleren Til Sin Dame

Cavaleren til sin Dame
paa et Bal ,,for de Vandlidte''


Jeg kom herhen for de Vandlidte,
Og jeg gaaer hjem blandt de Brandlidte.

by Hans Christian Andersen.

Elsker Ømt Sin Stær Pauline

Elsker ømt sin Stær Pauline,
Og sin Skjødhund Vilhelmine,
Gjertrud, ak, sin Pavian,
Og sin lille Kat Nanette,
Saa maaskee den smaae Rosette
Dog din Frier elske kan!

by Emil Aarestrup.

Herren Strækker Ud Sin Arm

Herren strækker ud sin Arm,
Smaa vil Han velsigne,
Kommer, Smaa, til Jesu Barm,
Lærer Ham at ligne!
Døb, gienfød dem, Herre from,
Dybt i Livets Kilde!
Aldrig de til Død og Dom
Sig fra Dig forvilde!

by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig.

El Potro Sin Freno

«¡Hoy no! ¡no aguanto freno ni jinete
Sin carga y libre correré mejor»;
Dijo al amo un caballo mozalbete
Que a otro a correr soberbio desafió.

-«¡Aguarda!» grita el dueño, él no le escucha,
Y dada la señal -¡uno! ¡dos! -¡tres!
Parten a un tiempo en su ardorosa lucha,
Con su jinete el otro, éste sin él.

by Rafael Pombo.

Den Trufne Centaur Til Sin Lærling

Dreng med den herlige Bue, som jeg at spænde dig lærte!
Kunstens Opelsken i Dig var mig, som Aldrende, Lyst;
Nu er jeg Olding; min Løn, din Priis, er blandet med Smerte;
Thi hvad du valgte til Maal, var mit dig elskende Bryst.
Viig nu herefter for ingen i Skud-Kunst prøvende Dyst,
At den eeneste Trøst endnu maa qvæge mit Hierte!

by Jens Baggesen.

O that I could a sin once see!
We paint the devil foul, yet he
Hath some good in him, all agree.
Sin is flat opposite to th' Almighty, seeing
It wants the good of virtue, and of being.

But God more care of us hath had:
If apparitions make us sad,
By sight of sin we should grow mad.
Yet as in sleep we see foul death, and live:
So devils are our sins in perspective.

by George Herbert.

Har Dagen Sanket Al Sin Sorg

Har Dagen sanket al sin Sorg
Og grædt den ud i Dug,
Saa aabner Natten Himlens Borg
Med evigt Tungsinds tavse Sorg.
Og en for en
Og to og to
Gaa fjerne Verd'ners Genier frem
Af Himmeldybets dunkle Gjem.
Og højt over Jordens Lyst og Elende
Med Stjernekjerter højt i Hænde
Skride de langsomt hen over Himlen.
De Fodtrin skifte
Med Sorg i Sinde.
Underligt vifte
For Rummets kolde Vinde
Stjernekjerternes flakkende Flammer.

by Jens Peter Jacobsen.

In Memoriam A. H. H.: 5. Sometimes I Hold It Half A Sin

I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.

by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

The Garden Of Sin

I know the garden-close of sin,
The cloying fruits, the noxious flowers,
I long have roamed the walks and bowers,
Desiring what no man shall win:

A secret place to shelter in,
When soon or late the angry powers
Come down to seek the wretch who cowers,
Expecting judgment to begin.

The pleasure long has passed away
From flowers and fruit, each hour I dread
My doom will find me where I lie.
I dare not go, I dare not stay.
Without the walks, my hope is dead,
Within them, I myself must die.

by Robert Fuller Murray.

Sin and Death, those sisters two,
Two, two,
Sat together while dawned the morning.
Sister, marry! Your house will do,
Do, do,
For me, too, was Death's warning.

Sin was wedded, and Death was pleased,
Pleased, pleased,
Danced about them the day they married;
Night came on, she the bridegroom seized,
Seized, seized,
And away with her carried.

Sin soon wakened alone to weep,
Weep, weep.
Death sat near in the dawn of morning:
Him you love, I love too and keep,
Keep, keep.
He is here, was Death's warning.

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson.

Sin Eenbaarne Gud Hengivet

Sin Eenbaarne Gud hengivet
Har for Adams faldne Kiøn,
Og for evig skiænket Livet,
Guddoms-Livet i Hans Søn,
Ubegribelig er Naaden,
Glæden mageløs som Gaaden!


Selv Guds Søn har Sig hengivet
Som et Korn i Jorden saa't,
Med Sig Selv Han gav os Livet
I den Nat, Han blev forraadt,
Saa Han vidste Sig at dele,
Troen altid faaer det Hele!


Ordet er hvad Det vil være,
Kiød og Blod og Vin og Brød,
Herren til Gud Faders Ære,
Aand og Støv og Liv og Død,
Og for os paa Naade-Bordet
Evigt Liv er Guddoms-Ordet!

by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig.

Be Sure Sin Will Find You Out

Do you think, oh shrewd deceiver,
Because your well-laid plan,
For the death of a fellow-being,
Or the wreck of a fellow-man,
Was plotted alone at midnight,
When not a soul was about,
And carried out in secret,
That it will not find you out?

You have given it breath and being,
You have given it wings to fly;
It has gone forth a black-winged raven
To follow you 'till you die.
Like Poe's, it will knock on your chamber door,
It will haunt you the earth about,
It will trouble your peace at the midnight hour.
Be sure it will find you out.

by Martha Lavinia Hoffman.

Tund Mai Aur Aise Kam_Sin Ke Liye

tund mai aur aise kam_sin ke liye
saaqiyaa halkii sii laa in ke liye

mujh se ruKhsat ho meraa ahad-e-shabaab
yaa Khudaa rakhanaa naa us din ke liye

hai javaanii Khud javaanii kaa singaar
saadagii gahanaa hai is sin ke liye

sab hasii.n hai.n zaahido.n ko naapasand
ab ko_ii huur aayegii in ke liye

vasl kaa din aur itanaa muKhtasar
din gine jaate the is din ke liye

saarii duniyaa ke hai.n vo mere sivaa
mai.n ne duniyaa chho.D dii jin ke liye

laash par ibarat ye kahatii hai 'Ameer'
aaye the duniyaa me.n is din ke liye

by Ameer Minai.

Hun Er, Til Trods Sin Røde Lille Mund

Hun er, til Trods sin røde lille Mund,
et loddent Udyr, Hoppe, Æsel, Hund,
der vifter saa fripostig med sin Hale
og fører ganske uforblommet Tale.

Hun er et Hexeridt, en Narredans,
men fin og ung som Junis grønne Dale;
hun raaber: „Ryk tre Haar ud af min Svans!
og strax forvandles de til Nattergale."

Og hendes Læbe er saa rød, som sagt,
men trind og hvid den latterfyldte Strube,
at Blodet svulmer i min Hjærtegrube.

Hun svøber mig i Hovedhaarets Pragt
og hvisker: „Mester for den nye Skole,
se, jeg er Asenindens unge Fole."

by Sophus Niels Christen Claussen.

Vor Frelser Frit Sin Fiende

Vor Frelser frit sin Fiende
Tør under Øine gaae,
Han veed, han ham skal binde,
Og evig Seier faae!


Her er han, som vil løse
Hver syndebundet Træl!
Her er han, som vil øse
Trøst i hver bange Sjæl!


Hans Indtog synes ringe,
Et Asen er hans Hest,
Dog skal han Sion bringe
En evig Frydefest!


Her er han, Sions Daatter!
Som dig gav Dronning-Navn,
Som Drotten over Drotter,
Han tager dig i Favn!


Her er han, som vil bære
En Torne-Krands for dig,
Og skiænker dig med Ære
Guld-Kronen klar hos sig!

by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig.

Sonnet 62: Sin Of Self-Love Possesseth All Mine Eye

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for my self mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed
Beated and chapped with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee, myself, that for my self I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

by William Shakespeare.

Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; -they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears:
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.

by George Herbert.

Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws;—they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears:
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.

by George Herbert.

To His Conscience

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
My private protonotary?
Can I not woo thee, to pass by
A short and sweet iniquity?
I'll cast a mist and cloud upon
My delicate transgression,
So utter dark, as that no eye
Shall see the hugg'd impiety.
Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please
And wind all other witnesses;
And wilt not thou with gold be tied,
To lay thy pen and ink aside,
That in the mirk and tongueless night,
Wanton I may, and thou not write?
--It will not be: And therefore, now,
For times to come, I'll make this vow;
From aberrations to live free:
So I'll not fear the judge, or thee.

by Robert Herrick.

Sonnet 142: Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,
O, but with mine, compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee.
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!

by William Shakespeare.

Livet Med Sin Brude-Skare

Livet med sin Brude-Skare
Drager ind ad Salems Bye.
Luften syntes sød, som Manna,
Af hans Følges Hosianna.
Palmer gik med hine klare
Jubel-Toner op i Skye.
Livet med &c.


Tænk engang, og dog maae tage
Mod den elsktes frekke Nej!
Derfor Kind og Øje falmer
Mit iblant de søde Psalmer;
Og maae øse Taare-Lage
Paa den glade Højtids Vej.
Tænk engang &c.


Fyrgetive Aar derefter
Salem fik en anden Giæst,
Ørnen med de glubske Unger,
Kriig og Oprør, Pest og Hunger,
Sig ved dette Aadsel hæfter,
Just til samme Højtids Fæst.
Fyrgetive Aar &c.

by Hans Adolph Brorson.

Sonet [den Svend, Som Tabet Af Sin Elskte Frister]

Den Svend, som Tabet af sin Elskte frister,
Vildfremmed vanker om blandt Jordens Hytter,
Med Haab han efter Kirkeklokken lytter,
Som lover ham igjen, hvad her han mister.

Men neppe han med en Usalig bytter,
Hvis Hjerte stedse koldt for Elskov brister,
Som sig uelsket gjennem Livet lister,
Hans Armod kun mod Tabet ham beskytter.

Til Livets Gaade reent han savner Nøglen,
Hver Livets Blomst i Hjertets Vinter fryser,
Han gaaer omkring med underlige Fagter.

Ræd, Spøgelser han seer, naar Solen lyser,
Modløs og syg, foragtet han foragter
Det skjønne Liv, som tom og ussel Gøglen.

by Poul Martin Moller.

The House Of Sin

When Time is done at last, and the last Spring
Fadeth on earth, and thy gaze seeketh mine,
Watch well for one whose face beareth for sign
The legend of a soul’s refashioning:
As I shall watch for one whose pale hands bring

The first faint violet, and know them thine
Grown pitiful and come to build Love’s shrine
Where the old Aprils wait, unfaltering.
Then the great floods between us will retire,
And the long path I follow down will grow


To be the path thy climbing feet desire;
Until we meet at last, made glad, and know
The cleansing hands that made my soul as snow
Have kept alive in thine the ancient fire.

by Francis Joseph Sherman.

Psalm 139 Part 3

Sincerity professed, and grace tried; or, The heart-searching God.

My God, what inward grief I feel
When impious men transgress thy will!
I mourn to hear their lips profane
Take thy tremendous name in vain.

Does not my soul detest and hate
The sons of malice and deceit?
Those that oppose thy laws and thee,
I count them enemies to me.

Lord, search my soul, try every thought;
Though my own heart accuse me not
Of walking in a false disguise,
I beg the trial of thine eyes.

Doth secret mischief lurk within?
Do I indulge some unknown sin?
O turn my feet whene'er I stray,
And lead me in thy perfect way.

by Isaac Watts.

The Sin Of Detection

SHE bowed her face among them all, as one
By one they rose and went. A little scorn
They showed—a very little. More forlorn
She seemed because of that: she might have grown
Proud else in her turn, and have so made known
What she well knew—that the free—hearted corn,
Kissed by the hot air freely all the morn,
Is better than the weed which has its own
Foul glut in secret. Both her white breasts heaved
Like heaving water with their weight of lace;
And her long tresses, full of musk and myrrh,
Were shaken from the braids her fingers weaved,
So that they hid the shame in her pale face.
Then I stept forth, and bowed addressing her.

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

A Lesson In Humility

'Tis time, my soul, thou shouldst be purged of pride.
What men are these with thee, whose ill deeds done
Make thee thus shrink from them and be denied?
They are but as thou art, each mother's son
A convict in transgression. Here is one,
Sayest thou, who struck his fellow and he died.
And yet he weeps hot tears. Do thy tears run?
This other thieved, yet clasps Christ crucified.

Where is thy greater virtue? Thinkest thou sin
Is but crime's record on the judgment seat?
Or must thou wait for death to be bowed down?
Oh for a righteous reading which should join
Thy deeds together in an accusing sheet,
And leave thee if thou couldst, to face men's frown!

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt.

Is It A Sin, To Wish That I May Meet Thee

Is it a sin, to wish that I may meet thee
In that dim world whither our spirits stray,
When sleep and darkness follow life and day?
Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee
With all that love that I must die concealing?
Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealing
The agony that preys upon my soul?
Is't not enough through the long, loathsome day,
To hold each look and word in stern control?
May I not wish the staring sunlight gone,
Day and its thousand torturing moments done,
And prying sights and sounds of men away?
O still and silent Night! when all things sleep,
Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep:
Come, with thy visioned hopes and blessings now!
I dream the only happiness I know.

by Frances Anne Kemble.

The Unpardonable Sin

This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: —
To speak of bloody power as right divine,
And call on God to guard each vile chief's house,
And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine:—

To go forth killing in White Mercy's name,
Making the trenches stink with spattered brains,
Tearing the nerves and arteries apart,
Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains.

In any Church's name, to sack fair towns,
And turn each home into a screaming sty,
To make the little children fugitive,
And have their mothers for a quick death cry,—

This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:
This is the sin no purging can atone:—
To send forth rapine in the name of Christ:—
To set the face, and make the heart a stone.

by Vachel Lindsay.

The Unpardonable Sin

I do not cry, beloved, neither curse.
Silence and strength, these two at least are good.
He gave me sun and start and aught He could,
But not a woman's love; for that is hers.

He sealed her heart from sage and questioner --
Yea, with seven seals, as he has sealed the grave.
And if she give it to a drunken slave,
The Day of Judgment shall not challenge her.

Only this much: if one, deserving well,
Touching your thin young hands and making suit,
Feel not himself a crawling thing, a brute,
Buried and bricked in a forgotten hell;

Prophet and poet be he over sod,
Prince among angels in the highest place,
God help me, I will smite him on the face,
Before the glory of the face of God.

by Gilbert Keith Chesterton.

Balder Til Sin Fader

Du, som mig endnu din Dør oplader,
Naar forfulgt af Nid og Spot og Svig,
Og af Hoben, som vil steene mig,
Vildt jeg flygter giennem Livets Gader,
En udsluppen Ulivsfange lig -

Du, som end, mens hun og alt mig hader,
Mens hvert andet Hierte lukker sig,
Med hvert Øre for mit Klageskrig,
Venlig smiler til mig, hulde Fader!

Du, som evig uforanderlig
Trods min Elsktes Afsky, elsker mig,
Hør, o Du, hvis Godhed jeg tilbeder,
Balders Hiertes eene sidste Bøn:

Mens den Grumme Baalet ham bereder -
Naar er tændt dets Birk og Gran og Røn,
Naar i Flammen, Døden eene slukker,
Hendes Navn for sidste Gang han sukker,
Hvisk det Ord, som Naadens Dør oplukker
Hisset, tyst i Øret til din Søn!

by Jens Baggesen.

Holy Lord God! I love Thy truth,
Nor dare Thy least commandment slight;
Yet pierced by sin the serpent's tooth,
I mourn the anguish of the bite.

But though the poison lurks within,
Hope bids me still with patience wait;
Till death shall set me free from sin,
Free from the only thing I hate.

Had I a throne above the rest,
Where angels and archangels dwell,
One sin, unslain, within my breast,
Would make that heaven as dark as hell.

The prisoner sent to breathe fresh air,
And blest with liberty again,
Would mourn were he condemn'd to wear
One link of all his former chain.

But, oh! no foe invades the bliss,
When glory crowns the Christian's head;
One look at Jesus as He is
Will strike all sin forever dead.

by William Cowper.

Olney Hymn 56: Hatred Of Sin

Holy Lord God! I love Thy truth,
Nor dare Thy least commandment slight;
Yet pierced by sin the serpent's tooth,
I mourn the anguish of the bite.

But though the poison lurks within,
Hope bids me still with patience wait;
Till death shall set me free from sin,
Free from the only thing I hate.

Had I a throne above the rest,
Where angels and archangels dwell,
One sin, unslain, within my breast,
Would make that heaven as dark as hell.

The prisoner sent to breathe fresh air,
And blest with liberty again,
Would mourn were he condemn'd to wear
One link of all his former chain.

But, oh! no foe invades the bliss,
When glory crowns the Christian's head;
One look at Jesus as He is
Will strike all sin forever dead.

by William Cowper.

Bowed With A Sense Of Sin

Bowed with a sense of sin, I faint
Beneath the complicated load;
Father, attend my deep complaint,
I am Thy creature, Thou my God.

Though I have broke Thy righteous law,
Yet with me let Thy Spirit stay;
Thyself from me do not withdraw,
Nor take my spark of hope away.

Mercy unlimited is Thine;
God of the penitent Thou art;
The saving power of blood divine
Shall ease the anguish of my heart.

Then let not sin my ruin be,
Gives me in Thee my rest to find:
Jesus, the sick have need of Thee,-
Thou great Physician of mankind.

In my salvation, Lord, display
The triumphs of abounding grace;
Tell me my guilt is done away,
And turn my mourning into praise.

Then shall I add my feeble song
To theirs who chant Thy praise on high,
And spread with an immortal tongue
Thy glory through the echoing sky.

by Augustus Montague Toplady.

Man Sig Forlover, Bytter Sin Ring

Man sig forlover, bytter sin Ring,
For at fatte stadige Tanker.
Naar man er fri, man drives omkring,
Men forlovet kaster man Anker.
Frihedens Hav er kun Længsel og Savn,
Truer med Død og tusinde Farer;
Men i den stille, rolige Havn
Der er man sikker nok for Corsarer.

Man sig forlover, sødeste Ven!
Som en Plads man ellers manquerer:
Naar man faaer Tid, saa tager man den,
Indtil da man den conserverer.
Ellers Enhver kan snappe den bort,
Og man maa flau tilbage sig trække.
Altsaa, for ei at komme tilkort,
Bør man den snildt itide belægge.

Man sig forlover, syvende sidst,
Som man Alt proberer og prøver.
Ægteskab er en Kunst, det er vist,
Derfor først man i Kunsten sig øver.
Siig mig, min Ven, siig, er det ei sandt,
Ingen sig strax af Mesterskab roser?
Hver en Forlovet er Dilettant,
Manden og Konen er Virtuoser.

by Johan Ludvig Heiberg.

Hver Paa Jorden Har Sin Skik

„Hver paa Jorden har sin Skik,"
Gamle Vessel siger;
jeg et par af Skjebnen fik:
elskte Viin og Piger !
I, som kjende Glædens Værd,
siger selv, om ikke
mine to de bedste er
mellem alle Skikke ?

Glut ! du faaer en anden Gang
Viser dig til Ære,
Fader Evan denne Gang
helliget skal være.
Aldrig synger jeg med Held,
naar han mig ei lærer,
naar i Hjernens Citadel
han ei kommanderer.

Derfor, som jeg drikker til,
jeg bestandig synger;
naar jeg ædru digte vil,
mat sig Strophen slynger;
men til Geistens Medicin
flux Man seer mig gribe,
og saasnart jeg faaer lidt Viin,
kappes jeg med Wibe.

Seer jeg Manden med sin Lee
ned til mig at komme,
seer jeg først til Flaskerne,
og er' de da tomme,
tømmer jeg det sidste Glas,
det mod Døren slænger:
Død ! din Skaal ! du kom tilpas,
hvad skal jeg her længer ?

by Knud Lyne Rahbek.

Gamle Danske Sange: Hun Ejed Kun I Verden Sin Uskyld Og Sin Tro

Hun ejed kun i verden sin uskyld og sin tro.
Til maleren, som sukked, hun gav dem begge to.
De gik til dans i 'Kilden', han kyssed hendes mund,
og svor: jeg trofast elsker dig indtil min sidste stund,
- indtil den sidste stund!

Han svor så dyre eder, hun lytted og hun lo.
Så tog han tro og uskyld og løb med begge to.
Hun sukked, græd og klagede: Forbi! Alt er forbi!
Så gik hun ned til havet og sprang lige lukt deri,
- sprang lige lukt deri!

De graved hendes tue om nat ved måneskin,
de planted hvide liljer med tårevædet kind.
Da græd den onde malersvend, han knælede og bad:
Ak, du min Gud og skaber, min brøde mig forlad,
- min brøde mig forlad!

Samvittighedens kvaler ham voldte nag og skræk:
han stak en kniv i hjertet... og så, så var han væk!
Moralen, unge kvinder, er fyndig, kort og klar:
Lad ingen mand bedåre jer, men hold på det, I har,
- ja hold på det, I har!

by Edvard Søderberg.

Was it a sin no one was with us?
Our wedding such a lone affair?
A stork the only tree-top witness
Who from his nest returned our stare?

A stork with stockings red as roses
Whose gossip-beak tuts its refrain -?
No gardener’s boy with bridal posies,
And but one snail with silky train?

No starch-ruffed priest the words to mutter,
No chambermaid with pure jade comb,
No wedding gift forthcoming but the
Lakelet’s small wisps of silver foam?

And that the bride’s consent and, higher,
My lofty vow of plighted troth
Alone were heard and called for by the
Almighty God of Love and Youth?

But - you recall? - the forest proffered
A fairy dell well out of sight;
Glow-worms that clung to bushes offered
What was our only source of light.

Oh, should I once forget that glorious
Moment - may me God chastise!
A thousand crickets chirped in chorus,
While shooting stars lit up the skies.

by Emil Aarestrup.

Psalm 119 Part 13

Holy fear, and tenderness of conscience.

ver. 10

With my whole heart I've sought thy face:
O let me never stray
From thy commands, O God of grace,
Nor tread the sinner's way.

ver. 11

Thy word I've hid within my heart
To keep my conscience clean,
And be an everlasting guard
From every rising sin.

ver. 63,53,158

I'm a companion of the saints
Who fear and love the Lord;
My sorrows rise, my nature faints,
When men transgress thy word.

ver. 161,163

While sinners do thy gospel wrong
My spirit stands in awe;
My soul abhors a lying tongue,
But loves thy righteous law.

ver. 161,120

My heart with sacred rev'rence hears
The threat'nings of thy word;
My flesh with holy trembling fears
The judgments of the Lord.

ver. 166,174

My God, I long, I hope, I wait,
For thy salvation still;
While thy whole law is my delight,
And I obey thy will.

by Isaac Watts.

Epilog [her Har Skyldfri Skjemt Sin Bolig]

Her har skyldfri Skjemt sin Bolig;
Tiden gaaer i munter Iil:
Hjertet slaaer saa let og rolig,
Mærker ej til Sorgens Piil.
Og om man end stundom finder
Smerte ved en indbildt Harm,
Om fra Øjet Taaren rinder:
Er det dog kun — blind Allarm.

Men — derude gaaer det ikke
Altid saa fornøjet til ;
Den som Kummers Braad mon stikke,
Kan ej smile naar han vil.
Ah! saa Mangen dybt maae sukke
Udaf sorgbetynget Barm;
Og i Graad sit Øje lukke:
Det er meer end blind Allarm.

Held Enhver, som i sin glæde
Glemmer ej den Armes Nød,
Som i Venskabs muntre Kjæde
Mindes den, der græd for Brød;
Som med villig Haand og Hjerte
Gyder Trøst i saaret Barm,
Vækker haab og lindrer Smerte -
Men ej blot ved blind Allarm.

Saa at frelse den, som træder
Ned ad Mishaabs skumle Sti:
Hvilket ædelt Hexeri!
Her med Skyggeværk ej samles,
Siger Stemmen i vor Barm;
Dette Meed, hvortil vi samles,
Var dog meer end blind Allarm.

by Steen Steensen Blicher.