| |
| THE MAN whose heart is true and tried, | |
| He may wander fearlessly; | |
| Yet beware of the island of Funen, | |
| And the valley of Odensee. | |
| |
| We stood on the bridge together | 5 |
| As the sunset faded wild, | |
| And I heard the seaman’s story | |
| Of a wanderer beguiled. | |
| |
| As the stranger paced down the valley, | |
| The mill-stream his footsteps laved, | 10 |
| The robin sang by the pathway, | |
| And the green grass glittered and waved. | |
| |
| All murmured, “Though storm and destruction | |
| In the whole wide world may be, | |
| There is rest in this one low valley, | 15 |
| In the valley of Odensee.” | |
| |
| How swiftly the hour of slumber | |
| In the faint noontide was gone! | |
| The robin sang o’er him in locust-boughs | |
| And the mill-stream murmured on. | 20 |
| |
| The dreams of a thousand years stole back | |
| On his dreaming soul that day, | |
| And dim, fair forms through the brookside woods | |
| Went glimmering and waning away. | |
| |
| Ah! how his footsteps faltered, | 25 |
| When he rose from the wayside spell: | |
| Ah! how the world seemed altered, | |
| And how hushed the quiet dell! | |
| |
| As the wanderer went up the valley, | |
| There were sad thoughts clung round his mind, | 30 |
| As the poplars clung on his pathway, | |
| While their bright leaves sighed in the wind; | |
| And he knew, ere he reached the hill-top, | |
| He had left his soul behind. | |
| |
| It waved in the locust-blossom, | 35 |
| It gleamed in the poplar spray, | |
| It sang in the robin’s singing, | |
| And it murmured, “Stay, O, stay!” | |
| |
| “The bees suck honey from the flower, | |
| And the soft winds steal it from the bee, | 40 |
| And the honey of thy soul is drained away, | |
| By this sweet air’s luxury.” | |
| |
| And as he went wandering onward, | |
| His heart beat, ah! wearily, | |
| And he looked, and looked, to the westward, | 45 |
| To the valley of Odensee. | |
| |
| His cheek grew whiter and thinner, | |
| And his pulse ebbed day by day, | |
| But he only looked to the westward, | |
| Where the dream of his sick heart lay. | 50 |
| |
| Like the mill-stream depths where the dark fish glance, | |
| His dying eyes did seem, | |
| But still they gazed to the westward, | |
| And closed upon the dream. | |
| |
| Ah! sadly I heard the story, | 55 |
| For my full heart answered me, | |
| There were spells in Merrimack valleys | |
| As strong as in Odensee. | |
| |
