Tenderness comes from God;
Woman and man in its praise should sing;
But tenderness flies at honour's nod;
We offer all up to our land and King.
ONE VOICE.
What sang ye, warlike throngs?
Repeat, repeat this day,
One of the simple, nervous, songs
Ye murmur'd out, when, hot with wrongs,
Ye waited the coming fray.
UNIVERSAL CHORUS.
We love, we all love thee, beneficent Peace, &c.
SOLO.
Like the wave of the wild North main,
Foaming and frothing came on our foe;
Proud of his triumphs, proud of his train,
He thought to lay us low:
But, from Denmark's lines of oak,
A horrible, horrible volley outbroke;
Then tumbled his mast,
His courage fell fast;
And the wave, which resembled his furious mood,
Was now with his blood embrued.
CHORUS.
This is Denmark's holyday;
Dance, ye maidens!
Sing, ye men!
Tune, ye harpers!
Blush, ye heroes!
This is Denmark's holyday.
A VOICE.
But, hark! what sobbing and what mournful notes
Are mixing with our hymns of ardent joy!
Hush, hush, be still;
A band of white-rob'd maids approaches slow,
With lily chaplets round their yellow locks,
With heavy tear-drops in their sunken eye;
Broken and trembling sounds
The melancholy song,
Accompanied by harp-tones rising mild.
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