III

O Vandringsmand i een forbandet Nat Troe ey at hans Had dig vild skaane Hans Rov vild ey vaere nogen anden End dig - Der vild skiælve i hans vær I uselt Haab om at Huus er nær End dig - Hvis Blod skald blifve hans stærke Viin Oc Siæl, hans hellige Trofé Faafængt han lader dig gyde Ut dit Blod i Smertens Sin Saa du som død ey Sofnloest kand Fortælde Frænder: "Ulven er ham!" Som Offer for Beistets Krav Dit Blod vild rende koldt som Bæcl i Grav Gud er ey her, men Døden nær Oc hvert Secund som her Er undt dig - Skimrer i et dobbelt Skiær Aff baade Liiv & Død Rasende lader han Bliket binde Løfter dit i Maaneskinnet ---------- O Wanderer in this infernal Night Believe not his Hate will spare thee His prey shall be no one But thee - Who shall tremble when he is near In foolish hope for shelter And thou - Whose bloode strong wine shall be Thy Soule, his sacred Trophie In vein he lets thee shed Thy bloode in this Sea of Payne Then shalt thou not haunt thine friends Revealing: "The Wolf is he!" Coldlie thy bloode shall flow As streams through Graves below God is not here, but death draws near And secondes are O, so few In a Nature twofold they shine Beginning and End combine Fool, thou art prostrate By the raging eyne of his Lifted upwards Rapt in Moonshine