Posted are three renditions — one by a tenor, one by a soprano, and one by a mixed choir — of a beautiful song by the Danish composer Carl Nielsen. Nielsen composed over 290 songs and hymns, most of them based upon verses and poems by well-known Danish authors.
The song “Hjemvee (Underlige Aftenlufte!)” (translated as Homesickness; Odd and unknown evening breezes!) is a setting of a text by the Danish poet Adam Oehlenschläger. The poem was written in 1805 and was occasioned by homesickness Oehlenschläger suffered during a four-year trip to Germany, France, and Italy.
The lyrics (see below) express the following impressions and thoughts: The homesick poet is watching the sun set behind mountains in a foreign land. The evening breeze makes him think of similar evenings among beech trees in the woods in Denmark, his native land. He wonders, will he ever see them again?
The composer’s tempo instructions are “Sincerely, warmly (not too slowly).”
The Danish lyrics are as follows, followed by an English translation.
— Roger W. Smith
May 2018
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Underlige aftenlufte!
Hvorhen vinker I min Hu?
Milde, lune blomsterdufte!
sig, hvor hen I bølger nu.
Går I over hviden strand
til mit elskte fødeland?
Vil I der med eders bølger
tolke, hvad mit hjerte dølger?
Matte sol! bag bjergets stene
luerød du daler ned,
og nu sidder jeg alene
i min dunkle ensomhed.
Hjemme var der intet fjeld,
ak! så er jeg ude vel,
skal i nat ej barnligt blunde
i min Herthas grønne Lunde.
Norges søn! jeg vel kan mindes,
du har sagt med smeltet bryst,
at i hjemmet ene findes
rolighedens sande lyst.
Schweizer! som paa klippen bor,
du har talt de samme ord.
Hellig længsel drev med vælde
begge til de vante fjelde.
Tror I da, kun klipper ene
præger sig i hjertet ind?
Ak! fra disse nøgne stene
vender sig mit mørke sind.
Synger granens, fyrrens lov!
hvor er Danmarks bøgeskov?
Gustne flod, som her sig krummer,
dysser ej min sjæl i slummer.
Hjemme rinder ingen floder
i en sid og leret grav,
livets kilde, glædens moder
breder sig, det sølvblå hav,
slynger sig med venlig arm
om sin datters fulde barm,
og ved blomsten sig forlyster
på Sjølundas unge bryster.
Stille! stille! hisset gynger
båden mellem siv og krat,
sødt en mø ved cithren synger
i den tavse, lune nat.
Hvilke toner! milde lyst!
hvor du strømmer i mit bryst!
Men hvad savner jeg, og græder,
mens hun dog så venligt kvæder?
Det er ej den danske tunge,
det er ej de vante ord,
ikke dem, jeg hørte sjunge,
hvor ved hytten træet gror.
Bedre er de vel måske,
ak, men det er ikke de!
bedre, tror jeg vist, hun kvæder,
men tilgiver, at jeg græder!
Tager ej min sang for andet
end et ufrivilligt suk!
Længselsfuldt heniler vandet,
aftnen er så blid og smuk.
Mangen sådan aftenstund
sad jeg i min kære lund,
mindet vender nu tilbage,
det var årsag i min klage.
Tidlig misted jeg min moder,
ak! det gjorde mig så ve!
Danmark er min anden moder,
skal jeg mer min moder se?
Livet er så svagt og kort,
skæbnen vinker længer bort,
skal jeg med den sidste varme
slutte mig i hendes arme?
Wond’rous fragrance in the evening!
Something beckons in my mind!
Scent of flowers warmly wafting,
Tell me what your currents find.
Will you drift o’er plain and strand
To my distant motherland?
Will your odours there reveal
What my aching heart conceals?
Feeble sun! behind the mountains
Furnace-red you slowly sink.
Lone I sit by craggy fountains.
Lovely memory I drink.
Mountains are not in my home.
Ah, too long I must have roamed
And shan’t tonight sleep like a child
In my native arbour mild.
Listen! listen! over where
The boat is rocked twixt wood and reed,’
There a maiden plays her zither
In the gloaming mild and sweet.
Melodies with rapture blest!
Gently streaming in my breast!
But there’s something lost and missing
In the pleasant words she’s singing.
Please don’t take my song for other
Than a soft, unwilling sigh.
With a fervent rush the water
Foams beneath the evening sky,
Oftentimes at such an hour
Sat I in my shady bower.
Memory wells up, returning.
Causing all my hurt and yearning.
Early did I lose my mother.
Oh, it caused me woe and pain.
Demark is s my second mother.
Shall I see her once again?
Life, it is so short and weak.
Fortune calls, but does not speak.
Will I at the final gloaming
In her arms find rest from roaming?
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Note: Different sites and booklets give varying lyrics and translations. I am not sure if I have transcribed the lyrics as sung with complete accuracy. But, at least the English translation coveys the meaning of the lyrics.