Chapter 7

What's true and strong has growing-room, And will perhaps eternal bloom, Without black ink's salvation, And he will be, who least it planned, But in life's surging dared to stand, The best bard for his nation.

I heard once of a Spanish feast: Within the ring a rustic beast, A horse, to fight was fated; In came a tiger from his cage, Who walked about, his foe to gauge, And crouching down, then waited.

The people clapped and laughed and cheered, The tiger sprang, the horse upreared, But none could see him bleeding; The tiger tumbling shrinks and backs Before the horse's rustic whacks, Lies on his head naught heeding.

Then men and women hooted, hissed, With glaring eyes and clenchèd fist Out o'er the balcony bending; With shouts the tiger's heart they tease, Their thirst for blood soon to appease, To onset new him sending.

The people clapped and laughed and cheered The tiger sprang, the horse upreared; No blood to see was given, For fortune held the horse too dear, To him the tiger could not near, In flying curves hoof-driven.

To say who won I will not try; For lo, this rustic horse am I, And on the conflict's going;-- The city, though, where it occurs, And where it cheers and laughter stirs, Is known without my showing.

I fight, but have no hate or spite, From what I love draw gladness bright, My right to wrath reserving. It is my blood, my soul, that goes In every line of all my blows, And guides their course unswerving.

But as I stand here now to-day, Nor grudge nor vengeance can me sway, To think that foes I'm facing. So in return some friendship give To one who for the _cause_ would live, With love the North embracing!

But first my poet-path shall be With veneration unto _thee_, Who fill'st the North with wonder; In wrath thou dawn didst prophesy Behind the North's dark morning-sky, That lightnings shook and thunder.

Then, milder, thou, by sea and slope, The fount of saga, faith, and hope Mad'st flow for every peasant;-- Now from the snow-years' mountain-side Thou seest with time's returning tide Thine own high image present.

To _thee_, then, in whose spring of song Finland's "the thousand lakes" belong And sound their thrilling sorrow:-- Our Northern soul forever heard Keeps watch and ward in poet's word 'Gainst Eastern millions' morrow.

But when I stand in our own home, One greets me from the starry dome With wealth of light and power. There shines he: HENRIK WERGELAND, Out over Norway's pallid strand In memory's clear hour.

OLD HELTBERG (See Note 50)

I went to a school that was little and proper, Both for church and for state a conventional hopper, Feeding rollers that ground out their grist unwaiting; And though it was clear from the gears' frequent grating They rarely with oil of the spirit were smeared, Yet no other school in that region appeared. We _had_ to go there till older;--though sorry, I went there also,--but reveled in Snorre.

The self-same books, the same so-called education, That teacher after teacher, by decrees of power royal, Into class after class pounds with self-negation, And that only bring promotion to them that are loyal!-- The self-same books, the same so-called education, Quickly molding to one type all the men in the land, An excellent fellow who on _one_ leg can stand, And as runs an anchor-rope reel off his rote-narration!-- The self-same books, the same so-called education From Hammerfest to Mandal--('tis the state's creation Of an everything-and-every-one-conserving dominion, Wherein all the finer folk have but one opinion!)-- The self-same books, the same so-called education My comrades devoured; but my appetite failed me, And that fare I refused, till, to cure what had ailed me, Home leaving I leaped o'er those bars of vexation. What I met on the journey, what I thought in each case, What arose in my soul in the new-chosen place, Where the future was lying,--this to tell is refractory, But I'll give you a picture of the "student factory."

Full-bearded fellows of thirty near died of Their hunger for lore, as they slaved by the side of Rejected aspirants with faces hairless, Like sparrows in spring, scatter-brained and careless. --Vigorous seamen whose adventurous mind First drove them from school that real life they might find-- But now to cruise wide on the sea they were craving, Where the flag of free thought o'er all life wide is waving. --Bankrupted merchants who their books had wooed In their silent stores, till their creditors sued And took from them their goods. Now they studied "on credit." Beside them dawdling dandies. Near in scorn have I said it! --"Non-Latin" law-students, young and ambitious, "Prelims," theologs, with their preaching officious; --Cadets that in arm or in leg had a hurt; --Peasants late in learning but now in for a spurt:-- _Here_ they all wished through their Latin to drive In _one_ year or in two,--not in eight or in five. They hung over benches, 'gainst the walls they were lying, In each window sat two, one the edge was just trying Of his new-sharpened knife on an ink-spattered desk. Through two large open rooms what a spectacle grotesque!

At one end, half in dreams, Aasmund Olavsen Vinje's Long figure and spare, a contemplative genius; Thin and intense, with the color of gypsum, And a coal-black, preposterous beard, Henrik Ibsen. I, the youngest of the lot, had to wait for company Till a new litter came in, after Yule Jonas Lie.

But the "boss" who ruled there with his logical rod, "Old Heltberg" himself, was of all the most odd! In his jacket of dog's skin and fur-boots stout He waged a hard war with his asthma and gout. No fur-cap could hide from us his forehead imperious, His classical features, his eye's power mysterious. Now erect in his might and now bowed by his pain, Strong thoughts he threw out, and he threw not in vain. If the suffering grew keener and again it was faced By the will in his soul, and his body he braced Against onset after onset, then his eyes were flaming And his hands were clenched hard, as if deep were his shaming That he seemed to have yielded! Oh, then we were sharing Amazed all the grandeur of conflict, and bearing Home with us a symbol of the storms of that age, When "Wergeland's wild hunt" o'er our country could rage! There was power in the men who took part in that play, There was will in the power that then broke its way. Now alone he was left, forgotten in his corner:-- But in deeds was a hero,--let none dare to be his scorner! He freed thought from the fetters that the schools inherit, Independent in teaching, he led by the spirit; Personality unique: for with manner anarchic He carved up the text; and absolute-monarchic Was his wrath at mistakes; but soon it subsided, Or, controlled, into noblest pathos was guided, Which oft turned in recoil into self-irony And a downpour of wit letting no one go free.-- So he governed his "horde," so we went through the country, The fair land of the classics, that we harried with effront'ry! How Cicero, Sallust, and Virgil stood in fear On the forum, in the temple, when we ravaging drew near! 'T was again. the Goths' invasion to the ruin of Rome, It was Thor's and Odin's spirit over Jupiter's home, --And the old man's "grammar" was a dwarf-forged hammer, When he swung it and smote with sparks, flames, and clamor. The herd of "barbarians" he thus headed on their way Had no purpose to settle and just there to stay. "Non-Latins" they remained, by no alien thought enslaved, And found their true selves, as the foreign foes they braved.

In conquering the language we learned the laws of thought, And following him, his fine longing we caught For wanderings and wonders, all the conqueror's zeal, To win unknown lands and their mysteries reveal. Each lesson seemed a vision that henceforth was ours, Inspiring each youth's individual powers. His pictures made pregnant our creative desire, His wit was our testing in an ordeal of fire, His wisdom was our balance, to weigh things great and small, His pathos told of passions, burning, but held in thrall,

Oft the stricken hero scarce his tedious toil could brook, He wished to go and write, though it were but a single book, To show a _little_ what he was, and show it to the world: He loosed his cable daily, but ne'er his sails unfurled.

His "grammar" was not printed! And he passed from mortal ken To where the laws of thought are not written with a pen. His "grammar" was not printed! But the life that it had, In ink's prolonging power did not need to be clad. It lived in his soul, so mighty, so warm, That a thousand books' life seems but poor empty form. It lives in a host of independent men, To whose thought he gave life and who give it again In the school, at the bar, in the church, and Storting's hall, In poetry and art,--whose deeds and lifework all Have proved to be the freer and the broader in their might, Because Heltberg had given their youth higher flight.

FOR THE WOUNDED (1871) (See Note 51)

A still procession goes Amid the battle's booming, Its arm the red cross shows; It prays in many forms of speech, And, bending o'er the fallen, Brings peace and home to each.

Not only is it found Where bleed the wounds of battle, But all the world around. It is the love the whole world feels In noble hearts and tender, While gentle pity kneels;--

It is all labor's dread Of war's mad waste and murder, Praying that peace may spread; It is all sufferers who heed The sighing of a brother, And know his sorrow's need;--

It is each groan of pain Heard from the sick and wounded, 'T is Christian prayer humane; It is their cry who lonely grope, 'T is the oppressed man's moaning, The dying breath of hope;--

This rainbow-bridge of prayers Up through the world's wild tempest In light of Christ's faith bears: That love and loving deeds May conquer strife and passion; For thus His promise reads.

LANDFALL (See Note 52)

And that was Olaf Trygvason, Going o'er the North Sea grim, Straight for his home and kingdom steering, Where none awaited him. Now the first mountains tower; Are they walls, on the ocean that lower?

And that was Olaf Trygvason, Fast the land seemed locked at first, All of his youthful, kingly longings Doomed on the cliffs to burst,-- Until a skald discovered Shining domes in the cloud-mists, that hovered.

And that was Olaf Trygvason, Seemed to see before his eyes Mottled and gray some timeless temple Lifting white domes to the skies. Sorely he longed to win it, Stand and hallow his young faith within it.

TO HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (AT A SUMMER-FÊTE FOR HIM IN CHRISTIANIA, 1871) (See Note 53)

We welcome you this wondrous summer-day, When childhood's dreams on earth are streaming, To bloom and sing, to brighten and to pale; A fairy-tale, A fairy-tale, our Northland all is seeming, And holds you in its arms a festal space With grateful glee and whisperings face to face. Th' angelic noise, Sweet strains of children's joys, Bears you a moment to that home Whence all our dreams, whence all our dreams have come.

We welcome you! Our nation all is young, Still in that age of dreams enthralling, When greatest things in fairy-tales are nursed, And he is first, And he is first, who hears his Lord's high calling. Of childhood's longings you the meaning know, And to the North a goal of greatness show. Your fantasy Has just that path made free, Where, past the small things that you hate, We yet shall find, we yet shall find the great.

TO STANG (1871) (See Note 54)

May Seventeenth in Eidsvold's church united, To hallow after fifty years the day When they who there our charter free indited, Together for our land were met to pray,-- We both were there with thanks to those great men, With thanks to God, who to our people then In days of danger courage gave unbounded.

And when so mighty through the church now sounded "Praise ye the Lord!" lifting our pallid prayer To fellowship with all her sons, our brothers, I saw you, child-like, weep in secret there Upon the breast we love, our common mother's.

Then I remembered that from boyhood's hour With all your strength to serve her you have striven, Your youthful fire, your counsel cool have given, And till it waned, your manhood's wealth of power. With blessing then and praise of you I thought In thankful prayer, as one of those who fought To shield our land from storms of fate's hard weather, Till 'neath the roof in peace we sat together.

Of you I thought;--but so think few and fewer. Your manhood's fame ere you yourself has crumbled, And you, alas, will not find justice truer, Till you and yours one day have fallen, humbled.

For see, the roads you drew o'er hill and plain For all our people's onward-pressing longing, You dare not travel with the joyous train, That greater grows while towards its future thronging. You knew not what it was your labor wrought, When steam and powder, bursting every barrier, Gave new-born cravings each its speedy carrier And to the people's spirit power brought. The new day's work, as 't were the tempest's welter, In din about you seemed a dream, a fable, And with your like you built in fear a shelter From soul-unrest, a looming tower of Babel.

While now you wait for the impending fight, With gentle eye and stately head all hoary, And o'er the mountains gleams the morning's glory,-- Your foes half hid amid the mists of night,-- As from an outpost in the wooded wild, These words I send, of peace a token mild.

You fear the people? 'Tis your own that rally, And like the fog arisen from the valley. You think them rebels, void of sense and oneness? Yes, spring's full floods obey no rule precise; Storm-squalls and slush render the roads less nice, The snow's pure white is partly soiled to dunness. But spring is born! The man of genius free, Prophetic, heeds its holy harmony; For genius shares the soul of what shall be. This you have not and never had an hour, And so you shrink before the people's power.

You were a foreman with the gift of leading, When pioneers cleared up a pathless tract; Your lucid thinking and your gracious tact Oft helped them over obstacles impeding. But what new growths the ancient fields have filled, From western seed to feed our land's wants tilled, And what new light shines through your window-pane, Longing for truth beneath religion's reign, And what new things but whispering we say,-- And what foretells the dawning reckoning-day,-- You fail to understand and find but madness In our young nation's fairest growth and gladness.

You answer: Poet's deeming is but dreaming, And in the statesman's art most unbeseeming. I answer: None has might men's life to sway, If impotent the worth of dreams to weigh. From cravings, powers that seek their form, ascending, They fill the air; their right to be defending, Till all men wakened to one goal are tending. His nation's dreams are all the statesman's life, Create his might, direct his aim in strife, And if he this forgets, the next dreams blooming Bring forth another, unto death him dooming.

The tempest-clouds that mount afresh and thicken Cannot so dense before the morn's light hover That we may not through cloud-rifts clear discover Great thoughts that new-born victories shall quicken.

Such thoughts are radiant over me to-day, And to my heart the warmer blood is streaming, And all we live for, all that we are dreaming, Its summons sends and strengthens for the fray.

The war-horns soon beneath the woods shall bray, Through dewy night th' assailing columns dash, Amid the sudden gleams of shot and slash The fog dissolve before our new-born day.

Soon, though you threaten, will the heights be taken For future ages, and our nation's soul Can thence o'erlook the land in might unshaken, With even hand and right to rule the whole. It soon shall roll war's billows on to battle, While from the clouds the fathers' weapons rattle! O aged man, look round you where you stand, For soon you have against you all our land.

But when you fall defeated on the field, Then shall we say by your inverted shield: He stood against us, since he knew not better, A noble knight and never honor's debtor.

ON A WIFE'S DEATH (See Note 55) With death's dark eye acquainted she had been made ere this, When to her son, her first-born, she gave the farewell kiss, And when afar she hastened beside her mother's bed, It followed all her faring with warning fraught and dread; It filled her with foreboding when standing by the bier: More sheaves to gather hopeth the harvester austere. So soon she saw her husband, that man of strength, succumb, She said with sorrow stricken: « I knew that it would come!" She thought that he was chosen by God from earth to go, Would check, her hands upthrusting, the harsh behest of woe; And with her slender body, too weak for such a strife, Would ward her gallant consort,--and gave for him her life.

She smiled, serene and blissful, as death's dark eye she braved; Her sacrifice was given, her heart's proud hero saved. Our love and admiration lifted a starry dome Of happiness above her in life's last hour of gloam, And snow-white pure she passed then to her eternal home. Such tender love and holy to heaven's bounds can bear The souls that it embraces in sacrifice and prayer.

THE BIER OF PRECENTOR A. REITAN (1872) (See Note 56)

With smiles his soft eyes ever gleamed, When God and country thinking; With endless joy, his soul, it seemed, Faith, fatherland, was linking. His word, his song, Like springs flowed strong; They fruitful made the valley long, And quickened all there drinking.

Poor people and poor homes among In wintry region saddest, In Sunday's choir he always sung, Of all the world the gladdest: "The axis stout It turns about, Falls not the poorest home without, For thus, O God, Thou badest."

With sickness came a heavy year And put to proof his singing, While helpless children standing near His trust to test were bringing. But glad the more, As soft notes soar When winds o'er hidden harp-strings pour, His song his soul was winging.

His life foretold us that erelong With faith in God unshaken Shall all our nation stand in song, And church, home, school, awaken, In Norway's song, In gladness' song, In glory of the Lord's own song, From life's low squalor taken.

Fair fatherland, do not forget, The children of his bower! He, poor as is the rosebush, yet Gave gladness till death's hour-- With failure's smart Let not depart From this thy soil so glad a heart,-- His garden, let it flower!

SONG

Song brings us light with the power of lending Glory to brighten the work that we find; Song brings us warmth with the power of rending Rigor and frost in the swift-melting mind. Song is eternal with power of blending Time that is gone and to come in the soul, Fills it with yearnings that flow without ending, Seeking that sea where the light-surges roll.

Song brings us union, while gently beguiling Discord and doubt on its radiant way; Song brings us union and leads, reconciling Battle-glad passions by harmony's sway, Unto the beautiful, valiant, and holy --Some can pass over its long bridge of light Higher and higher to visions that solely Faith can reveal to the spirit's pure sight.

Songs from the past of the past's longings telling, Pensive and sad cast a sunset's red glow; Present time's longings in sweet music dwelling, Grateful the soul of the future shall know. Youth of all ages in song here are meeting, Sounding in tone and in word their desire; --More than we think, from the dead bringing greeting, Gather to-night in our festival choir.

ON THE DEATH OF N. F. S. GRUNDTVIG (1872) (See Note 57)

E'en as the Sibyl in Northland-dawn drew Forth from the myth-billows gliding, Told all the past, all the future so true, Sank with the lands' last subsiding,-- Prophecies leaving, eternally new, Still abiding

Thus goes his spirit the Northland before,-- Though, that he sank, we have tiding,-- Visions unfolding like sun-clouds, when o'er Sea-circled lands they are riding, Northern lands' future, till time is no more, Ever guiding.

FROM THE CANTATA FOR N. F. S. GRUNDTVIG (1872)

His day was the greatest the Northland has seen, It one was with the midnight-sun's wonders serene: The light wherein he sat was the light of God's true peace, And that has never morning, nor night when it must cease.

In light of God's peace shone the _history_ he gave, The spirit's course on earth that shall conquer the grave. Might of God's pure peace thus our _fathers'_ mighty way Before us for example and warning open lay.

In light of God's peace he beheld with watchful eye The people at their work and the spirit's strivings high. In light of God's pure peace he would have all learning glow, And where his word is honored the "Folk-High-Schools" must grow.

In light of God's peace stood 'mid sorrow and care For Denmark's folk his comfort, a castle strong and fair; In light of God's pure peace there shall once again be won And thousand-fold increased, what seems lost now and undone.

In light of God's peace stands his patriarch-worth, The sum and the amen of a manful life on earth. In light of God's pure peace how his face shone, lifted up, When white-haired at the altar he held th' atoning cup.

In light of God's peace came his word o'er the wave, In light of God's pure peace sound the sweet psalms he gave. In light of God's pure peace, as its sunbeam curtains fall To hide him from us, stands now his memory for all.

AT A BANQUET FOR PROFESSOR LUDV. KR. DAA (See Note 58)

Youthful friends here a circle form, Elder foes now surrender. Feel among us in safety, warm, Toward you our hearts are tender. Once again on a hard-fought day Hero-like you have led the way, Smiting all that before you stood;-- But now be good!

With no hubbub, without champagne, Dress-suit, and party-collar, We would honor o'er viands plain Grateful our "grand old scholar"! When all quiet are wind and wave, Seldom we see this pilot brave;-- When storm-surges our ship might whelm, He takes the helm!

--Takes the helm and through thick and thin (Clear are his old eyes burning), Steers the course with his trusty "grin," Straight, where the others are turning! Thanks gave to him I know not who, For he scolded the skipper, too!-- Back he went to his home right soon: We had the boon.

He has felt what it is to go Hated, till truth gains the battle; He has felt what it is to know Blows that from both sides rattle. He has felt what the cost is, so Forward the present its path to show: He, whose strength had such heights attained, Stood all disdained.

Would that Norway soon grew so great That it with justice rewarded Heroes who its true weal create, Who are no laggards sordid. Shall we always so slowly crawl, Split forever in factions small, Idly counting each ill that ails?-- No! Set the sails!

Set the sails for the larger life, Whereto our nation has power! Daily life is with death but rife, If there's not growth every hour. Rally to war for the cause of right, Sing 'neath the standard of honor bright, Sail with faith in our God secure, And strong endure

OH, WHEN WILL YOU STAND FORTH? (See Note 59)

Oh, when will you stand forth, who with strength can bring aid, To strike down the injustice and lies That my house have beset, and with malice blockade Every pathway I out for my powers have laid, And would hidden means find With deceit and with hate To set watch on my mind And defile every plate In my beautiful home where defenseless we wait?