Chapter 9
Viking-abode, I hail you with wonder! High-built the wall, broad sea-floor thereunder, Hall lit by sun-bows on waterfall vapors, Hangings of green,--your dwellers the drapers. Viking-born race,--'t is you I exalt!
It costs in under so high a vault A struggle long unto lordship stable; Not all who have tried to succeed, were able. It costs to recover the wealth of the fjord From wanton waste and in power to hoard. It costs;--but who conquers is made a man. I know there are that can.
HOLGER DRACHMANN (See Note 70)
Spring's herald, hail! You've rent the forest's quiet? Your hair is wet, and you are leaf-strewn, dusty ... With your powers lusty Have you raised a riot? What noise about you of the flood set free, That follows at your heels,--turn back and see: It spurts upon you! --Was it that you fought for? You were in there where stumps and trunks are rotting Where long the winter-graybeards have been plotting To prison safe that which a lock they wrought for. But power gave you Pan, the ancient god! They cried aloud and cursed your future lot? Your gallant feat they held a robber's fraud? --Each spring it happens; but is soon forgot.
You cast you down beside the salt sea's wave. It too is free; dances with joy to find you. You know the music well; for Pan resigned you His art one evening by a viking's grave.
But while on nature's loving lap you lie, The tramp of battle on the land you hear, You see the steamers as they northward steer With freedom's flag;--of your name comes a cry.
And so is torn between the two your breast:-- Freedom's bold fighters, who now proudly rally, In nature's life and legend dreamy rest; The former chide, the latter lures to dally.
Your songs sound, some as were a war-horn braying, Some softly purl like streams on reedy strand. Half nature-sprite and half as man you stand, The two not yet one law of life obeying.
But as you seem and as yourself you are (The faun's love that the viking's longing tinges), We welcome you, no lock is left nor bar,-- You bring along the door and both the hinges.
Just this it is that we are needing now: The spring, the spring! These stifling fumes we bear Of royal incense and of monkish snuff, Of corpses in romantic cloak and ruff, Are bad for morals and for lungs: Fresh air!
Rather a draught of Songs Venetian, cheerful, With southern wantonness and color-wonders,-- Rather "Two Shots" (although they make us fearful) Against our shallow breeding and its blunders.
Spring's herald, hail! come from the forest's choir, From ocean's roar, from armèd hosts and grim! Though sometimes carelessly you struck the lyre,-- Where rich growth is, one can the rank shoots trim. The small trolls jeer the gestures of a giant, I love you _so_,--unique and self-reliant.
+ A MEETING (See Note 71)
... O'er uplands fresh swift sped my sleigh ... A light snow fell; along the way Stood firs and birches slender. The former pondered deep, alone, The latter laughed, their white boughs shone;-- All brings a picture tender.
So light and free is now the air; Of all its burdens stripped it bare The snow with playful sally. I glimpse behind its veil so thin A landscape gay, and high within A snow-peak o'er the valley.
But from the border white and brown, Where'er I look, there's peeping down A face ... but whose, whose is it? I bore my gaze 'neath cap and brim And see the snowflakes swarm and swim;-- Will some one here me visit?
A star fell on my glove ... right here ... And here again ... its unlike peer; ... They will with riddles pose me. And smiles that in the air abound From eyes so good ... I look around ... 'T is memory besnows me.
The stars spin fine their filigree, Can hidden spirits in it be? There haunts me something awing ... You finer birch, you snow unstained, You purer air,--a soul you've gained? Who is it here now drawing
His features dear in nature's face, In all this fascinating grace, In falling stars that cheat me,-- In these white gleams that finely glance, In all this silent rhythmic dance? ... Hans Brecke!--comes to meet me.
THE POET (See Note 72)
The poet does the prophet's deeds; In times of need with new life pregnant, When strife and suffering are regnant, His faith with light ideal leads. The past its heroes round him posts, He rallies now the present's hosts, The future opes Before his eyes, Its pictured hopes He prophesies. Ever his people's forces vernal The poet frees,--by right eternal.
He turns the people's trust to doubt Of heathendom and Moloch-terror; 'Neath thought of God, cold-gray with error, He sees grow green each fresh, new sprout. Set free, these spread abroad, above, Bear fruit of power and of love In each man's soul, And make it warm And make it whole, In wrath transform, Till light and courage fill the nation: In _life_ is God's best revelation.
Away the kingly cloak he tears And on the people's shoulder places, So it no more need make grimaces To borrowed clothes some highness wears, But be itself its majesty In right of spirit-dynasty, In saga's light On heart and brain, In men of might From its loins ta'en, In will unbiased and unbroken, In manly deed and bold word spoken.
His songs the nation's sins chastise, He hates a lie, as truth's high teacher (No Sunday-, but a weekday-preacher, Who, suffering, still the wrong defies). Against false peace he plies his lance, 'Gainst cowardice and ignorance,-- No bribe he knows From nation's hand Nor king's command; But _his_ way goes. And when he wavers, sorrow scourges His heart and free of passion purges.
He is a brother of the small, Of women, as of all who suffer, The new and weak, when waves grow rougher, He steers, till fairer breezes fall. Greater he grows without his will By deeds his calling to fulfil, And near the tomb To God he sighs, That soon may rise A richer bloom To deck his people's soul with flowers Of beauty far beyond his powers.
PSALMS
I I seem to be Sundered from Thee, Thou Harmony of all creation. Am I disowned For talents loaned And useless hid in vain probation? Now powerless, In weariness, Now in despair a beggar humble For help, for cheer, A voice, an ear, To hear and guide, while on I stumble. God, let me be. Of use to Thee! If vain my purpose and my powers, Then sinks from sight My star,--and night Henceforth my steps enfolding lowers. Then break and bind My ravaged mind The terrors dread of doubt and anguish. I know the pack, I drove them back;-- Only to-day does courage languish. Oh, come now, peace! Come faith's increase, That life's strong chain shall ever bind me! That not in vain I strive and strain Myself to seek until I find me!
II Honor the springtide life ever adorning, That all things has made! Things smallest have some resurrectional morning, The forms alone fade. Life begets life, Potencies higher surprise. Kind begets kind, Heedless of time as it flies. Worlds pass away and arise.
Nothing so small but there's something still smaller, No one can see. Nothing so great but there's something still greater Beyond it can be. Worms in the earth-- Mountains to make they essay. Dust without worth, Sands with which sea-billows play,-- Founders of kingdoms were they.
Infinite all, where the smallest and greatest Oneness unfold. No one has seen what was first,--and the latest None shall behold. Laws underlie, Order the all they maintain. Need and supply Bring one another; our bane Boots to the general gain.
Eternity's offspring and germ are we all now. Thoughts have their true Roots in our race's first morning; they fall now, Query and clue, Freighted with seed Into eternity's soil; Joy be your meed, That your brief life's fleeting toil Fruit for eternity bears.
Join in the joy of all life, every being, Brief bloom of its spring! Honor th' eternal, our human lot freeing From fetters that cling! Adding your mite, With the eternal unite! Though you decay, Breathe as a moment you may, Air of eternity's day!
III
CHORUS
Who art _Thou_, whom a thousand names trace Through all times that are gone and each tongue? Thou wert infinite yearning's embrace, Thou wert hope when the yoke heavy hung, Thou wert darkening death-terror's guest, Thou wert sun that with life-gladness blessed. Still Thine image we changefully fashion, And each form we would call revelation; Each man holds his for true with deep passion,-- Till it crumbles in poignant negation.
SOLO
Who Thou art, none can tell. But I know Thou dost dwell As the limitless search in my soul--it is Thou!-- After justice and light, After victory's right For the new that's revealed, it is Thou, it is Thou! Every law that we see Or believe there may be, Though we never can knowledge attain, it is Thou!-- As my armor and aid Round my life they are laid, And with joy I avow, it is Thou, it is Thou!
CHORUS
Since we never Thine essence can know, We have thought mediators of Thee;-- But the ages their impotence show, We stand still, while no way we can see. If in sickness for succor we thirst, Is there balm in the dreams that have burst? Stars of hope and of longing eternal, That we saw o'er life's sorrows arisen, Shall they sink in death's terrors nocturnal, Only turn into worms in our prison?
SOLO He that liveth in me, Needeth no one to be Mediator; I own Him indeed: it is Thou! Is eternal hope prized As from Him; is baptized By His spirit my own,--is it Thou, is it Thou --: Shall not I, who am dust, His eternity trust? I take humbly my law; for I know, it is Thou! Was I worth Thy word: Live! Let Thy life power give, When Thou wilt, as Thou wilt,--it is Thou, it is Thou!
QUESTION AND ANSWER
THE CHILD
Father! Within the forest's bound No bird I found, No sound of song the woods around.
THE FATHER
The bird that glad his song us gave, Flies o'er the wave; Perhaps he there will find his grave.
THE CHILD
But why does he not wait till later?
THE FATHER
He goes where light and warmth are greater
THE CHILD
Father! It selfish seems to me, Far off to flee, When all we others here must be.
THE FATHER
With new-born spring comes new-born song; By instinct strong The better new he'll bring erelong.
THE CHILD
But if in death the cold waves swallow--?
THE FATHER
Others will come; his kin will follow.
SUNG FOR NORWAY'S RIFLEMEN (1881) (See Note 73)
Fly the banner, fly the banner! For our freedom fight! 'Neath the banner, 'neath the banner, Riflemen unite! Graybeard in the Storting Gives his vote for right and truth, Rifle-voice supporting Of our armèd youth. Music runeful Ring out tuneful Bullets sent point-blank, Fiery coursing, Freedom forcing Way to royal rank; They from silent valleys To the Storting's rallies Bring the clear "Rah! Rah!" And there clamors o'er us Loud the rifle chorus, Piercing and repeated: "Rah! Rah! Rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah."
As the lingering echo rattles, Listens sure our Mother Norway, That her sons can go the war-way, Fight her freedom's future battles.
WORKMEN'S MARCH (See Note 74)
Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. That makes _one_ of many, many, That makes bold, if fear daunts any, That makes small the load and lighter, That makes near the goal and brighter, Till it greets us gained with laughter, And we seek the next one after.
Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. Marching, marching of few hundreds, No one heeds it, never one dreads; Marching, marching of few thousands, Here and there wakes some to hearing; Marching, marching hundred thousands,-- All will mark that thunder nearing.
Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. Let us march all, never weaken Time from Vardö down to Viken, Vinger up to Bergen's region,-- Let us make _one_ marching legion, Then we'll rout some wrong from Norway, Open wide to right the doorway.
THE LAND THAT SHALL BE (DEDICATED TO HERMAN ANKER AND M. ANKER ON THE OCCASION OF THEIR SILVER-WEDDING, SEPTEMBER 15, 1888) (See Note 75)
Land that shall be Thither, when thwarted our longings, we sail,-- Sighs to the clouds, that we breathe when we fail, Form a mirage of rich valley and mead Over our need,-- Visions revealing the future until Faith shall fulfil,-- The land that shall be.
Land that shall be! All of our labor to sow seeds of gain Grows in the ages when _our_ names shall wane, Gathered with others', 't is stored in the true Will to renew. This then shall carry our labor within, Safely within The land that shall be.
Land that shall be! Tears that are shed over evil's foul blight, Blood-sweat in conflict to win higher right, Hallow the will unto victory's cost. Let us be lost, Rooting out wrong, that the good we may sow, Soon overgrow The land that shall be.
Land that shall be! Looming in beauty of colors and song, Golden in sunlight that glad makes and strong, Present in children's eyes, looking to-day Down when you pray. Winning good victories gives us the power To own a brief hour The land that shall be.
YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN, STRONG AND SOUND
Young men and women, strong and sound, Adorn with beautiful excess Of play and song and flower-dress Our fatherland's ancestral ground. They dream great deeds of ages older, They long to lead to battles bolder.
Young men and women, strong and sound, Our nation's honor are, in whom Our whole life has its better bloom, Rebirth upon our fathers' ground Of them of yore. Anew there flower The old in young folks' summer-power.
Young men and women, strong and sound, Can doubly do our deeds and fill With higher hope for all we will,-- Are growth in character's deep ground, To larger life drawn by the spirit They from our forefathers inherit.
NORWAY, NORWAY (See Note 76)
Norway, Norway, Rising in blue from the sea's gray and green, Islands around like fledglings tender, Fjord-tongues with slender, Tapering tips in the silence seen. Rivers, valleys, Mate among mountains, wood-ridge and slope Wandering follow. Where the wastes lighten, Lake and plain brighten Hallow a temple of peace and hope. Norway, Norway, Houses and huts, not castles grand, Gentle or hard, Thee we guard, thee we guard, Thee, our future's fair land.
Norway, Norway, Glistening heights where skis swiftly go, Harbors with fishermen, salts, and craftsmen, Rivers and raftsmen, Herdsmen and horns and the glacier-glow. Moors and meadows, Runes in the woodlands, and wide-mown swaths, Cities like flowers, streams that run dashing Out to the flashing White of the sea, where the fish-school froths. Norway, Norway, Houses and huts, not castles grand, Gentle or hard, Thee we guard, thee we guard, Thee, our future's fair land.
MASTER OR SLAVE
Lo, this land that lifts around it Threatening peaks, while stern seas bound it, With cold winters, summers bleak, Curtly smiling, never meek, 'Tis the giant we must master, Till he work our will the faster. He shall carry, though he clamor, He shall haul and saw and hammer, Turn to light the tumbling torrent,-- All his din and rage abhorrent Shall, if we but do our duty, Win for us a realm of beauty.
IN THE FOREST
List to the forest-voice murmuring low: All that it saw when alone with its laughter, All that it suffered in times that came after, Mournful it tells, that the wind may know.
WHEN COMES THE MORNING? (FROM IN GOD'S WAY) (See Note 77)
_When_ comes the real morning? When golden, the sun's rays hover Over the earth's snow-cover, And where the shadows nestle, Wrestle, Lifting lightward the root enringèd Till it shall seem an angel wingèd, Then it is morning, Real, real morning. But if the weather is bad And my spirit sad, Never morning I know. No.
Truly, it's real morning, When blossom the buds winter-beaten, The birds having drunk and eaten Are glad as they sing, divining Shining Great new crowns to the tree-tops given, Cheering the brooks to the broad ocean riven. Then it is morning, Real, real morning. But if the weather is bad And my spirit sad, Never morning I know. No.
_When_ comes the real morning? When power to conquer parries Sorrow and storm, and carries Sun to the soul, whose burning Yearning Opens in love and calls to others: Good to be unto all as brothers. _Then_ it is morning, Real, real morning. Greatest power you know --And most dangerous, lo!-- Will you _this_ then possess? Yes.
MAY SEVENTEENTH (1883) (See Note 78)
Wergeland's statue on May seventeenth Saw the procession. And as its rear-guard, Slow marching masses, Strong men, and women with flower-decked presence; Come now the peasants, come now the peasants.
Österdal's forest's magnificent chieftain Bore the old banner. Soon as we see it Blood-red uplifted, Greet it the thousands in thought of its story: That is our glory, that is our glory!
Never that lion bore crown that was foreign, Never that cloth was by Dannebrog cloven. I saw the _future_, When with that banner by Wergeland's column Peasants stood solemn, peasants stood solemn.
Most of our loss in the times that have vanished, Most of our victories, most of our longing, Most that is vital: Deeds of the past and the future's bold daring Peasants are bearing, peasants are bearing.
Sorely they suffered for sins once committed, But they arise now. Here in the Storting Stalwart they prove it, All, as they come from our land's every region, Peasants Norwegian, peasants Norwegian.
Hold what they won, with a will to go farther; Whole we must have independence and honor! All of us know it: Wergeland's summer bears soon its best flower,-- Power in peasants, peasants in power.
FREDERIK HEGEL (See Note 79)
I DEDICATION
You never came here; but I go Here often and am met by you. Each room and road here must renew The thought of you and your form show Standing with helpful hand extended, As when long since in trust and deed My home you from my foes defended.
...
So often, while I wrote this book, The light shone from your genial eye; Then we were one, both you and I And what in silence being took; So here and there the book possesses Your spirit and your heart's fresh faith, And therefore now your name it blesses.
I love the air, when growing colder It, clear and high, The purer sky Broadens with sense of freedom bolder.
I find in forests joy the keenest In autumn days When fancy plays, And not when they are young and greenest.
I knew a man: in autumn clearness His even course,-- His heart's fine force Like autumn sky in soft-hued sheerness.
His memory is, as--when a-swarming The cold blasts first Of winter burst-- The gentle flame my room first warming.
When all our outward longings falter, And summer's mind Within we find, Is friendship's feast round autumn's altar.
OUR LANGUAGE (1900) (See Note 80)
Thou, who sailest Norse mountain-air, And Denmark's songs by the cradle singest, Who badest in Hald the war-flames flare, And, heard in our children's joy, gently ringest,-- Thou treasure of treasures, Our mother-tongue, In pains as in pleasures Our home and our tower, With God our power,-- We hallow thee!
Whispering secrets that Holberg stored, Thou borest him home to a brighter morning, Didst serve him with armor and whet his sword For satire's assaults and for laughter's warning. Thou spirit all knowing, Our mother-tongue, The ages foregoing, The future now growing, The present glowing,-- We hallow thee!
Kierkegaard thou to the deeps didst bring, Where life's full currents in God he sounded. For Wergeland wert thou the eagle's wing, That lifted him sunward to heights unbounded. Thou treasure of treasures, Our mother-tongue, In pain as in pleasures Our home and our tower, With God our power,-- We hallow thee!
Radiant warmth of a May-day Thou to the spring of our freedom gavest. In thy clearness our Norse flags aye With song and honor afar thou wavest. Thou spirit all knowing, Our mother-tongue, The ages foregoing, The future now growing, The present glowing,-- We hallow thee!
O'er the ocean unrollest thou Thy carpet of flowers, a bridge that nigher Can bring dear friends to meet even now,-- While faith grows greater and heaven higher. Thou treasure of treasures, Our mother-tongue, In pain as in pleasures Our home and our tower, With God our power,-- We hallow thee!
Best of friends that I found wert thou; Thou waitedst for me in the eyes of mother. And leave me last of them all wilt thou, Who knewest me better than any other. Thou spirit all knowing, Our mother-tongue, The ages foregoing, The future now growing, The present glowing,-- We hallow thee!
NOTES
PREFATORY
Björnstjerne Björnson was born in 1832 and died in 1909. The last edition of his Poems and Songs in his lifetime is the fourth, dated 1903. It is a volume of two hundred pages, containing one hundred and forty-one pieces, arranged in nearly chronological order from 1857, or just before, to 1900. Of these almost two-thirds appeared in the first edition (1870), ending with Good Cheer and including ten pieces omitted in the other editions, eight poems and two lyrical passages from the drama King Sverre; the second edition (1880) added the contents in order through Question and Answer and inserted earlier The Angels of Sleep; the third (1900) extended the additions to include Frederik Hegel.
This translation presents in the same order the contents of the fourth edition, with the exception of the following ten pieces:
Bryllupsvise Nr. I. Bryllupsvise Nr. II. Bryllupsvise Nr. III. Bryllupsvise Nr. IV. Bryllupsvise Nr. V. De norske studenter til fru Louise Heiberg. De norske studenters hilsen med fakkeltog til deres kgl. höiheder kronprins Frederik og kronprinsesse Louise. Til sorenskriver Mejdells sölvbryllup. Nytaarsrim til rektor Steen. Til maleren Hans Gudes og frues guldbryllup.
Nine of these are occasional longs in the narrowest sense, with little or no general interest, and showing hardly any of the author's better qualities: five Wedding Songs, a Betrothal Song, a Silver-Wedding Song, a Golden-Wedding Song, and a Students' Song of Greeting to Mrs. Louise Heiberg. The tenth, a characteristic, rather long poem of vigor and value, New Year's Epistle in Rhyme to Rector Steen, is extremely difficult to render into English verse.
The translator has thought it best not to include any of Björnson's lyric productions not contained in the collection published with his sanction during his life, the other lyrics in his tales, dramas. and novels, many occasional short poems in periodicals and newspapers which were abandoned by their author to their fugitive fate, two noble lyrical cantatas, and a few fine poems written after the year 1900.