Poems and Songs Part 25

For just because we encounter The storm-blasts of slander stark, It's "knightly duty" to free now The flag from the marring mark.

The "parity" that mark preaches Flies false over all the seas; A pan-Scandinavian Sweden Can never our nation please.

From "knightly duty" the smaller Must say: I am not a part; The mark of my freedom and honor Is whole for my mind and heart.

From "knightly duty" the greater Must say: A falsehood's fair sign Can give me no special honor, No longer shall it be mine.

For both it is "knightly duty,"

With flags that are pure, to be A warring world's bright example Of peoples at peace, proud and free.

TO MISSIONARY SKREFSRUD IN SANTALISTAN (See Note 67)

I honor you, who, though refused, affronted, Have heard the voice, and victory have won; I honor you, who still by malice hunted, Show miracles of faith and power done.

I honor you, G.o.d-thirsting soul so driven, 'Mid scorn and need the spirit's war to wage; I honor you, by Gudbrand's valley given, And of her sons the foremost in this age.

I do not share your faith, your daring dreaming; This parts us not, the spirit's paths are broad.

For, all things great and n.o.ble round us streaming, I worship them, because I worship G.o.d.

POST FESTUM (See Note 68)

A man in coat of ice arrayed Stood up once by the Arctic Ocean; The whole earth shook with proud emotion And honor to the giant paid.

A king came, to him climbing up, An Order in his one hand bearing: "Who great become, this sign are wearing."

--The growling giant said but "Stop!"

The frightened king fell down again, Began to weep with features ashen: "My Order is in this rude fashion Refused by just the greatest men.

"My dear man, take it, 't is but fit, Of your king's honor be the warder; On your breast greater grows the Order, And we who bear it, too, by it."--

The Arctic giant was too good,-- A foible oft ascribed to giants, Who foolish trust in little clients,-- He took it,--while we mocking stood.

But all the kings crept to him then, And each his Order brought, to know it Thereby renewed and greater, so it Gave rank to needy n.o.blemen.

_Honi soit_ ... and all the rest; Soon Orders covered all his breast.

But oh! they greater grew no t.i.ttle, And he grew so confounded little.

ROMSDAL (See Note 69)

Come up on deck! The morning is clear,-- Memory wakes, as the landmarks appear.

How many the islands, green and cheery, The salt-licking skerries, weed-wound, smeary!

On this side, on that side, they frolic before us, Good friends, but wild,--in frightened chorus Sea-fowl shriek round us, a flying legion.

We are in a region Of storms historic, unique for aye.

We fare the fishermen's venturesome way!

Far out the bank and the big fish shoaling, The captain narrates; and just now unrolling Sails run to sh.o.r.e a swift racing match;-- Good is the catch.

Yes, yes,--I recognize them again, Romsdal's boats' weather-beaten men.

They _know_ how to sail, when need's at hand.

But I'm forgetting to look towards land!

-- -- -- It whelms the sight Like lightning bright,-- In memory graven, but not so great.

Wherever I suffer my eyes to wander, Stand mountain-giants, both here and yonder, The loin of one by the other's shoulder, Naught else to where earth and sky are blending.

The dread of a world's din daunts the beholder; The silence vastens the vision unending.

Some are in white and others in blue, With pointed tops that emulous tower; Some ma.s.s their power, In marching columns their purpose pursue.

Away, you small folk!--In there "The Preacher"

In high a.s.sembly the service intoning Of magnates primeval, their patriarch owning!

Of what does he preach, my childhood's teacher?

So often, so often to him I listened, In eager worship, devout and lowly; My songs were christened In light that fell from his whiteness holy.

-- How great it is! I can finish never.

Great thoughts that in life and legend we treasure Stream towards the scene in persistent endeavor, The mighty impression to grasp and measure,-- Dame's h.e.l.l, India's myth-panorama, Shakespeare's earth-overarching drama, Aeschylus' thunders that purge and free, Beethoven's powerful symphony,-- They widen and heighten, they cloud and brighten --Like small ants scrambling and soft-cooing doves, They tumble backward and flee affrighted;-- As if a dandy in dress-coat and gloves The mountains approached and to dance invited.

No, tempt them not! Their retainer be!

You'll learn then later, How life with the great must make you greater.

If you are humble, they'll say it themselves, That something is greater than e'en their greatest.

Look how the little river that delves High in the notch within limits straitest, Through ice first burrowed and stone, a brook, Slowly the giants asunder wearing!

Unmoved before, their face now and bearing They had to change 'mid the spring-flood's laughter; Millions of years have followed thereafter, Millions of years it also took.

In stamps the fjord now to look on their party, Lifts his sou'-wester, gives greeting to them.

Whoever at times in their fog could view them Has seen him near to their very noses;-- The fjord's not famed for his well-bred poses.

Towards him hurry, all white-foam-faced, Brooks and rivers in whirling haste, All of his family, frolicsome, naughty.

If ever the mountains the fjord would immure, Their narrows press nigher, a prison sure;-- His water-hands then with a gesture haughty Seize the whole saucy pa.s.s like a sh.e.l.l; Set to his mouth, he begins to blow it With western-gale-lungs,--and then you may know it, Loud is the noise, and the swift currents swell.

Forcing the coast, a big fjord, black and gray, Breaks us our way; Waterfalls rushing on both sides rumble.

Sponge-wet and slow, Cloud-ma.s.ses over the mountain-flanks fumble; The sun and mist, lo, Symbol of struggle eternal show.

This is my Romsdal's unruly land!

Home-love rejoices.

All things I see, have eyes and have voices.

The people? I know them, each man understand, Though never I saw him nor with him have spoken; I know this folk, for the fjord is their token.

_One_ is the fjord in the storm's battle-fray, _Another_ is he when the sunbeams play In midsummer's splendor, And radiant, happy his heart is tender.

Whatever has form, He bears on his breast with affection warm, Mirrors it, fondles it,-- Be it so bare as the mossy gray rubble, Be it so brief as a brook's fleeting bubble.

Oh, what a brightness! Beauty, soul-ravishing, Shines from his prayer, that now he be shriven Of all the past! And penitence lavishing, All he confesses; with glad homage given Mirrors and ma.s.ses Deep the mountains' high peaks and pa.s.ses.

The old giants think now: He's not really bad; In greater degree he's wrathful and glad Than others perchance; is false not at all, But reckless, capricious,--true son of Romsdal.

Right are the mountains! This race-type keeping, _They_ saw men creeping Over the ridges, scant fodder reaping.

_They_ saw men eager Toil on the sea, though their take was meager, Plow the steep slope and trench the bog-valley, To bouts with the rock the brown nag rally.

Saw their faults flaunted,-- Buck-like they bicker, Love well their liquor,-- But know not defeat,--hoist the sail undaunted!

Different the districts; but all in all: Spirits vivacious, with longings that spur them, Depths full of song, with billows that stir them, Folk of the fjord and the sudden squall.