Poems and Songs Part 5

Oh, good-night, good-night Dreams enfold me bright Of your eyes' persuasive mildness.

Many a silent word From their corners heard,-- Breaking forth with gentle wildness.

Now my song is still; Is there more you will?

All the tones, to me returning, Laughing, luring, soar; Did you wish me more?

Still and warm the night is yearning.

MOUNTAIN SONG (FROM A HAPPY BOY)

When you will the mountains roam And your pack are making, Put therein not much from home, Light shall be your taking!

Drag no valley-fetters strong To those upland s.p.a.ces, Toss them with a joyous song To the mountains' bases!

Birds sing Hail! from many a bough, Gone the fools' vain talking, Purer breezes fan your brow, You the heights are walking.

Fill your breast and sing with joy!

Childhood's mem'ries starting, Nod with blushing cheeks and coy, Bush and heather parting.

If you stop and listen long, You will hear upwelling Solitude's unmeasured song To your ear full swelling; And when now there purls a brook, Now stones roll and tumble, Hear the duty you forsook In a world-wide rumble.

Fear, but pray, you anxious soul, While your mem'ries meet you!

Thus go on; the perfect whole On the top shall greet you.

Christ, Elijah, Moses, there Wait your high endeavor.

Seeing them you'll know no care, Bless your path forever.

ANSWER FROM NORWAY TO THE SPEECHES IN THE SWEDISH HOUSE OF n.o.bLES, 1860 (See Note 6)

Have you heard what says the Swede now, Young Norwegian man?

Have you seen what forms proceed now, Border-watch to plan?

Shades of those from life departed, Our forefathers single-hearted, Who, when words like these were said, Mounted guard and knew no dread.

Says the Swede now: That our cherished Norseland's banner red, That which flew when Magnus perished, As to-day outspread, Which o'er Fredrikshald victorious And o'er Adler waved all glorious, That the Swedish yellow-blue Must in shame henceforth eschew.

Says the Swede now: Lost their l.u.s.ter Have our memories, Brighter honors shall we muster, If we borrow his.

Bids us forth to Lutzen stumble, Close this straw-thatched cottage humble, Drag our grandsire's ancient seat To the Swedes for honor meet.

Let it stand, that poor old lumber, To us dear for aye; Sweden's ground it could but c.u.mber, And it might not pay.

For, we know from history's pages, Some sat there in former ages, Sverre Priest and other men, Who may wish to come again.

Says the Swede now: We must know it, _He_ our freedom gave, But the Swedish sword can mow it, Send it to its grave.

Yet the case is not alarming, He must fare with good fore-arming, For in truth some fell of yore, There where he would break a door.

Says the Swede now: We a clever Little boy remain, Very suitable to ever Hold his mantle's train.

But would Christie be so pliant, With his comrades self-reliant, If they still at Eidsvold stood, Sword-girt, building Norway's good?

Big words oft the Swede was saying, Only small were we, But they never much were weighing, When the test should be.

On the little cutter sailing, Wessel and Norse youth prevailing, Sweden's flag and frigate chased From the Kattegat in haste.

Sweden's n.o.blemen are shaking Charles the Twelfth's proud hat; We, in council or war-making, Peers are for all that.

If things take the worse turn in there, Aid from Torgny we shall win there.

Then o'er all the Northland's skies Greater freedom's sun shall rise.

JOHAN LUDVIG HEIBERG (1860) (See Note 7)

To the grave they bore him sleeping, Him the aged, genial gardener; Now the children gifts are heaping From the flower-bed he made.

There the tree that he sat under, And the garden gate is open, While we cast a glance and wonder Whether some one sits there still.

He is gone. A woman only Wanders there with languid footsteps, Clothed in black and now so lonely, Where his laughter erst rang clear.

As a child when past it going, Through the fence she looked with longing, Now great tears so freely flowing Are her thanks that she came in.

Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring Whispered to him 'neath the foliage.

She flits softly, gathering, storing Them as solace for her woe.

Far his wanderings once bore him, Bore this aged, genial searcher; One who listening sat before him Much could learn from time to time.

Life and letters were his ladder Up toward that which few discover, Thought's wide realm, with vision gladder He explored, each summit scaled.

In his manhood he defended All that greatness has and beauty; Later he the stars attended In their silent course to G.o.d.

Older men remember rather "New Year!" ringing o'er the Northland.

How it power had to gather Leaders to a greater age

Do you him remember leaping Forth, his horn so gladly winding, Back the mob on all sides sweeping From the progress of the great?

Play of thought 'mid tears and laughter, Fauns and children were about him; Freedom's beacons high thereafter Kindled slowly of themselves.

And his words soon found a hearing, Peace of heart flowed from his music; All the land thrilled to the nearing Of a great prophetic choir.

In his manhood he defended All that greatness has and beauty; Later he the stars attended In their silent course to G.o.d.

Northern flowers were his pleasure, As an aged genial gardener, From his nation's springtime treasure Culling seed for deathless growth.

Now with humor, now sedately, He kept planting or uprooting, While the Danish beech-tree stately Gave his soul its evening peace.

There the tree we saw him under, And the garden gate is open, While we cast a glance and wonder Whether some one sits there still.

THE OCEAN (FROM ARNLJOT GELLINE) (See Note 8)