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 h.o.a.rd.

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 l.u.s.ty 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 G.o.d!

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 armed 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d 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.