Poems and Songs | Page 9

forsooth,
Brighter a new one and higher
Shall throe eye fill
with its fire.
Lift thy head to the vision clear!
Something near thee is calling:
"Here!"--
Something with myriad voicing,
Ever in courage
rejoicing.
Lift thy head, for an azure height
Rears within thee a vault of light;

Music of harps there is ringing,
Jubilant, rapturous singing.
Lift thy head and thy longing sing!
None shall conquer the growing
spring;
Where there is life-making power,
Time shall set free the
flower.
Lift thy head and thyself baptize
In the hopes that radiant rise,

Heaven to earth foreshowing,
And in each life-spark glowing!

LOVE SONG
(FROM A HAPPY BOY)
Have you love for me,
Yours my love shall be,
While the days of
life are flowing.
Short was summer's stay,
Grass now pales away,

With our play will come regrowing.
What you said last year
Sounds yet in my ear,--
Birdlike at the
window sitting,
Tapping, trilling there,
Singing, in would bear
Joy
the warmth of sun befitting.
Litli-litli-lu,
Do you hear me too,
Youth behind the birch-trees
biding?
Now the words I send,
Darkness will attend,
May be you
can give them guiding.
Take it not amiss!
Sang I of a kiss?
No, I surely never planned it.

Did you hear it, you?
Give no heed thereto,
Haste I make to
countermand it.
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 spaces,
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 NOBLES, 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 luster
Have our memories,
Brighter
honors shall we muster,
If we borrow his.
Bids us forth to Lützen
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 cumber,
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 noblemen 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