So in return some friendship give
To one who for the _cause_ would live,
With love the North embracing!
But first my poet-path shall be
With veneration unto _thee_,
Who fill'st the North with wonder;
In wrath thou dawn didst prophesy
Behind the North's dark morning-sky,
That lightnings shook and thunder.
Then, milder, thou, by sea and slope,
The fount of saga, faith, and hope
Mad'st flow for every peasant;--
Now from the snow-years' mountain-side
Thou seest with time's returning tide
Thine own high image present.
To _thee_, then, in whose spring of song
Finland's "the thousand lakes" belong
And sound their thrilling sorrow:--
Our Northern soul forever heard
Keeps watch and ward in poet's word
'Gainst Eastern millions' morrow.
But when I stand in our own home,
One greets me from the starry dome
With wealth of light and power.
There shines he: HENRIK WERGELAND,
Out over Norway's pallid strand
In memory's clear hour.
OLD HELTBERG
(See Note 50)
I went to a school that was little and proper,
Both for church and for state a conventional hopper,
Feeding rollers that ground out their grist unwaiting;
And though it was clear from the gears' frequent grating
They rarely with oil of the spirit were smeared,
Yet no other school in that region appeared.
We _had_ to go there till older;--though sorry,
I went there also,--but reveled in Snorre.
Pages:
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111