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.
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 hoard.
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 .
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