P. A. Munch (1863) (See Note 20)
Many forms belong to greatness.
He who now has left us bore it
As a doubt that made him sleepless,
But at last gave revelation,—
As a sight-enhancing power,
That gave visions joined with anguish
Over all beyond our seeing,—
As a flight on labor’s pinions
From the thought unto the certain,
Thence aloft to intuition,—
Restless haste and changeful ardor,
God-inspired and unceasing,
Through the wide world ever storming,
Took its load of thoughts and doubtings,
Bore them, threw them off,—and took them,
Never tired, never listless.
Still! for he had one haven of rest:
Family-life peace-bestowing!
Powers of light gave repose to his breast,
Calm ’mid the strife of his knowing.
Softly with music his wife led him in
Unto the sweet-smelling birches!
Unto the flowers and still deeper in
Under the fir-forest’s churches!
Daughters drew near him in love secure
Cooling his forehead’s hot fever;
Gently their message of innocence pure
Made him a childlike believer.
Or he joined glad in their light-hearted game,
Colors and music surrounding,—
Gone were the clouds, in the heavens came
Sparkling of star-light abounding.
But as in an autumn evening
Silent, dreamy, dark, sheet-lightning
Wakens thought and feeling stormward,—
Or as in a boat a sudden
Stroke when gliding as in slumber
On between the cliffs that tower
In a quiet, balmy spring night,—
But a single stroke and soft, then
Echo takes it up and tosses
To and fro ’mid walls of mountains,
Thrush and grouse send forth their wood-calls
Deer rise up and listen keenly,
Stones are rolling, all are up now,
Dogs are barking, bells are clanging,
Ushering in the strife of daytime,—
Thus could oft a recollection
Down-light falling in that playtime,
Waken all his thought and doubting!
Then it roved the wide world over,
Then it hottest burned within him,—
But it lavished light for others!
Rise of races, spread of language,
Birth of names, all laws’ close kinship,
Small and great in equal passion,
Equal haste and doubting goal-ward!—
There where others stones saw only,
He saw precious gems that glistened,
Sunk his shaft the mine to deepen.
And where others thought the treasure
Sure and safe for years a hundred,
Doubt possessed him as he burrowed
Day and night — and saw it vanish!
But the unrest that gave power
Made him oft the goal pass over;
While to others he gave clearness,
Intuitions new deceived him.
Therefore: where he once had striven,
Thither he would turn him never,
Changed his ground and shifted labor,
From his own thought-conquests fleeing.
But his thoughts pursued, untiring,
Followed, growing, as the fire,
Kindled in Brazilian forests,
Storm-wind makes and storm-wind follows!
Where before no foot had trodden,
Ways were burned for many millions!
Northward stretches Scandinavia
’Mid the fog that dims the Ice-sea,
Darkness of the months of winter
Lays its weight on sea and mountain.
Like our lands are too our peoples.
Their beginnings prehistoric
Stretch afar in fog and darkness.
But as through the fog a lighthouse,
Or as Northern Lights o’er darkness,
Gleamed his thought with light and guidance.
When with filial fond remembrance
Tenderly he sought and questioned,
Searching for his people’s pathways—
Names and graves and rusty weapons,
Stones and tools their answer gave him.
Through primeval Asian forests,
Over steppes and sands of deserts,
’Neath a thousand years that moldered,
Saw he caravan-made footsteps
Seek a new home in the Northland.
And as they the rivers followed,
Followed them his thought abundant,
Into Nature’s All full-flowing.—
See his restless soul’s creation!
Harmony of truth he yearned for,
Found it not, but wonder-working
New discoveries and pathways,
—Like those alchemists aforetime
Who, though gold was all their seeking,
Found not that, but mighty forces,
Which to-day the world are moving.—
Deepest ground of all his being
Was the polar power of contrast,
For his thought, to music wakened
By the touch of Northern Saga,
Vibrated melodious longing,
Toward the South forever tending.
In his eye the lambent fire,
Of his thought the glint, showed kinship
With the free improvisator
In the land of warmth and vineyards.
And his swiftly changing feeling
And his all-consuming ardor,
That could toil the livelong winter
Till caprice the fruit discarded,—
That immeasurable richness
Wherein thoughts and moods and music,
Joy and sorrow, jest and earnest,
Gleamed and played without cessation,—
All a Southern day resembled!
Therefore was his life a journey,
Towards the South in constant movement,—
Through the mists of intuition,
From the darker to the brighter,
From the colder to the warmer,—
On the bridge of ceaseless labor
Bearing over sea and mountain!
Oh, the time with wife beside him
And his bonny playmate-sisters
(Gladsome children, winsome daughters),
When he stood, where evening sunshine
Glowed on Capitol and Forum,—
Stood where from the great world-city,
As from history’s very fountain,
Knowledge wells in streams of fullness;—
Where a clearness large and cloudless
Falls upon the bygone ages
That have laid them down to rest here;—
Where to him, the Northern searcher,
It would seem, he had been straying
Too long lost in history’s fogland,
Rowing round the deep fjords’ surface;—
Stood where dead men burst the earth-clods
And themselves come forth for witness
In their heavy marble togas;—
Where the goddesses of Delos
In the frescoed halls are dancing,
As two thousand years before now;—
Pantheon and Coliseum
In their spacious fate have sheltered
All the world’s swift evolution;—
Where a Hermes from that corner
Saw the footsteps firm of Cato,
Pontifex in the procession,—
Saw then Nero as Apollo
Lifted up take sacrifices,
Saw then Gregory, the wrathful,
Riding forth to rule in spirit
Over all the known world’s kingdoms,—
Saw then Cola di Rienzi
Homage pay to freedom’s goddess
’Mid the Roman people’s paeans,—
Saw Pope Leo and his princes
Choose instead of the Lord Jesus
Aristotle dead and Plato;-
Saw again how stouter epochs
Raised the Church of Papal power,
Till the Frenchman overthrew it
And exalted Nature’s Godhead;
Saw anew then wonted custom
In its pious, still processions
With a Lamb the great world’s ruler!—
All this saw the little Hermes
On the corner near the temple,
And the wise man from the Northland
Saw that Hermes and his visions.
Yes, when over Rome he stood there
In that high, historic clearness,
And his eye the mountain-ridges
Followed toward the red of evening,—
Then all beams of longing focused
In a blessed intuition,
And — he saw a church before him
Greater far than that of nature,
And he felt a peace descending,
Larger far than all the present.
When the second time he came there,
After days and nights of labor,
Hard as were it for redemption,—
Then the Lord Himself gave welcome,
Led him gently thither, saying:
“Peace be with thee! Thou hast conquered!”
But to us with sorrow stricken
Turned the Lord with comfort, saying:
“When I call, who then dares murmur,
That the called man had not finished?”
Whoso dies, he here had finished!
Spite our sorrow we believe it,
Hold that He, who unrest giveth
(The discoverer’s disquiet,
That drove Newton, drove Columbus),
Also knows when rest is needed.
But we question, while reviewing
All that mighty thought-armada
Now disbanded, home-returning:
Who again shall reunite it?
For when he cut his war-arrow,
Lords and liegemen soon were mustered,
And to aid from Sweden, Denmark,
England, France, swift-flying vessels
Coursed the sea-ways toward his standard.
Royal was that fleet and mighty,
By our shore at anchor lying;
We were wont to see it near us
Or to hear the wondrous tidings
Of its cruises and its conquests.
What it won we own forever;
But the fleet is sailing homeward.
Here we stand the last sail watching
As it sinks on the horizon.
Then we turn and breathe the question:
Who again shall reunite it?
KING FREDERIK THE SEVENTH
(1863)
(See Note 21)
Our King is bereft of a trusty friend!
And in dismay
We lower our banners and sad attend
On his burial day.
But Denmark, in sorrow most deep thou waitest,
For fallen the life that was warmest, greatest,
And fallen the tower
Of mightiest power.
Bewailing the death of their kingly chief,
Men voice their grief.
For Denmark’s salvation the man was born
Who now is dead.
When banished in youth from the court in scorn,
To his people he fled.
There throve he right well, there grew he together
With peasants and sailors in foul and fair weather,
While fullness of living
Its schooling was giving;
When ready for Denmark was laid the snare,
Then he was there!
Now soon it was plain, he was peasant-skulled
For their tricks; and hence
The traitors’ shrewd schemings were all annulled
By his bit of sense.
He knew but one thing;—what his people thought them,
And therefore in danger he freedom brought them.
The whole was his vision,
He would no scission;
His words were but few, and of these the key:
“It shall not be!”
He stood by the helm like a sailor good,
In no storm remiss;
Of praise the tribute he never would,
But he shall have this!
The ship to the North he unswerving directed,—
In storm or in fog, exposed or protected;—
And fear allaying,
All folk were saying:
“He isn’t so stupid as people tell,
For all goes well!”
“On deck every man!” was his last command,
“There’s storm again!”
When answered the cry from the mast-head: “Land!”
Oh, then, just then,
Were loosed from the helm the true hands that were steering,
In death he sank down, while the ship began veering—
No, never veering!
To the course adhering!
Now, Denmark, united, with all thy force
Hold straight his course!
He made it his honor, in line to stand,
No rank to know;
But shoulder to shoulder to lend a hand,
And pride forego.
They gather now fruit of his faithful training:
Well drilled, every man at his post is straining.
The course is steady,
For tried and ready
Is many a helmsman, and all their will
Is “Northward still!”
Naught else can they do now, but with good cheer
Hold out they must,
Stand guard in the darkness and have no fear,
In God their trust.
It is sultry and silent, and yearning in sorrow
All breathless they listen and wait for the morrow,—
’T is time for waiting,
Till, night abating,
The eastern sky reddens and bright dawn speeds
The day of deeds!
TO SWEDEN
(DECEMBER 28, 1863)
(See Note 22)
Lift thou thine ancient yellow-blue!
Aloft the front must show it.
The German’s slow to take the cue,
But seeing that he’ll know it.
He’ll know that greater danger’s near
Than ink on Bismarck’s trousers;
That it will cost him doubly dear,
Men, horses, bovine browsers;
That ten years’ nonsense now is done,
The daily quarrel dirty
Will soon become a war with one
Who held his own for thirty;
The Northland’s stubborn folk allied
Their forces are uniting,
With glorious memories to guide,
The Northern heavens lighting;
That great Gustavus once again
To battle glad is riding,
But now against the Southern men
With Christian Fourth is siding,—
With Haakon Earl the times of old
Round Palnatoki gather;
Near Charles the Twelfth stands Tordenskjold,
Placid, and smiling rather,—
That we, who have so well known how
To fight against each other,
Shall not exactly scorn earn now,
When brother stands with brother.
But forward thou the way must lead
With stirring drum-beats’ rattle,
Thy marching-step we all must heed,
Thou ‘rt known on fields of battle.
That ancient Swedish melody,
Renowned in world-wide glory,
Not merely for the heart’s deep plea
In Jenny’s travel-story,—
But for the solemn earnestness
To Lützen’s battle calling,
And for the daring strains no less,
That rang at Narwa’s falling,—
The song thou sang’st the North t’ inspire
With virtue and with power,
The three must with united choir
Lift up this very hour!
It now must bear aloft a hymn,
The call of God proclaiming;
Pictures of blood its lines shall limn,
Drawn bold in letters flaming,—
Its name shall be: “The Free North’s Hymn!”
Of all the hymns thou voicest,
Whose glory time shall never dim,
It shall be first and choicest.
OUR FOREFATHERS
(JANUARY 13, 1864)
(See Note 23)
High memories with power
Shine through the wintry North
On every peak’s white tower,
On Kattegat so swarth.
All is so still and spacious, `
The Northern Lights flow free,
Creating bright and gracious
A day of memory.
Each deed the North defending,
Each thought for greater might,
A star-like word is sending
Down through the frosty night!
To hope they call and boldness,
And call with double cheer
To him, defying coldness,
On guard the Eider near.
No anxious shadows clouding,
No languid, lukewarm mist
Our heaven of mem’ries shrouding,
This eve of battle-tryst!
May, as of yore, while ringing
The bells unseen loud swelled,
Come leaders vict’ry bringing,
Whom th’ army ne’er beheld.
WHEN NORWAY WOULD NOT HELP
(EASTER EVE, 1864)
(See Note 24)
When Kattegat now or the Belt you sail,
No more will you sight
The Danish proud frigate, no more will you hail
The red and white;
No more will the ringing command be heard
In Wessel’s tongue,
No rollicking music, no jocund word,
’Neath Dannebrog sung.
No dance will you see, no laughter meet,
As the white sails shine,
From mast and from stern no garland you greet,
Of arts the sign.
But all that we owned of the treasures on board
The deeps now hold;
One sad winter night to the sea-waves were poured
Our memories old.
It was that same night, when the frigate nigh
To Norway’s land
Distress-guns was firing, the surf running high
With sea-weed and sand.
To help from the harbor men put out boats,
But they turn back, …
The frigate toward Germany drifting floats,
A broken wrack!
What once had been ours overboard was strown,
Each kinship mark
Was quickly removed, to the sea it was thrown
With curses stark!
The Northern lion, that figure-head gray,
Now had to fall,
In pieces ’twas hewn, and the frigate lay
Like a shattered wall.
…
Repaired and refitted, its canvas it spread
Near Germany’s coast,
With black-yellow flag and an eagle dread
In the lion’s post.
When sailing we Kattegat sweep with our eyes,
’T is still evermore.
But a German admiral’s frigate lies
Near Scania’s shore.