Volume 2 — THE GENIUS OF THE NORTH
Reading edition
It is true that our Northern nature is lofty and strong. Its characteristics may well awaken deep meditation and emotion. When the Goddess of Song has grown up in these surroundings, her view of life is like that mirrored in our lakes, where, between the dark shadows of mountain and trees on the shore, a light-blue sky looks down. Over this mirror the Northern morning and the Northern day, the Northern evening and the Northern night, rise in a glorious beauty. Our Muse kindles a lofty hero's flame, a lofty seer's flame, and always the flame of a lofty immortality. In this sombre North we experience an immense joyousness and an immense melancholy, moods of earth-coveting and of earth-renunciation. With equal mind we behold the fleet, charming dream of her summers, her early harvest with its quickly falling splendor, and the darkness and silence of the long winter's sleep. For if the gem-like green of the verdure proclaims its short life, it proclaims at the same time its richness,--and in winter the very darkness seems made to let the starry vault shine through with a glory of Valhalla and Gimle. Indeed, in our North, the winter possesses an impressiveness, a freshness, which only we Norsemen understand. Add to these strong effects of nature the loneliness of life in a wide tract of land, sparingly populated by a still sparingly educated people, and then think of the poet's soul which must beat against these barriers of circumstance and barriers of spirit! Yet the barriers that hold him in as often help as hinder his striving. These conditions explain what our literature amply proves; that so far, the only poetical form which has reached perfection in Sweden is the lyrical. This will be otherwise only as the northern mind, through a growing familiarity with contemporaneous Europe, will consent to be drawn from its forest solitude into the whirl of the motley World's Fair outside its boundaries. It is probable that the lyrical gift will always be the true possession of the Swedish poet. His genius is such that it needs only a beautiful moment's exaltation (blissful, whether the experience be called joy or sorrow) to rise on full, free wings, suddenly singing out his very inmost being. Whether the poet makes this inmost being his subject, or quite forgets himself in a richer and higher theme, is of little consequence.
If, again, no true lyric can express a narrow egoism, least of all could the Swedish, in spite of the indivisible relation between nature and man. The entire Sämunds-Edda shows us that Scandinavian poetry was originally lyrical-didactic, as much religious as heroic. Not only in lyrical impression, but also in lyrical contemplation and lyrical expression, will the Swedish heroic poem still follow its earliest trend. Yes, let us believe that this impulse will some day lead Swedish poetry into the only path of true progress, to the point where dramatic expression will attain perfection of artistic form. This development is foreshadowed already in the high tragic drama, in the view of the world taken by the old Swedish didactic poem; and in some of the songs of the Edda, as well as in many an old folk-song and folk-play.
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY
O'er hill and dale the welcome news is flying That summer's drawing near; Out of my thicket cool, my cranny hidden, Around I shyly peer. He will not notice me, this guest resplendent, Unseen I shall remain, Content to live if of his banquet royal Some glimpses I may gain. Behold! Behold! His banquet hall's before me, Pillared with forest trees; Lo! as he feasts, a thousand sunbeams sparkle, His gracious smiles are these. Hail to thee, brilliant world! Ye heavens fretted With clouds of silver hue! Ye waves of mighty ocean, tossing, tossing, Fair in my sight as new! Far in the past (if years my life has numbered, Ghost-like in thought they drift), Came to me silently the truth eternal-- Joy is life's richest gift. Thus, in return for life's abundant dower, A gift have I: I bear A spotless soul, from whose unseen recesses Exhales a fragrance rare. Strong is the power in gentle souls indwelling, Born of a joy divine; Theirs is a sphere untrod by creatures earthly, By beings gross, supine. Fragile and small, and set in quiet places, My worth should I forget? Some one who seeks friend, counselor, or lover, Will find and prize me yet. Thou lovely maid, through mossy pathways straying, Striving to make thy choice, Hearing the while the brook which downward leaping, Lifts up its merry voice, Pluck me; and as a rich reward I'll whisper Things them wilt love to hear: The name of him who comes to win thy favor I'll whisper in thine ear!
SVANHVIT'S COLLOQUY
From 'The Islands of the Blest' SVANHVIT (alone in her chamber) No Asdolf yet,--in vain and everywhere Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed, At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before The lofty staircase in the castle yard. His drooping crest and wildly rolling eye, And limbs with frenzied terror quivering, All seemed as though the midnight fiends had urged His swiftest flight through many a wood and plain. O Lord, that know'st what he hath witnessed there! Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound Unto the faithful creature's silent tongue, That momentary voice would be, for me, A call to life or summons to the grave. [She goes to the window.] And yet what childish fears are these! How oft Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved And aye returned, unharmed and beautiful! Yes, beautiful, alas! like this cold flower That proudly glances on the frosty pane. Short is the violet's, short the cowslip's spring;-- The frost-flowers live far longer: cold as they The beautiful should be, that it may share The splendor of the light without its heat; For else the sun of life must soon dissolve The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears; And tears--flow fast away. [She breathes on the window.] Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf flower, That I may look into the vale beneath! There lies the city,--Asdolf's capital: How wondrously the spotless vest of snow On roof, on mount, on market-place now smiles A glittering welcome to the morning sun, Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the earth! The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament, But smiles in silence,--knowing sadly well That she is slighted, and that he, who could Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells In other climes, where lavishly he pours His fond embracing beams, while she, alas! In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness Cold on the solitary couch reclines.-- [After a pause.] What countless paths wind down, from divers points, To yonder city gates!--Oh, wilt not thou, My star, appear to me on one of them? Whate'er I said,--thou art my worshiped sun. Then pardon me;--thou art not cold; oh, no! Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me. Yet thus it is! Thy being's music has A thousand chords with thousand varying tones, Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee Of tenderness and truth. At times, indeed, This too may have its power,--but then it lasts One and the same forever, sounding still Unalterably like itself alone; A wordless prayer to God for what we love, 'Tis more a whisper than a sound, and charms Like new-mown meadows, when the grass exhales Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it. Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men, Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings, And far beneath them view the world, whose form For ever varies on from hour to hour. What would they ask of love? That, volatile, In changeful freshness it may charm their ears With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull To rapturous repose, when round them roars The awful thunder's everlasting voice! Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem The maid who is no more than woman. How Should she o'er-sound the storm their wings have raised? [Sitting down.] Great Lord! how lonely I become within These now uncheerful towers! O'er all the earth No shield have I,--no mutual feeling left! Tis true that those around me all are kind, And well I know they love me,--more, indeed, Than my poor merits claim. Yet, even though They raised me to my Asdolf's royal throne, As being the last of all his line,--ah me! No solace could it bring;--for then far less Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul! A helpless maiden's tears like raindrops fall, Which in a July night, ere harvest-time, Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and unknown. [She rises.] Yet One there is, who counts the maiden's tears;-- But when will their sad number be fulfilled?-- [Walking to and fro.] How calm was I in former days!--I now Am so no more! My heart beats heavily, Oppressed within its prison-cave. Ah! fain Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that 'Twere conscious, Asdolf, I sometimes had seemed Not all unworthy in thine eyes. [She takes the guitar.] A gentle friend--the Master from Vallandia-- Has taught me how I may converse with thee, Thou cherished token of my Asdolf's love! I have been told of far-off lakes, around Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave, And make a mournful shade above the stream. Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells Broad and unfathomably deep below;-- From these dark lakes at certain times, and most On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals. Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells Of churches and of castles long since sunk; And as the wanderer's steps approach the shore, He hears more plainly the lamenting tone Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still Continues motionless and calm, and seems To listen with a melancholy joy, While thus the dim mysterious depths resound; So let me strive to soften and subdue My heart's dark swelling with a soothful song. [She plays and sings.] The maiden bound her hunting-net At morning fresh and fair-- Ah, no! that lay doth ever make me grieve. Another, then! that of the hapless flower, Surprised by frost and snow in early spring. [Sings.] Hush thee, oh, hush thee, Slumber from snow and stormy sky, Lovely and lone one! Now is the time for thee to die, When vale and streamlet frozen lie. Hush thee, oh, hush thee! Hours hasten onward;-- For thee the last will soon be o'er. Rest thee, oh, rest thee! Flowers have withered thus before,-- And, my poor heart, what wouldst thou more? Rest thee, oh, rest thee! Shadows should darkly Enveil thy past delights and woes. Forget, oh, forget them! 'Tis thus that eve its shadows throws; But now, in noiseless night's repose, Forget, oh, forget them! Slumber, oh, slumber! No friend hast thou like kindly snow; Sleep is well for thee, For whom no second spring will blow; Then why, poor heart, still beating so? Slumber, oh, slumber! Hush thee, oh, hush thee! Resign thy life-breath in a sigh, Listen no longer, Life bids farewell to thee,--then die! Sad one, good night!--in sweet sleep lie! Hush thee, oh, hush thee! [She bursts into tears.] Would now that I might bid adieu to life; But, ah! no voice to me replies, "Sleep well!"
THE MERMAID
Leaving the sea, the pale moon lights the strand. Tracing old runes, a youth inscribes the sand. And by the rune-ring waits a woman fair, Down to her feet extends her dripping hair. Woven of lustrous pearls her robes appear, Thin as the air and as the water clear. Lifting her veil with milk-white hand she shows Eyes in whose deeps a deadly fire glows. Blue are her eyes: she looks upon him--bound, As by a spell, he views their gulf profound. Heaven and death are there: in his desire, He feels the chill of ice, the heat of fire. Graciously smiling, now she whispers low:-- "The runes are dark, would you their meaning know? Follow! my dwelling is as dark and deep; You, you alone, its treasure vast shall keep!" "Where is your dwelling, charming maid, now say!" "Built on a coral island far away, Crystalline, golden, floats that castle free, Meet for a lovely daughter of the sea!" Still he delays and muses, on the strand; Now the alluring maiden grasps his hand. "Ah! Do you tremble, you who were so bold?" "Yes, for the heaving breakers are so cold!" "Let not the mounting waves your spirit change! Take, as a charm, my ring with sea-runes strange. Here is my crown of water-lilies white, Here is my harp, with human bones bedight." "What say my Father and my Mother dear? What says my God, who bends from heaven to hear?" "Father and Mother in the churchyard lie. As for thy God, he deigns not to reply." Blithely she dances on the pearl-strewn sand, Smiting the bone-harp with her graceful hand. Fair is her bosom, through her thin robe seen, White as a swan beheld through rushes green, "Follow me, youth! through ocean deeps we'll rove; There is my castle in its coral grove; There the red branches purple shadows throw, There the green waves, like grass, sway to and fro, "I have a thousand sisters; none so fair. He whom I wed receives my sceptre rare. Wisdom occult my mother will impart. Granting his slightest wish, I'll cheer his heart." "Heaven and earth to win you I abjure! Child of the ocean, is your promise sure?" "Heaven and earth abjuring, great's your gain, Throned with the ancient gods, a king to reign!" Lo, as she speaks, a thousand starlights gleam, Lighted for Heaven's Christmas day they seem. Sighing, he swears the oath,--the die is cast; Into the mermaid's arms he sinks at last. High on the shore the rushing waves roll in. "Why does the color vary on your skin? What! From your waist a fish's tail depends!" "Worn for the dances of my sea-maid friends." High overhead, the stars, like torches, burn: "Haste! to my golden castle I return. Save me, ye runes!"--"Yes, try them now; they fail. Pupil of heathen men, my spells prevail!" Proudly she turns; her sceptre strikes the wave, Roaring, it parts; the ocean yawns, a grave. Mermaid and youth go down; the gulf is deep. Over their heads the surging waters sweep. Often, on moonlight nights, when bluebells ring, When for their sports the elves are gathering, Out of the waves the youth appears, and plays Tunes that are merry, mournful, like his days.