INTRODUCTION BJÖRNSON AS A LYRIC POET (continued 2)

At Hald on a sunny day That shot-torn flag of many a fray Was waving above our singing, Soul-fire to our music bringing, The ardor of that glorious band, Who died as heroes for our land.

To Arendal our summer-way "For might and fame!"—remember aye! The fleet on the bay was riding, Our singer-ship through it gliding. Our merchant-ships shall rule the wave! This joyous hoisting-song we gave.

We gathered in Bergen town Of ancient and of new renown. The horns of our fathers greet us, King Sverre comes forth to meet us; But fresh and full the present spoke In heartfelt song from all its folk.

Upsala, Copenhagen, Lund, In each our song its garland won, Fair fetters of music winding, Harmonious the Northland binding; Our mighty choral theme shall be The Northern races' unity.

With courage, then, onward roam! Where echo answers is our home. Our past that we sing draws nearer, Our future in song grows clearer, E'en while we wander hand in hand And summer sing into our land.

+ MRS. LOUISE BRUN (JANUARY 30, 1866) (See Note 30)

CHORUS (Behind the scenes) Farewell, farewell, From friends, from all, from fatherland! Your soul's calm power is from us riven, Your words, your song, to spirit's praise In art's glad temple given.

CHORUS OF MEN We thank you that with youthful fire You came the doubting to inspire, Who anxious stood with strength untried!

CHORUS OF WOMEN We thank you that in morning-dawn Your woman's tact and aid were drawn Our boisterous youthful art to guide!

ALL Thanks for the spring of your life's year, Thanks for the tones so sweet and clear, Thanks for the tints of pearly hue, That colored all you touched anew. For all your noble life on earth, Thanks, thanks! And that you gave our calling worth, Thanks, thanks!

EPILOGUE 'T is but a short time since we saw pass by A picture drawn from life, austere and dark, A soul in servitude to strong desires; And all its life in prison-labor spent. Although religion prays and sings its hymns, And poetry and art their sunshine spread, That soul in slavery toils, till white the hair.

She, in whose memory we gather here, Was early made to feel by hard conditions, That clouded life and rudely barred her soul,— How men and women live as toiling slaves! And she rebelled against this servitude; Great powers have birth to longings for the light; Freedom she craved, that others she might free! With restless spirit outward went her quest To people, books; but thoughtful she became, As one whose search was vain; reserved and shy, As one whose courage fails;—until one day He, who from fairy-tale and hero-legend That wondrous bow received of magic might, Stood up and to the vale and mountain played: "Come forth, come from our nation's heart-deep forth, Creative might, that in our nation's morning Didst lift its image up to dread, to greatness, In myths of Asas fair and giants grim! As mountain-walls lean o'er their own reflection, In that thought-ocean we our life could see, With spring, with winter, and with spring again. Thou gav'st our image oft in song and story, In times of darkness and in times of light; Our image meets us wheresoe'er we go,— But yet our nation sees it not, nor looks Up from its toiling thoughts and dull routine!— Oh, wake it, lift it, make it see itself! Then shall it put to use the powers it owns!"

And living echoes answered! Lo, there swarmed Elves of the Stage about him, as he played! They made the lamps to burn, and reared the grotto, They brought and brushed the costumes Holberg knew, And in them played their pranks 'neath powdered wigs,— Roamed on the mountains of a summer night And stole the saeter-maiden while she slept, And filled with mortal fear the aged wooer! They danced the goblin-dance in dusk of winter, Played hide-and-seek with their own shadows; They snared the hypocrite in his own sighs, In his own web the pettifogger bound; They scattered wide the hoard a miser gathered, They tripped and threw the petty parish-pope They saved the tears of innocence seduced And on the altar laid as lustrous pearls; They melted hatred in the ice-hard breast, It fell as rain upon the enemy's fields; They bound the slanderer, Mazeppa-like, Upon the back of his wild calumnies;— The crafty man of stealthy selfishness They set afloat within an open boat;— But one who freely gave himself, his all, They bore to heaven upon their joyous laughter. They drew the magic ring round those who loved, And to the altar led the blushing pair. They brought heroic forms from barrows old To tower in might among the teeming present. —There was not one could longer rest in peace; Himself, his folly, all our country's need, Wholeness victorious, halfness doomed to fail, The power of honest faith, the wreck of doubt,— All this our nation saw in its own image, When strongly lighted on the Stage 't was set.—

And she was part of this! The first full tone Thrilled her breast too and woke a thousand mem'ries Of something that she ne'er before had known! On that first evening, when the curtain rose, With timid step one clad in white came forth And begged for Norway's art, for our young drama A home in Norway,—but with so great fear, The gentle voice was trembling, dim the eyes; Yet from the voice, the eyes, the form, the bearing Was heard a promise in sweet modesty; For she who spoke those first words on this Stage, That maiden dark with eyes so deep and true, Lo, it was she!

And soon her art shone clear And softly radiant through the evening hours.— With fairy lightness fell its magic gleams On hidden longings, sorrows half-concealed,— But gently, tenderly. If joy she touched, 'T was always softly. But we all could feel A stream of power so full, that if she had In an unguarded hour let it flow free With all its deep and swelling tide sincere, It would have borne herself from earth away.

In truth, the calmness of her course through life Was never weakness, but was strength controlled; Was never fear, but veneration deep For those whose souls are great: a model she For noble women as for forceful men,— This wreath we weave for her pure memory.

But what she thus had early taught herself, She taught to others. When upon the stage She stood, depicting woman's painful conflict With rudeness, violence, and wild desire, Then,—though she wielded but a woman's weapons, Her silent dignity, her subtle smile, Her light derision, all-subduing laughter,— A spirit-dawn gleamed from their flashing play, To usher in a day of victory. She barriers raised around the woman weak (Down-trodden in a half-built social order), She stood forth here so many an evening-hour And talked to thousands of a woman's worth. though her call was not fully to free All that a woman's heart may hope and dream, She shielded it secure in all its beauty.

This conflict made her reticent, severe;— But sometimes in a song her spirit could Send forth glad tidings, messages of freedom, Her large free soul revealing. Then we heard Such longing after full, unbroken peace, Our thoughts were captive held by sad foreboding.—

'T is now come true!—The crape of mourning droops About her name, the tolling bell is still. Her final summons gather us once more Before her stage, and here our thanks we utter For what she gave us. So as she had given, Has no one given. She gave of her sorrow, With bleeding heart beneath her winsome smile. She shared with us the tears her conflict brought, The radiant glory of her victory.

Thanks, prayer-borne thanks, you noble soul, From all your brothers, from your sisters all! From Norway's youthful art enduring thanks! From women to their pure interpreter Farewell and thanks!—From all those whom you lifted On pinions of the spirit high to beauty Once more a wreath is brought,—it is the last.

(Laying it before the bust) Now God in His bright heaven makes you glad, And we will make you glad with good remembrance.

CHORUS (Behind the scenes, softly) Farewell, farewell! Now in your grave No want is known; But what you gave, We ever own. Your spirit's seed Shall blossom here, Bear fruit in deed, And sad hearts cheer.

TO JOHAN DAHL, BOOKDEALER (ON HIS SIXTIETH BIRTHDAY) (See Note 31)

Our glasses we lift now and drink to our host! "Hurrah!" Give heed to our ditty, we sing you our toast! "Aha!" The first thing appearing is what he was nearing, When uproar not fearing he came for a hearing 'Fore skerry-bred eagle And Wergeland regal. Oh! Ha!

He came like an innocent spring-lambkin ewe-born, Oh, woe! So neat and so fine in his guilelessness new-born Like snow. The flesh so delicious was chopped up to farce-meat, And later by Wergeland found for a farce meet, And gayly 't was swallowed, And all the bones hollowed And strown.

But swift as Thor's he-goats to life again skipping, He sprang Whole skinned together, and gave them a whipping That rang. This made him seem worthy to join the gay party, At once they received him in fellowship hearty! And soon was no other More loved as a brother Than Dahl.

The light from his shop spread afar and made brighter Our day. His drawing-room gathered so many a fighter In play. Our taste there was made and our critical passion, The shop was a power, new Norway to fashion. Though little, its story Shall some time in glory Be writ.

For what you have kindled, endured, and aspired, Our thanks! For hearts you have gladdened and souls you have fired, Our thanks! For all your good faith in your fervor and ranting, Yes, for your whole-heartedness free from all canting, You whimsical, queer one, Old fellow, you dear one, Our thanks!

TO SCULPTOR BORCH (ON HIS FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY) (See Note 32)

With friends you stalwart stand and fair, To-day of fifty years the heir; The past your works rejoicing praise, But forward goes your gaze. Your childlike faith, your spirit true, Your hand that never weary grew, A home's sweet music, love of wife, Make ever young your life.

You dared believe with heart alive That here in Norway art can thrive. You forced the hardness of our stones To harmony of tones. You laid our wild world's secrets bare And caught "The Hunter" near the lair. Our nation's moods, of beauty born, Your "Girl with Eggs" adorn.

As o'er a slope's snow-covered brow A youth came swiftly flying now, You saw him, raised your hand, and lo! He stood there, chiseled snow. But your "Ski-runner's" courage good, It was your own, when forth you stood Art's champion by the world unawed, And with your faith in God.

You won your victory supreme Through rock-like faith and will's full stream While with unnumbered hours of rest Your love has others blessed. Were all now here from west and east Whose hearts you own, oh, what a feast! From Akershus the convicts e'en Would bear a freeman's mien.

Now we whose lives with good you filled For you to-day a palace build, On heights of heart's-ease lifting square Its golden tower of prayer. In peace you oft shall dwell in it, Whene'er you need to rest a bit, And feel through them who hold you dear Yourself to heaven near.

Long since our country to you gave The meed of thanks that most you crave; It gave a maid with golden hair, Its springtime's image fair. She came from where the fairies dwell, With nixie's charm and wood-nymph's spell, With peace all holy, sweet, and calm, To sing of life the psalm.

So may your life yet long endure To light our gland, your home secure! May all that from your heart you gave, Still blossom on your grave! May God's protecting mercy hold Your spirit ever fresh and bold,— May He to genius oft impart Just such a mind and heart!

THE SPINNER

Oh, what was it he meant By his question as he went? "I am making a loom, 'T will be up in April's bloom; If you think it may be, Spin for me!"

Oh, what shall I believe? Does he think himself to weave? And the yarn that I spin, Lo, he thinks to weave it in? And so soon as the Spring Flowers shall bring?

And he laughed when he'd done; Oh, he is so full of fun. Dare I trust all my skein To so young and wild a swain?— May God help to bind in All I spin!