OPEN WATER!
Open water, open water!
All the weary winter's yearning
Bursts in restless passion burning.
Scarce is seen the blue of ocean,
And the hours seem months in motion.
Open water, open water!
Smiles the sun on ice defiant,
Eats it like a shameless giant:
Soon as mouth of sun forsakes it,
Swift the freezing night remakes it.
Open water, open water!
Storm shall be the overcomer
Sweeping on from others' summer
Billows free all foes to swallow,—
Crash and fall and sinking follow.
Open water, open water!
Mirrored mountains are appearing,
Boats with steam and sail are nearing,
Inward come the wide world's surges,
Outward joy of combat urges.
Open water, open water!
Fiery sun and cooling shower
Quicken earth to speak with power.
Soul responds, the wonder viewing:
Strength is here for life's renewing.
SONG OF FREEDOM
TO "THE UNITED LEFT"
(1877)
(See Note 63)
Freedom's father—power strong,
Freedom's mother—wrath and song.
Giant-stout, a youth self-taught,
Soon a giant's work he wrought.
Ever he, full of glee,
Thought and wit and melody,
Mighty, merry, made his way,—
Labor's toil or battle-fray.
Enemies whom none could tell
Lay in wait this foe to fell,
Found him waking all too stark,
Sought his sleeping hours to mark,
Tried their skill, bound him still;
When he wakened, they fared ill.
Glad he forward strode firm-paced,
Full of power, full of haste.
Bare fields blossom 'neath his feet,
Commerce swells about his seat,
From his fire gleam thought-rays bright,—
All things doubled are in might!
For the land law he planned,
Keeps it, guards with head and hand,
Of all rue and error quit,
Crushing him who injures it.
Freedom's God is God of light,
Not the bondsman's god of fright,—
God of love and brotherhood,
Springtime's hope and will for good.
To earth's ends peace He sends!
Heed the words His law commends:
"One your Lord, and I am He,
Have no other gods but Me!"
TO MOLDE
(See Note 64)
Molde, Molde,
True as a song,
Billowy rhythms whose thoughts fill with love me,
Follow thy form in bright colors above me,
Bear thy beauty along.
Naught is so black as thy fjord, when storm-lashes
Sea-salted scourge it and inward it dashes,
Naught is so mild as thy strand, as thine islands,
Ah, as thine islands!
Naught is so strong as thy mountain-linked ring,
Naught is so sweet as thy summer-nights bring.
Molde, Molde,
True as a song,
Murm'ring memories throng.
Molde, Molde,
Flower-o'ergrown,
Houses and gardens where good friends wander!
Hundreds of miles away,—but I'm yonder
'Mid the roses full-blown.
Strong shines the sun on that mountain-rimmed beauty,
Fast is the fight, let each man do his duty.
Friends, who your favor would never begrudge me,
Gently now judge me!—
Only with life ends the fight for the right.
Thought flees to you for a refuge in light.
Molde, Molde,
Flower-o'ergrown,
Childhood's memories' throne.
Oh, may at last
In thine embrace, life's fleeting
Conflict past,
Glad thine evening-glory greeting,
—Where life let thought awaken,—
My thought by death be taken!
+ PER BO (1878)
Once I knew a noble peasant
From a line of men large-hearted.
Light and strength were in his mind,
Lifted like a peak clear-lined
O'er the valley in spring sunshine,
First to feel the morning's beam,
First refreshed by cloud-born stream.
Wide the springtime spread its banner,
Waving in his will illumined,
Bright with promise, color-sound;
Heritage of toil its ground.
Round that mountain music floated,
Songsters sweet of faith and hope
Nestled on its tree-clad slope.
Sometime, sometime all the valley
Like him shall with light be flooded;
Sometime all his faith and truth
Sunward grow in dewy youth,
And the dreams he dreamt too early
Live and make him leader be
For a race as true as he.
HAMAR-MADE MATCHES (1877) (See Note 65)
"Here your Hamar-made matches!"—
Of them these verses I sang;
A thought to which humor attaches,
But yet to my heart sparks sprang.
Sparks from the box-side flying
Sank deep in my memory,
Till in a light undying
Two eyes cast their spell on me,—
Light on the fire that's present,
When faith blazes forth in deed.
Know, that to every peasant
Those eyes sent a light in need.
Sent to souls without measure
The flame of love's message broad,
Gathering in one treasure
Fatherland, home, and God.
For it was Herman Anker
Took of his fathers' gold,
Loaned it as wisdom's banker,
Spread riches of thought untold,
Scattered it wide as living
Seed for the soil to enwrap;
Flowers spring from his giving
Over all Norway's lap.
Flowers spring forth, though stony
The ground where it fell, and cold.
Never did patrimony
Bear fruitage so many fold.
Heed this, Norwegian peasant,
Heed it, you townsman, too!
That fruit of love's seed may be present,
Our thanks must fall fresh as dew.
"Here your Hamar-made matches!"
My thanks kindle fast. And oh!
This song at your heart-strings catches,
That kindling your thanks may glow.
The matches hold them in hiding,—
Scratching one you will find
The light with a warmth abiding
Carries them to his mind.
"Here your Hamar-made matches!"
Only to strike one here,
Our thanks far-away dispatches,
With peace his fair home to cheer.
His matches in thousands of houses,
In great and in small as well!—
The light that thanksgiving arouses
Shall scatter the darkness fell.
His matches in thousands of houses!—
Some eve from his factory
He'll see how thanksgiving arouses
The land, and its love flames free.
He'll see in the eyes so tender,
Through gleams that his matches woke,
The thanks that his nation would render,
His glistening wreath of oak,—
He'll feel that Norway with double
The warmth of other lands glows;
The harvest must more be than trouble,
When faith in its future grows.
"Here your Hamar-made matches!"
No phosphorus-poison more!
The bearer of light up-catches
The work of the school before:—
From home all the poison taking,
Hastening the light's advance,
Longings to warm light waking,
That lay there and had no chance.