Trust the good little fairy. Be not disturbed by the mockery of those who despise her simple joys. She said truly, “I alone am rich; always, and everywhere, rich.”
WERGELAND, THE POET.
The busy bees, up coming from the meadows
To the sweet cedar, fed him with soft flowers,
Because the Muse had filled his mouth with nectar.
Leigh Hunt.
Wergeland was one of the most popular poets Norway has ever produced. He rhymed with wonderful facility, and sometimes, when a rush of inspiration came upon him, he would write verses during a whole day and night, with untiring rapidity, scarcely pausing to eat, or to rest his hand. In the poems which expressed his own inward life there was often something above common comprehension; but, in addition to those higher efforts, he wrote a great number of verses for the peasantry, in all the peculiar dialects of their various districts. The merest trifle that flowed from his pen is said to have contained some sparkling fancy, or some breathing of sentiments truly poetic. He was an impassioned lover of nature, and in his descriptions of natural objects was peculiar for making them seem alive. Thus in one of his poems he describes the winds coming through clefts of rock, forming a powerful current in the fiord, driving white-crested waves before them, like a flock of huge storm-birds. A lawyer, who passes through the current in a boat, imagines the great waves to be angry spectres of the many poor clients whom he has wronged. He throws one ten dollars, another twenty, another fifty, to pacify them. At last, a wondrous tall wave stretches forth his long neck, as if to swallow him. The terrified lawyer throws him a hundred dollars, imploring him to be merciful. Just then, the boat turns a corner of the rock, out of the current. The great wave eagerly bends his long arm round the rock, and tries to clutch him; then retreats, disappointed at his escape.
Wergeland had a strongly marked head, full of indentations, like a bold rocky shore. He was an athletic, earnest, jovial man, and enjoyed life with a keen zest. His manner of telling a story was inimitably funny and vivacious. While he was settling his spectacles, before he began to speak, a smile would go mantling all over the lower part of his face, announcing that something good was coming. His soul went forth with warm spontaneousness to meet all forms of being; and this lively sympathy seemed to attract both men and animals toward him magnetically. He was accustomed to saddle his own horse, which stood loose in the barn, among pet rabbits, pet pigeons, pet birds, all sorts of poultry, and a favourite cat. These creatures all lived in the greatest friendship together. They knew their master’s voice perfectly well; and the moment he opened the door, they would all come neighing, purring, cooing, singing, crowing, capering and fluttering about him. His cottage was a picturesque place, ornamented with all sorts of mosses, vines, and flowers. Under it was a grotto made of rocks and shells, in which were an old hermit, with a long beard, and various other grotesque figures, carved in wood. The grotto was occasionally lighted up in the evening, and the images, seen among flickering shadows, excited great awe in the minds of peasant children.
This gifted and genial man, who lived in such loving companionship with nature, was called away from the earth, which seemed to him so cheerful, before he had passed the middle term of human life. The news of his death was received with lamentation by all classes in Norway. Crowds of people went to Christiana to bid farewell to the lifeless body of their favorite poet. While in the last stage of consumption, in May, 1845, he wrote the following verses, which were read to me by one of his countrymen, who translated them literally, as he went along. Even through this imperfect medium, my heart was deeply touched by their childlike simplicity and farewell sadness. The plaintive voice seemed to become my own, and uttered itself thus, in English rhyme, which faithfully preserves the sense of the original:
SUPPLICATION TO SPRING.
Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring!
Bring healing on thy balmy wing!
I loved thee more than all the year.
To no one hast thou been more dear.
Bright emeralds I valued less,
Than early grass, and water-cress.
Gem of the year I named thy flower,
Though roses grace fair Summer’s bower.
The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs,
Tried to allure thy poet’s eyes;
But they were far less dear to me,
Than thy simple wild anemone.