During A Journey In Sweden

My boyish heart in thee confided,
For to the great by thee 't was guided.
As man, my waiting is for thee,-

The Northern cause with thee, with thee!

Rich lands and talents are thy dower,
But fallow lie thy wealth and power.

Thou must the North in concord bind,
Or never shalt thy true self find.

There's longing in thy folk arisen,
Poetic hope-but yet in prison.
Though forces great within thee dwell,
Thou art not wholly sound and well.

Too many things are undertaken,

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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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From The Cantata For N. F. S. Grundtvig

His day was the greatest the Northland has seen,
It one was with the midnight-sun's wonders serene:
The light wherein he sat was the light of God's true peace,
And that has never morning, nor night when it must cease.

In light of God's peace shone the
history
he gave,
The spirit's course on earth that shall conquer the grave.
Might of God's pure peace thus our
fathers'
mighty way
Before us for example and warning open lay.

In light of God's peace he beheld with watchful eye
The people at their work and the spirit's strivings high.
In light of God's pure peace he would have all learning glow,
And where his word is honored the 'Folk-High-Schools' must grow.

In light of God's peace stood 'mid sorrow and care

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Ole gabriel ueland

Of long toil 't is a matter
Through many a silent age,
Before such power can shatter
Time-hallowed custom's cage.
The soul-fruit of the peasant,
Though seldom seed was sown,
It is our honor present,-
Our future sure foreknown.

The fjords that earnest waited
'Mid mountain-snows around
His childhood's thoughts created
And depth of life profound.
The highlands' sun that played there
On fjord and mountain snow
So wide a vision made there
As one could wish to know.

When
he

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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Nils Finn

Now little Nils Finn had away to go;
The skis were too loose at both heel and toe.
--"That's too bad!" rumbled yonder.

Then little Nils Finn in the snow set his feet:
"You ugliest troll, you shall never me cheat!"
--"Hee-ho-ha!" rumbled yonder.

Nils Finn with his staff beat the snow till it blew
"Your trollship, now saw you how hapless it flew?"
--"Hit-li-hu!" rumbled yonder.

Nils Finn pushed one ski farther forward with might;
The other held fast,--he reeled left and right.
--"Pull it up!" rumbled yonder.

Nils' tears wet the snow, while he kicked and he struck;
The more that he kicked there, the deeper he stuck.
--"That was good!" rumbled yonder.

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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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To Johan Dahl, Bookdealer

(On His Sixtieth Birthday)
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.

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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Song for the students' glee club

Now, brothers, sing out our song,
Whose train of light shall follow long!
With love are its measures beating
And victory's joyous greeting,
While round about it flower-seeds
In will of youth shall grow to deeds!

Our song has gone far and. wide,
Bright mem'ries on our way abide,
In flags flying, friends that love us,
In wreaths from fair hands above us,
In feasts where youth's full spirits stream,
Our nation's past, our nation's dream.

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,

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The child in our soul

Toward God in heaven spacious
With artless faith a boy looks free,
As toward his mother gracious,
And top of Christmas-tree.
But early in the storm of youth
There wounds him deep the serpent's tooth;
His childhood's faith is doubted
And flouted.

Soon stands in radiant splendor
With bridal wreath his boyhood's dream;
Her loving eyes and tender
The light of heaven's faith stream.
As by his mother's knee of yore
God's name he stammers yet once more,
The rue of tears now paying
And praying.

When now life's conflict stirring
Leads him along through doubtings wild,

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Our Country 1859

A land there is, lying near far-northern snow,
Where only the fissures life's springtime may know.
But surging, the sea tells of great deeds done,
And loved is the land as a mother by son.

What time we were little and sat on her knee,
She gave us her saga with pictures to see.
We read till our eyes opened wide and moist,
While nodding and smiling she mute rejoiced.

We went to the fjord and in wonder beheld
The ashen-gray bauta, that record of eld;
Still older she stood and her silence kept,
While stone-studded hows all around us slept.

Our hands she then took and away o'er the hill
She led to the church ever lowly and still,
Where humbly our forefathers knelt to pray,
And mildly she taught us: "Do ye as they!"

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At A Banquet For Professor Ludv. Kr. Daa

Youthful friends here a circle form,
Elder foes now surrender.
Feel among us in safety, warm,
Toward you our hearts are tender.
Once again on a hard-fought day
Hero-like you have led the way,
Smiting all that before you stood;-
But now be good!

With no hubbub, without champagne,
Dress-suit, and party-collar,
We would honor o'er viands plain
Grateful our 'grand old scholar'!
When all quiet are wind and wave,
Seldom we see this pilot brave;-
When storm-surges our ship might whelm,
He takes the helm!

-Takes the helm and through thick and thin
(Clear are his old eyes burning),

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Over The Lofty Mountains

Wonder I must, what I once may see
Over the lofty mountains!
Eyes shall meet only snow, may be;
Standing here, each evergreen tree
Over the heights is yearning;--
Will it be long in learning?

Pinions strong bear the eagle away
Over the lofty mountains
Forth to the young and vigorous day;
There he exults in the swift, wild play,
Rests where his spirit orders,--
Sees all the wide world's borders.

Full-leaved the apple-tree wishes naught
Over the lofty mountains!
Spreading, when summer hither is brought,
Waiting till next time in its thought;
Many a bird it is swinging,
Knowing not what they are singing.

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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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