Life and Existence

The Inward Morning

Packed in my mind lie all the clothes
Which outward nature wears,
And in its fashion's hourly change
It all things else repairs.
In vain I look for change abroad,
And can no difference find,
Till some new ray of peace uncalled
Illumes my inmost mind.


What is it gilds the trees and clouds,
And paints the heavens so gay,
But yonder fast-abiding light
With its unchanging ray?


Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,
Upon a winter's morn,
Where'er his silent beams intrude,
The murky night is gone.


How could the patient pine have known
The morning breeze would come,
Or humble flowers anticipate
The insect's noonday hum--


Till the new light with morning cheer
From far streamed through the aisles,
And nimbly told the forest trees
For many stretching miles?


I've heard within my inmost soul
Such cheerful morning news,
In the horizon of my mind
Have seen such orient hues,


As in the twilight of the dawn,
When the first birds awake,
Are heard within some silent wood,
Where they the small twigs break,


Or in the eastern skies are seen,
Before the sun appears,
The harbingers of summer heats
Which from afar he bears.

Song Of Nature

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gull of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.


I hide in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.


No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life
And pour the deluge still;


And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.


And many a thousand summers
My gardens ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.


I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.


And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;


What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.


Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and piled the layers
Of granite, marl and shell.


But he, the man-child glorious, -
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.


My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,



And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.


Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?


Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;


I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?


I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.


Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day and one of night
And one of the salt sea-sand.


One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.


I moulded kings and saviors,
And bards o'er kings to rule; -
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.


Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.


Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones and countless days.


No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

Song Of Nature

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gull of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.


I hide in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.


No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life
And pour the deluge still;


And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.


And many a thousand summers
My gardens ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.


I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.


And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;


What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.


Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and piled the layers
Of granite, marl and shell.


But he, the man-child glorious, -
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.


My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,



And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.


Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?


Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;


I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?


I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.


Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day and one of night
And one of the salt sea-sand.


One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.


I moulded kings and saviors,
And bards o'er kings to rule; -
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.


Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.


Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones and countless days.


No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

Rumors from an Aeolian Harp

There is a vale which none hath seen,
Where foot of man has never been,
Such as here lives with toil and strife,
An anxious and a sinful life.
There every virtue has its birth,
Ere it descends upon the earth,
And thither every deed returns,
Which in the generous bosom burns.


There love is warm, and youth is young,
And poetry is yet unsung.
For Virtue still adventures there,
And freely breathes her native air.


And ever, if you hearken well,
You still may hear its vesper bell,
And tread of high-souled men go by,
Their thoughts conversing with the sky.

Sic Vita

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together,
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide,
Methinks,
For milder weather.


A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
The law
By which I'm fixed.


A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fair Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
That waste
The day he yields.


And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
Drinking my juices up,
With no root in the land
To keep my branches green,
But stand
In a bare cup.


Some tender buds were left upon my stem
In mimicry of life,
But ah! the children will not know,
Till time has withered them,
The woe
With which they're rife.


But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
And after in life's vase
Of glass set while I might survive,
But by a kind hand brought
Alive
To a strange place.


That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
And by another year,
Such as God knows, with freer air,
More fruits and fairer flowers
Will bear,
While I droop here.

Sic Vita

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together,
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide,
Methinks,
For milder weather.


A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
The law
By which I'm fixed.


A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fair Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
That waste
The day he yields.


And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
Drinking my juices up,
With no root in the land
To keep my branches green,
But stand
In a bare cup.


Some tender buds were left upon my stem
In mimicry of life,
But ah! the children will not know,
Till time has withered them,
The woe
With which they're rife.


But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
And after in life's vase
Of glass set while I might survive,
But by a kind hand brought
Alive
To a strange place.


That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
And by another year,
Such as God knows, with freer air,
More fruits and fairer flowers
Will bear,
While I droop here.

Sic Vita

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together,
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide,
Methinks,
For milder weather.


A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
The law
By which I'm fixed.


A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fair Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
That waste
The day he yields.


And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
Drinking my juices up,
With no root in the land
To keep my branches green,
But stand
In a bare cup.


Some tender buds were left upon my stem
In mimicry of life,
But ah! the children will not know,
Till time has withered them,
The woe
With which they're rife.


But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
And after in life's vase
Of glass set while I might survive,
But by a kind hand brought
Alive
To a strange place.


That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
And by another year,
Such as God knows, with freer air,
More fruits and fairer flowers
Will bear,
While I droop here.

Light-Winged Smoke

LIGHT-WINGED Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and the messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.

Inspiration


Whate'er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.


If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.


But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;


Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear--
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.


Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.


But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.


I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.


I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.


A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody--
Farther behind than they, farther within.


More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.


It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,



That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.


Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood's strength it is the flower,
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.


It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.


Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.


Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.


She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.


I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.


I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.


My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.


Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.


Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward


Who has his Maker's nod.

Inspiration


Whate'er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.


If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.


But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;


Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear--
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.


Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.


But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.


I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.


I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.


A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody--
Farther behind than they, farther within.


More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.


It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,



That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.


Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood's strength it is the flower,
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.


It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.


Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.


Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.


She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.


I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.


I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.


My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.


Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.


Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward


Who has his Maker's nod.

Inspiration


Whate'er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.


If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.


But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;


Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear--
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.


Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.


But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.


I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.


I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.


A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody--
Farther behind than they, farther within.


More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.


It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,



That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.


Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood's strength it is the flower,
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.


It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.


Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.


Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.


She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.


I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.


I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.


My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.


Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.


Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward


Who has his Maker's nod.

I was Made Erect and Lone

I was made erect and lone,
And within me is the bone;
Still my vision will be clear,
Still my life will not be drear,
To the center all is near.
Where I sit there is my throne.
If age choose to sit apart,
If age choose, give me the start,
Take the sap and leave the heart.

I am the Autumnal Sun

Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality. From time to time she claims
kindredship with us, and some globule
from her veins steals up into our own.


I am the autumnal sun,
With autumn gales my race is run;
When will the hazel put forth its flowers,
Or the grape ripen under my bowers?
When will the harvest or the hunter's moon
Turn my midnight into mid-noon?
I am all sere and yellow,
And to my core mellow.
The mast is dropping within my woods,
The winter is lurking within my moods,
And the rustling of the withered leaf
Is the constant music of my grief...

Epitaph On The World

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
'Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when 'twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.

Epitaph On The World

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
'Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when 'twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.

Great God, I Ask for no Meaner Pelf

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself,
That in my action I may soar as high
As I can now discern with this clear eye.


And next in value, which thy kindness lends,
That I may greatly disappoint my friends,
Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,
They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.


That my weak hand may equal my firm faith
And my life practice what my tongue saith
That my low conduct may not show
Nor my relenting lines
That I thy purpose did not know
Or overrated thy designs.

Great God, I Ask for no Meaner Pelf

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself,
That in my action I may soar as high
As I can now discern with this clear eye.


And next in value, which thy kindness lends,
That I may greatly disappoint my friends,
Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,
They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.


That my weak hand may equal my firm faith
And my life practice what my tongue saith
That my low conduct may not show
Nor my relenting lines
That I thy purpose did not know
Or overrated thy designs.

Great God, I Ask for no Meaner Pelf

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself,
That in my action I may soar as high
As I can now discern with this clear eye.


And next in value, which thy kindness lends,
That I may greatly disappoint my friends,
Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,
They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.


That my weak hand may equal my firm faith
And my life practice what my tongue saith
That my low conduct may not show
Nor my relenting lines
That I thy purpose did not know
Or overrated thy designs.

All Things Are Current Found

ALL things are current found
On earthly ground,
Spirits and elements
Have their descents.


Night and day, year on year,
High and low, far and near,
These are our own aspects,
These are our own regrets.


Ye gods of the shore,
Who abide evermore,
I see you far headland,
Stretching on either hand;


I hear the sweet evening sounds
From your undecaying grounds;
Cheat me no more with time,
Take me to your clime.

Away! Away! Away! Away!

Away! away! away! away!
Ye have not kept your secret well,
I will abide that other day,
Those other lands ye tell.


Has time no leisure left for these,
The acts that ye rehearse?
Is not eternity a lease
For better deeds than verse?


‘Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,
To know them still alive,
But sweeter if we earn their bread,
And in us they survive.


Our life should feed the springs of fame
With a perennial wave,
As ocean feeds the babbling founts
Which find it in their grave.


Ye skies dropp gently round my breast,
And be my corselet blue,
Ye earth receive my lance in rest,
My faithful charger you;


Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,
My arrow-tips ye are;
I see the routed foemen fly,
My bright spears fixed are.


Give me an angel for a foe,
Fix now the place and time,
And straight to meet him I will go
Above the starry chime.


And with our clashing bucklers’ clang
The heavenly spears shall ring,
While bright the northern lights shall hang
Beside our tourneying.


And if she lose her champion true,
Tell Heaven not despair,
For I will be her champion new,
Her fame I will repair.

November


'Tredje Reeb ind! - - Op at beslaae Mersseilet! -
Ha, alle Djævle, hvilken Nat! -'


*
Nøgent, øde Sted paa Jyllands Vestkyst.
(Det er Nat og Maaneskin; Skyerne jage hen over det oprørte Hav).


En Skare onde Natur-Aander mødes, de leire sig i Sandet.


Den Første.
Her November har sin Throne,
Hvilken deilig Dandseplads!
Storm og Hav er vort Orchester.
Hør dog, hvilket lystigt Stykke!
Mine Been er Hvirvel-Vinde;
Kom, imens de Andre sladdre
Om de natlige Bedrifter.


Den Anden.
Dette Sted især jeg ynder.
Om en herlig Spas det minder!
See I [rettet fra: i] der det løse Qviksand?
Det er flere Aar nu siden,
Men som nu, just i November,
Kom en lystig Brudeskare;
Klarinet og Violiner
Klang heel lysteligt fra Vognen,
Hvor med Silkebaand om [rettet fra: um] Haaret,
Bruden sad, saa ung og deilig.
Med en Taage jeg dem blænded',
I et Nu de svandt i Sandet.


Den Tredie.
Det er kun i forgaars siden,
Jeg mit Eventyr har prøvet.
Nyligt havde Stormen lagt sig,
Havet hvilte som et Klæde.
Stille laae et Vrag derude,
Alt dets Mandskab længst var borte,
Kun en Mand og tvende Qvinder
Endnu stode der forladte,
Men der laae en Baad paa Dækket,
Stor og bred; de der dem satte.
Manden bortskar [rettet fra: bortskjar] alle Touge,
Undersøgte Alting nøie,
Haabede, naar Vraget sank,
Baaden, frelst fra Dybets Hvirvler,
Let dem bar paa Havets Flade.*
Men eet Toug sig for ham skjulte,
Livet hang ved dette ene.
Tause sad de, Alt var stille;
Ingen Luftning krused' Havet.



Dybt jeg dykkede, dernede
Jog jeg Hvalerne af Søvnen;
Deres sorte Ryg de reiste
Over Fladen, sprøited' Vandet
Høit i Luften rundt om Vraget,
Hvor de tause Dødsindviede
Dybt og langsomt droge Aande,
Men endnu om Livet drømte; -
Mere Vandet steg i Rummet,
Lystigt hylte det derinde.
- Vraget sank, rev Baaden med sig -
Bølgen steg i vilde Hvirvler,
Sydede i store Kredse.
Saa blev atter alting stille,


-Ingen seer hvad Dybet gjemmer.
Ingen veed om Skibets Skjæbne;
Bange vente de der hjemme,
Uger, Maaneder og Aar,
Medens Hvalens sorte Finner
Slaae de hvide Dødningben.
Den Fjerde.
Intet stort Du der udretted',
Nei, hør kun, hvad jeg har gjort. -
Nær ved Genfersøens Bredder,
Hvor lavinen laa paa fjeldet,
Purpurfarvet smukt af solen,
Svang jeg mig i Aftenskumring.
Dybt i Dalen alt var Stilhed;
Ingen Luftning rørte Træet.


-ved den lille, lave Hytte
Sad en tre Aars Dreng og leged'.
Hæslig var han som en Engel!
Brune øjne, smil paa Kinden -
Se, nu kom en mægtig Rovfugl,
Der paa sine sorte Vinger
Rask slog ned og greb den Lille.
Højt den skreg; han fløj med Byttet.
Moderen kom ud fra Huset.
Uden Ord og uden Stemme
Stirred' hun med Dødens Blikke.
Først den satte sig paa Taget,
Fløj saa op ad Fjeldets Side;
Hvilte der, til hun var ved ham,
Atter fløj han da - ha, glæde!
Længer kunne hun ej følge -
Mellem Graner, Sne og Skyer,
Sad han i sin stolte Rede;
Slukked Øiets Stjerne-flamme,
Leged' med de gule Lokker,
Drak de varme, friske Draaber,
Og istemte højt sin Sang. www.
PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive


-under Reden laa et Snelag.
Ved min Aande blev det løsnet,
Thi jeg bævede af Lyst,
Og den lette Snebold trilled',
Svulmede til en Lavine,
Skjulte Hytten dybt i Dalen,
Hvor den bange Moder drømte,
Hendes mindste Barn laa trygt.
Den femte.
Dorske vagabonder er i.
Ikkun ét - ét eventyr?
Nej, som snogehammen broget,
Maa det med Bedrifter veksle.
Med den blege Maanestraale
Leged' jeg i Midnatsstunden
Om hver stærk og saftfuld Urt,
Suged' Kræfter op af Jorden,
Lagde Gift i Rod og Blade,
Krydret med mit Flammekys! -
Højt imellem Norges Fjelde
Traf jeg paa en Trup af Ulve;
Jeg med Vinterkulden slog dem,
Drev dem bort med Storm og Hagl,
Fra hvert Rov, de kunde finde,
Og de kom til Bondens Hytte;
Let blev Pinden brudt fra Døren,
Der var ingen Folk i Stuen,
Kun en Unge laae i Vuggen,
Ret en deilig Ulvebrad.


-Ene, i den dybe Granskov
Sad en Pige, hun var deilig!
Alle kaldte hende dydig.
Med en nyfødt Lille sad hun,
Væded' ham med Kys og Taarer,
Men fortvivled' over Skammen;
Selv jeg fandt, det klædte ilde;
Derfor, som en Hvirvelvind,
Greb jeg en af Skovens Graner,
Knuste den i mine Arme,
Snoede Barken til en Strikke,
Kasted' den for hendes Fødder, -
Og den gjorde herlig Nytte. -
Barnet grov' vi ned i Mosen -
Nu er Pigen atter dydig.
Derpaa gik min Vei til Havet,
Jeg blev Bølge mellem Bølger.
Stormen Steg, der kom en Snekke,
Fire Mand, en niaars Gut,
Var Besætningen derinde,
Gutten gik just i Kahytten,
Men de fire Mænd var' oppe.

Som en Braa-Sø jeg mig reiste,
Gjorde ryddeligt paa Dækket.

-Nu er Drengen ene Herre,
Skibet gaaer for Storm og Vinde.
See, nu kommer da det Sidste,
Skade, det er ei det Bedste! -
Nær ved Edinburg jeg landed';
Useet, sneg jeg mig i Hytten,
Hvor den syge Moder blunded'.
Hendes Søn, en ni-aars Dreng
Sad med Bibelen og læste;
Men da Søvnen qvæged' hende,
Taug han stille, folded' Haanden,
Saae paa hende fromt og barnligt.
Som en Luftning greb jeg hurtig
I det lette Senge-Omhæng,
Lod det kysse Lampe-Flammen.
Snart det blussede. Jeg brændte
I den røde, vilde Lue!
Drengen styrted' ud af Huset,
For at søge Hjelp for hende. -
Udenfor - et lystigt Møde!
See, der stod' to vilde Knægte,
Muskelstærke, klædt, i Pjalter,
Efter Bytte kun de lured';
Og de greb og qvalte Drengen,
Bragte Liget hen til Lægen,
Der betalte med Guineer,
Thi han fik et smukt Kadaver.
Men igjennem Hyttens Rude
Løfted' jeg min Flamme-Vinge,
Hvirvled' Røgen høit mod Skyen
I den maaneklare Nat.
Den Første.
Ha, jeg hører gjennem Stormen,
Hører gjennem Havets Brænding
Hist fra Hytten Fredens Toner.
Hør, den gamle Qvinde synger!
Gid jeg kunde blæse Psalmen
Ud af hendes fromme Hjerte.
Dorske Bølge, reis dig mere!
Ryst November-Storm din Vinge,
At jeg hendes Sang ei hører.


Psalmetoner fra Fiskerhytten.
'Vor Gud lod en Rose opskyde,
Alverden burde sig fryde;
Men mangen har aldrig fornummen,
At Rosen til Verden er kommen.


Ak, søger de ydmyge Steder,



I Støvet, hvor [skulle være: for] Frelseren græder,
Saa faae I vor Jesum i Tale,
Thi Roserne voxe i Dale.


Lad Verden mig Alting betage,
Lad Tornene rive og nage.
Lad Hjertet daane og briste,
Min Rose jeg aldrig vil miste!' **


De onde Aander.
Fæle, frygtelige Toner!
Kom, vi vil' som Hvirvelvinde
Stige i Novembernatten.
Men først her en Daad vi øve;
Vi vil lægge os paa Bølgen,
Suge Taage op af Havet,
Sprede denne rundt om Kysten.
Da den stolte Søemand gruer,
Mens paa nye Eventyr
Hver gaaer hen, hvor bedst ham synes.


Den Første.
Jeg vil rase vildt i Skoven,
Rykke Træer op med Roden;
Hvirvle Bladene mod Skyen;
Hvidske Mennesket i Hjertet:
'Efter Løvfald kommer Vaaren,
Bringer atter grønne Blade;
Derfor Du, naar Hjertet isner,
Troer, en nyfødt Vaar Dig venter.
Slægter fødes, Skoven grønnes,
Men husk paa det Løv, som falder,
Aldrig dette grønnes mere.
Det er kun i nye Slægter
Livet groer for Evigheden'.


Den Anden.
Jeg vil flyve ned til Sjælland,
Jage Fuglene fra Skoven,
Skræmme dem, at hæst de skrige;
Da vil Bonden i sin Hytte,
Grue for den vilde Jæger,
Det er Waldemar som jager!


Den Tredie.
Ja, ved Vordingborg i Taarnet
Hyler jeg med Natte-Blæsten
Gjennem Murens dybe Revner.
'Kongen har ei Ro i Graven!'
Hvisker da den bange Fisker,
Og med Eet han bli'er gudfrygtug,
Mens han seiler over Bugten.



Den Fjerde og Femte.
Kom, vi flyve op paa Heden,
Der en lystig Fest vi feire!
Nu i Finnerup de sove.


-Luftens Taage vil vi forme
Til en gammel gothisk Kirke,
Ret som den, der fordum stod der.
Døren aabne vi til Laden.
Jeg vil være Dannerkongen,
Erik Glipping. Du er Ranild.
Luftig' lette, skabt' af Taage,
Stige vi som deres Aander.
Tingen kjende vi til Grunden,
Selv vi vare med ved Legen,
Og har siden tidt af Bonden
Hørt det i hans gamle Vise.
'Lukked' Du Ranild den Dør med Stang,
Som jeg Dig dertil troer?
Undsagt mig har Marsk Stig engang,
Mindes Du vel hans Ord.


Jeg sætter for Døren Pind og Stang,
Og dertil Bjelke hiin tykke,
Ikke fødtes af Qvinde den Mand,
Der skal den med Hænder oprykke.


Viben vil værge for hver den Sted,
Som udi Marken mon staae,
Hun kan ei værge den lille Tue,
Som hun skal bygge paa.


Det var ei anden Pind eller Stang,
Som monne for Døren staae,
Det vil jeg Eder sige for sandt,
Det var kun to Halmstraae.


Det var ei anden Bjelke tyk,
Som han for Døren opreiste,
Det var et Halmneeg let og blødt,
Som Veiret strax frablæste'.


Ja saaledes klinger Visen!
Saadan var det, maae vi sande,
Kaade Trolde lystigt spøgte;
Een var Straaet, Een var Neget,
Det var Pinden, det var Bjelken. -
Men afsted! - Nu er jeg Kongen!
Bedst Du forestiller Ranild.
Og I Andre, som vil følge,
Vorder Taage! kom som Munke,



Mens bag Kappen Sværdet blinker.
Saadan vi den glade Blodnat,
Vor November-Farce spille,***
Mens en Natmand med Familie
Gaaer i Storm og Blæst paa Heden,
Og forfærdes, naar han seer os
Kogle i den vilde Midnat.


(Det oprørte Hav. - Et Skib flyver frem i Stormen).


Kapitainen (giver Befalinger).
Tredie Reeb ind! - - Op at beslaae Mersseilet! - ha alle Djævle, hvilken Nat!
(Skrig af Passagererne).


Kapitainen.
Ryddelig Dæk! - For Satan, hvilken Taage! - holla! ikke legere [fejl for: længere?]! - heis
Storm-Aben!


Bølgerne.
Menneskeaand, som byder os Skranke,
Ha skjælv bag den skjøre Planke,
Frygt den sorte, skummende Sø,
'Du skal døe!'


Kapitainen.
Kap luv Mesans Vanter! - ha, rør jer Gutter! - - Vi drive ind! - op med Roret!


Skrig af Matroser.
Vi sidde fast - Søen gaaer ind i Rummet! Herre Jesus! vi forgaae.


Don Juan.
Mephistopheles! jeg synker!


Mephistopheles.
Grib min Haand! Paa denne Planke
Vi paa Bølgen ride Ranke.
Gjennem Brændingen Du stiger,
Frelst, til Kystens smukke Piger,
Og paa Skrækken Dig fornøier.
Alt er kun November-Løier.
Den ei Aarets Død forkynder.
Ballet er det, som begynder.
Stormen her er Musikanten;
See, hvor lystigt Dandsen gaaer!
Seent først Vintergubben staaer
Kold og hvid, som Kommandanten.


(De drive i Land)..

The Dying Child

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.


Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.


Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!


Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?


Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!


Do not sigh thus - it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired - my weary eyes are closing -
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

The Dying Child

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.


Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.


Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!


Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?


Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!


Do not sigh thus - it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired - my weary eyes are closing -
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

Januar


'- Nyfødt Aaret er vorden!
Stolt, med den flagrende Lok, i Storm og i Blæst,
Paa sin vingede Hest
Jager Tiden hen over Jorden - !'
*
Vandringsmanden.
Et Hjem for Samojed og Pescheræ
Viser den frosne Jord med sin Snee;
Men her, som i et Feeland at see,
Staaer det riimfrosne Træ
Og løfter mod Solen sin glimrende Green
Mod en Luft, som Italiens, sortblaa, men reen.
Det er deiligt at see,
Hvor over den hvide Snee
Den sorte Rovfugl svæver,
Og Hytterne hist, hvor Røgen sig hæver,
Hvor Pigen strøer Korn af sin lille Kurv
For den qviddrende Spurv.


-Ja, nyfødt Aaret er vorden!
Stolt med den flagrende Lok, i Storm og i Blæst,
Paa sin vingede Hest
Jager Tiden hen over Jorden,
Trykker med faderlig Arm
Sine Børn, de kommende Aar, til sin Barm.
Er Maanen i Næ tolv Gange vorden,
Svæver et Barn fra hans Bryst til Jorden,
Hvorfra den ventende Broder vil stige
Igjen til sit evige Rige.
Thi Himmelens mægtige Blaa er det Hav,
Hvor Aaret forsvinder,
Hvorfra det nye oprinder
For vor Jord, denne altid blomstrende Grav.
Tiden
(paa sin vingede Hest).
Min Jord, Du er saa skjøn at see
I Sommer-Grønt, i Vinter-Snee!
Din Kamp, Din Færdsel, Død og Liv,
Alt peger til et Guddoms-Bliv!
Du Hvilepunkt for Tanken gav;
Først saae jeg kun et Taage-Hav,
Det maatte snart for Lyset døe,
Og Du fremstod, men alt var Sø!
Da voxte frem den første Ø,
Med Skov og Frugt og Blomster smaae,
Og Mennesket sin Skaber saae.


Hvert Aar et Barn jeg sendte ned,
Og gjennem Had og Kjærlighed
Det atter sig til Himlen svang,
Naar Maanen skifted' tolvte Gang.



Vandringsmanden.
See de henrundne Aar, som bevingede Smaae,
Svæve hen i det Blaae.
Men det yngste, smukt, med et flagrende Haar,
Nærmest ved Faderen staaer;
Verden det nævner: 'det gamle Aar'.
Det stirrer mod Jorden tilbage,
Hører dets Klage!


Tiden.
Hvorfor staaer Øiet fuldt af Graad?
Paa Jorden har Du endt din Daad,
Alt voxer der for Herrens Meed,
Til Frihed, Kraft og Kjærlighed.
Det yngste Barn vel græder meest,
Men har det derfor Sorger fleest?


Det gamle Aar.*
Hvor mellem Myrter og glødende Frugter
I Bugter
Floderne gaae
I den tryllende Nat, under sydlige Blaa,
Eet, kun Eet i Naturen jeg saae:
Kulsorte Ravne med hæse Skrig
Fløi om svævende Liig,
Og de sang, jeg det hører paa ny!
'- Stille det er i den mægtige By,
Stille, som her under Galgen.
Guitaren toner ei længer mod Sky,
Sværdet i Balgen!
Beder og drømmer, Qvinde og Mand,
I Tajos og Ebros blomstrende Land.


-Fra Fængslernes pestfyldte Gange,
Hvor Vandet steeg om den døende Fange,
Hørte jeg Suk og Forbandelsens Skrig;
Rundt om saae jeg tusinde blodige Liig;
Ungdommens Slægt,
Under Lænkernes Vægt,
Sendt bort, langt bort over Hav,
Til Africas brændende Grav,
Medens Munkene stolt, ved Orgelets Klang,
Sang en Vuggesang,
Og jeg, paa min sorte, fjedrede Vinge,
I mægtige Ringe,
Mig svang om Don Miguels Slot
Og sang for min Drot!'
-Saa qvad den sorte skrigende Ravn.
Men Friheds Hymner lød fra Frankrigs Havn,
Og Folket steeg paa Aandens stolte Bane;
Thi plantede jeg kjækt den franske Fane
Paa Atlasbjerget - - steeg igjen derned,
Men fandt kun Striid og Stræben, uden Meed.

-Hvor Donaufloden sig i Bugter snoer,
Hvor Vinen paa de varme Bjerge groer,
Jeg saae det ladte Trækskib glide frem,
Den stolte Flod bar Rigdom til sit Hjem.
Mod Natten sov den raske Bonde ind,
Med Sundheds-Æblet paa sin runde Kind,
Ved Dag-Gry laae han død - et sortblaa Liig,
Og hvor jeg kom, lød Skræk og vilde Skrig,
Thi Pestens fule Sot det monne være.
Den kom fra Ruslands Død-indviede Hære,
Hvis halve Magt, hvorhen mit Øie saae,
Som Aadsler paa de øde Marker laae,
Ja Ven og Fjende, henslængt Favn i Favn,
Et Bytte for den sultne Ulv og Ravn;
Men Himlen brændte i den røde Lue.
-I Grændsebyen, i den lave Stue,
Jeg saae en gammel Bedstemoer i Krogen;
Hun sad med Bibelen, hun aabned' Bogen
Og læste høit: - 'Den Rige havde
Eet tusind Faar, den Fattige kun eet,
Da tog den Rige dette eneste - -'
Hun standsede, Graad stod i hvert et Øie,
Og Sønnen, o, jeg husker det saa nøie!
'Hvor ligner det et Sagn', begyndte han,
'Som I og jeg og alle har oplevet;
Kun kom Propheten ikke der og sagde
Til ham, som gjorde dette: 'Du est Manden!'
- Tre Naboer - de vare mægtige -
Faldt paa at ville dele mellem sig
Den mindre rige Naboes Eiendomme;
Den Mægtigste tog selv hans Børn fra ham,
Og sendte disse bort, langt bort derfra,
Behandlede ham som en Hund i Lænke,
Og Lænken trængte ind i Kjødet paa ham,
Han havde intet mere - kun sit Navn,
Sit gamle Hæders-Navn, selv dette skulde
Udslettes nu. Da kogte Blodet i ham,
Han voved' Kampen mod den Mægtige;
Han kun forlangte Livet og sin Frihed!
Han stred. Han stred alene, uden Hjælp;
Og Mængden græd ved Mandens store Jammer,
Men taalte roligt dog, man slæbte ham
Til Slagterbænken, det forlangte jo
Den mægtige, den stolte Herres Ære!'
Han taug - jeg svang mig bort fra Friheds Grav
Over det svulmende Hav.
-Dybt, hvor Naturen synes at sove,
Hvor de vilde Huroners Tal
Søge Fjendernes Hjerneskal,
Hvor den svulmende Flod
Bliver Skum ved Fjeldmassens Fod,
I Amerikas uendelige Skove;

Hvor i Kredse Fuglene steeg
Om en tusindaarig Eeg,
Og hvor atter Stilheden, dyb og lang,
Gjorde Barmen trang,
Der saae jeg en Flok, nei en Hær,
Qvinder og Børn,
Hvem Øxen brød Vei over Skovens Tjørn
Ved det blaahvide Maaneskjær.
Indfødte, Kristne ved Daab og Ord,
I det blomstrende Fædreneland,
Forjagne fra Hjem og dyrkede Jord
Af den hvide Mand. -
Frihedens Land, med stigende Flor
Du hæver Dig blomstrende stor,
Mens de ældste Slægter vige og svinde!
Ja mod Vest, høit mod Polen,
Som Solen,
De hendøe bag Bjergenes Tinde.


-Dog, eet Sted fandt jeg Kjærlighed og Fred,
Hvor Bautastenen staaer ved Søens Bred,
Hvor Bøgen voxer, deilig uden Lige,
Og Danmark kaldte man det lille Rige!
-Ja der, og ved det stolte Dovrefjeld,
Flød, uden Bloddaab, Friheds Kildevæld,
Og Blomst og Frugt mit Øie kunde see,
Som Kornets Spiren under Vinter-Snee.
Tiden.
Og end Du græder, skjøndt Du saae,
Hvordan der Liv bag Døden laae?
Aarhundredet, som Aaret, har
Jo først sin kolde Januar!
Kan alt i den dit Øie see
Det Grønne bag den hvide Snee,
Da maa dit Hjerte glad Dig spaae,
Hvad Vaarens Kampe bringe maae.
Alt grønne Spirer Danmark har,
Og Jorden Friheds Januar! -


Vandringsmanden.
Forstod jeg dig, Du Tidens stærke Aand?
Forstod jeg vel Naturens dybe Tale?
Snart sprænges alle Vintrens snevre Baand,
Og Sandheds Sol bestraaler Fjeld og Dale!
Din Januar al Jorderige fik,
Snart Aandens Vaar de frie Slægter prise,
Af Januar fik Danmark Frederik,
Og Danmark kan det første Grønt fremvise!