Rivers and raftsmen, Herdsmen and horns and the glacier-glow. Moors and meadows, Runes in the woodlands, and wide-mown swaths, Cities like flowers, streams that run dashing Out to the flashing White of the sea, where the fish-school froths. Norway, Norway, Houses and huts, not castles grand, Gentle or hard, Thee we guard, thee we guard, Thee, our future's fair land.

MASTER OR SLAVE

Lo, this land that lifts around it Threatening peaks, while stern seas bound it, With cold winters, summers bleak, Curtly smiling, never meek, 'Tis the giant we must master, Till he work our will the faster. He shall carry, though he clamor, He shall haul and saw and hammer, Turn to light the tumbling torrent,-- All his din and rage abhorrent Shall, if we but do our duty, Win for us a realm of beauty.

IN THE FOREST

List to the forest-voice murmuring low: All that it saw when alone with its laughter, All that it suffered in times that came after, Mournful it tells, that the wind may know.

WHEN COMES THE MORNING? (FROM IN GOD'S WAY) (See Note 77)

_When_ comes the real morning? When golden, the sun's rays hover Over the earth's snow-cover, And where the shadows nestle, Wrestle, Lifting lightward the root enringèd Till it shall seem an angel wingèd, Then it is morning, Real, real morning. But if the weather is bad And my spirit sad, Never morning I know. No.

Truly, it's real morning, When blossom the buds winter-beaten, The birds having drunk and eaten Are glad as they sing, divining Shining Great new crowns to the tree-tops given, Cheering the brooks to the broad ocean riven. Then it is morning, Real, real morning. But if the weather is bad And my spirit sad, Never morning I know. No.

_When_ comes the real morning? When power to conquer parries Sorrow and storm, and carries Sun to the soul, whose burning Yearning Opens in love and calls to others: Good to be unto all as brothers. _Then_ it is morning, Real, real morning. Greatest power you know --And most dangerous, lo!-- Will you _this_ then possess? Yes.

MAY SEVENTEENTH (1883) (See Note 78)

Wergeland's statue on May seventeenth Saw the procession. And as its rear-guard, Slow marching masses, Strong men, and women with flower-decked presence; Come now the peasants, come now the peasants.

Österdal's forest's magnificent chieftain Bore the old banner. Soon as we see it Blood-red uplifted, Greet it the thousands in thought of its story: That is our glory, that is our glory!

Never that lion bore crown that was foreign, Never that cloth was by Dannebrog cloven. I saw the _future_, When with that banner by Wergeland's column Peasants stood solemn, peasants stood solemn.

Most of our loss in the times that have vanished, Most of our victories, most of our longing, Most that is vital: Deeds of the past and the future's bold daring Peasants are bearing, peasants are bearing.

Sorely they suffered for sins once committed, But they arise now. Here in the Storting Stalwart they prove it, All, as they come from our land's every region, Peasants Norwegian, peasants Norwegian.

Hold what they won, with a will to go farther; Whole we must have independence and honor! All of us know it: Wergeland's summer bears soon its best flower,-- Power in peasants, peasants in power.

FREDERIK HEGEL (See Note 79)

I DEDICATION

You never came here; but I go Here often and am met by you. Each room and road here must renew The thought of you and your form show Standing with helpful hand extended, As when long since in trust and deed My home you from my foes defended.

...

So often, while I wrote this book, The light shone from your genial eye; Then we were one, both you and I And what in silence being took; So here and there the book possesses Your spirit and your heart's fresh faith, And therefore now your name it blesses.

I love the air, when growing colder It, clear and high, The purer sky Broadens with sense of freedom bolder.

I find in forests joy the keenest In autumn days When fancy plays, And not when they are young and greenest.

I knew a man: in autumn clearness His even course,-- His heart's fine force Like autumn sky in soft-hued sheerness.

His memory is, as--when a-swarming The cold blasts first Of winter burst-- The gentle flame my room first warming.

When all our outward longings falter, And summer's mind Within we find, Is friendship's feast round autumn's altar.

OUR LANGUAGE (1900) (See Note 80)

Thou, who sailest Norse mountain-air, And Denmark's songs by the cradle singest, Who badest in Hald the war-flames flare, And, heard in our children's joy, gently ringest,-- Thou treasure of treasures, Our mother-tongue, In pains as in pleasures Our home and our tower,