Hunting Song

Round us rolls the heather's sheen,
Heather's sheen,
'Neath the falcon of our queen,
Of our queen.

Birch and cherry balm exhale,
Balm exhale,
Loud our horns the cliffs assail,
Cliffs assail.

Light the air and clear the sky,
Clear the sky,-
Hurrah! onward, she is nigh,
She is nigh.

Hunt ye joy with every breath,
Every breath,
Hunt it to the stream of death,
Stream of death!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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To My Wife

(With a set of Roman Pearls)
Pray, take these pearls!-and my thanks for them
You lavished, the home of my youth to gem!
The thousands of hours of peaceful luster
Your spirit has filled, are pearls that cluster
With beauty blest
On my happy breast,
And softly shining
My brow are entwining
With thoughts whence the truth gleams: Thus gave his wife,
Who jeweled with tenderest love his life!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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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.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Spinner

Oh, what was it he meant
By his question as he went?
'I am making a loom,
'T will be up in April's bloom;
If you think it may be,
Spin for me!'

Oh, what shall I believe?
Does he think himself to weave?
And the yarn that I spin,
Lo, he thinks to weave it in?
And so soon as the Spring
Flowers shall bring?

And he laughed when he'd done;
Oh, he is so full of fun.
Dare I trust all my skein
To so young and wild a swain?-
May God help to bind in
All I spin!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Hymn Of The Puritans

Arm me, Lord, my strength redouble,
Heaven open, heed my trouble!
God, if my cause Thine shall be,
Grant a day of victory!
Fell all Thy foes now!
Fell all Thy foes now!
Roll forth Thy thunders, Thy lightning affright them,
Into the pit, the bottomless, smite them,
Their seed uproot,
Tread under foot!
Send then Thy snowy white dove peace-bringing,
Unto Thy faithful Thy token winging,
Olive-branch fair of Thy summer's fruition
After the deluge of sin's punition!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Maiden's Song

Good-morning, sun, 'mid the leaves so green --
Mind of youth in the dales' deep reaches,
Smile that brightens their somber speeches,
Heaven's gold on our earth-dust seen!

Good-morning, sun, o'er the royal tower!
Kindly thou beckonest forth each maiden;
Kindle each heart as a star light-laden,
Twinkling so clear, though a sad night lower!

Good-morning, sun, o'er the mountain-side!
Light the land that still sleep disguises
Till it awakens and fresh arises
For yonder day in thy warmth's full tide!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Sin, death

Sin and Death, those sisters two,
Two, two,
Sat together while dawned the morning.
Sister, marry! Your house will do,
Do, do,
For me, too, was Death's warning.

Sin was wedded, and Death was pleased,
Pleased, pleased,
Danced about them the day they married;
Night came on, she the bridegroom seized,
Seized, seized,
And away with her carried.

Sin soon wakened alone to weep,
Weep, weep.
Death sat near in the dawn of morning:
Him you love, I love too and keep,
Keep, keep.
He is here, was Death's warning.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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To The Dannebrog

(When Dybbol was captured)
Dannebrog of old was seeming

Snow-white, rosy red,

Through the mists of ages beaming,
Heaven's gift outspread,
Rich as fruits of Denmark's planting,
Grand as song of heroes chanting,
Spirit-winged to deeds of daring
O'er the wide world faring.

Dannebrog, thou now art seeming

Death-pale, bloody red,

Like a dying sea-gull gleaming
White with blood o'erspread.
Purple tides the wounds are showing
From thy faith in justice flowing;

[...] Read more

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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To Missionary Skrefsrud In Santalistan

I honor you, who, though refused, affronted,
Have heard the voice, and victory have won;
I honor you, who still by malice hunted,
Show miracles of faith and power done.

I honor you, God-thirsting soul so driven,
'Mid scorn and need the spirit's war to wage;
I honor you, by Gudbrand's valley given,
And of her sons the foremost in this age.

I do not share your faith, your daring dreaming;
This parts us not, the spirit's paths are broad.
For, all things great and noble round us streaming,
I worship them, because I worship God.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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To A Godson

(With an album containing portraits of all those who at the time of
his birth were leaders in the intellectual and political world.)

Here hast thou before thee that constellation
Whereunder was born thy light;
These stars in the vault of high thoughts' mutation
Will fashion thy life with might.
Their prophecy, little one, we cannot know,
They light up the way that, unknown, thou shalt go
And kindle the thoughts that within shall glow.
Thou first shalt them gather,
Then choose thine own,-
So canst thou the rather
Grope on alone.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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