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Fear, but pray, you anxious soul,

While your mem'ries meet you!
Thus go on; the perfect whole

On the top shall greet you.
Christ, Elijah, Moses, there

Wait your high endeavor.
Seeing them you 'll know no care,

Bless your path forever.

ANSWER FROM NORWAY

TO THE SPEECHES IN THE
SWEDISH HOUSE OF NOBLES, 1860

Have you heard what says the Swede now,

Young Norwegian man?
Have you seen what forms proceed now,

Border-watch to plan?
Shades of those from life departed,
Our forefathers single-hearted,

Who, when words like these were said,

Mounted guard and knew no dread.

Says the Swede now: That our cherished

Norseland's banner red,
That which flew when Magnus perished,

As to-day outspread,
Which o'er Fredrikshald victorious
And o'er Adler waved all glorious,
That the Swedish yellow-blue
Must in shame henceforth eschew.

Says the Swede now: Lost their luster

Have our memories,
Brighter honors shall we muster,

If we borrow his.
Bids us forth to Liitzen stumble,
Close this straw-thatched cottage humble,

Drag our grandsire's ancient seat

To the Swedes for honor meet.

Let it stand, that poor old lumber,

To us dear for aye;
Sweden's ground it could but cumber,

And it might not pay.
For, we know from history's pages,
Some sat there in former ages,

Sverre Priest and other men,

Who may wish to come again.

Says the Swede now: We must know it,

He our freedom gave,
But the Swedish sword can mow it,

Send it to its grave.
Yet the case is not alarming,
He must fare with good fore-arming,

For in truth some fell of yore,

There where he would break a door.

Says the Swede now: We a clever

Little boy remain,
Very suitable to ever

Hold his mantle's train.
But would Christie be so pliant,
With his comrades self-reliant,

If they still at Eidsvold stood,

Sword-girt, building Norway's good?

Big words oft the Swede was saying,

Only small were we,
But they never much were weighing,

When the test should be.
On the little cutter sailing,
Wessel and Norse youth prevailing,

Sweden's flag and frigate chased

From the Kattegat in haste.

Sweden's noblemen are shaking
Charles the Twelfth's proud hat;

We, in council or war-making,
Peers are for all that.

If things take the worse turn in there,

Aid from Torgny we shall win there. Then o'er all the Northland's skies Greater freedom's sun shall rise.

*

JOHAN LUDVIG HEIBERG

(1860)

To the grave they bore him sleeping,

Him the aged, genial gardener; Now the children gifts are heaping

From the flower-bed he made.

There the tree that he sat under,

And the garden gate is open, While we cast a glance and wonder

Whether some one sits there still.

He is gone. A woman only

Wanders there with languid footsteps, Clothed in black and now so lonely,

Where his laughter erst rang clear.

As a child when past it going,

Through the fence she looked with longing, Now great tears so freely flowing

Are her thanks that she came in.

Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring
Whispered to him 'neath the foliage.

She flits softly, gathering, storing
Them as solace for her woe.

Far his wanderings once bore him,
Bore this aged, genial searcher;

One who listening sat before him

Much could learn from time to time.

Life and letters were his ladder

Up toward that which few discover,

Thought's wide realm, with vision gladder He explored, each summit scaled.

In his manhood he defended

All that greatness has and beauty;

Later he the stars attended
In their silent course to God.

Older men remember rather
"New Year!" ringing o'er the Northland.
How it power had to gather
Leaders to a greater age!

Do you him remember leaping

Forth, his horn so gladly winding,

Back the mob on all sides sweeping
From the progress of the great?

Play of thought 'mid tears and laughter,
Fauns and children were about him;

Freedom's beacons high thereafter
Kindled slowly of themselves.

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