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Holger Drachmann
By Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson
(See Note 70)
Spring's herald, hail! You've rent the forest's quiet?
Your hair is wet, and you are leaf-strewn, dusty ...
With your powers lusty
Have you raised a riot?
What noise about you of the flood set free,
That follows at your heels, - turn back and see:
It spurts upon you! - Was it that you fought for?
You were in there where stumps and trunks are rotting
Where long the winter-graybeards have been plotting
To prison safe that which a lock they wrought for.
But power gave you Pan, the ancient god!
They cried aloud and cursed your future lot?
Your gallant feat they held a robber's fraud?
- Each spring it happens; but is soon forgot.
You cast you down beside the salt sea's wave.
It too is free; dances with joy to find you.
You know the music well; for Pan resigned you
His art one evening by a viking's grave.
But while on nature's loving lap you lie,
The tramp of battle on the land you hear,
You see the steamers as they northward steer
With freedom's flag; - of your name comes a cry.
And so is torn between the two your breast: -
Freedom's bold fighters, who now proudly rally,
In nature's life and legend dreamy rest;
The former chide, the latter lures to dally.
Your songs sound, some as were a war-horn braying,
Some softly purl like streams on reedy strand.
Half nature-sprite and half as man you stand,
The two not yet one law of life obeying.
But as you seem and as yourself you are
(The faun's love that the viking's longing tinges),
We welcome you, no lock is left nor bar, -
You bring along the door and both the hinges.
Just this it is that we are needing now:
The spring, the spring! These stifling fumes we bear
Of royal incense and of monkish snuff,
Of corpses in romantic cloak and ruff,
Are bad for morals and for lungs: Fresh air!
Rather a draught of Songs Venetian, cheerful,
With southern wantonness and color-wonders, -
Rather "Two Shots" (although they make us fearful)
Against our shallow breeding and its blunders.
Spring's herald, hail! come from the forest's choir,
From ocean's roar, from armèd hosts and grim!
Though sometimes carelessly you struck the lyre, -
Where rich growth is, one can the rank shoots trim.
The small trolls jeer the gestures of a giant,
I love you so, - unique and self-reliant.
Extra Info:
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN IN THE ORIGINAL METERS BY ARTHUR HUBBELL PALMER
Professor of the German Language and Literature In Yale University
Note 70.
HOLGER DRACHMANN. Probably written in 1879. This Danish productive
author (and painter), best known as lyric poet and novelist, was
born in 1846 and died in 1908. Here he received from Björnson a
reply to verses of homage addressed by him to the latter in 1878.
Drachmann's early years were turbulent and revolutionary, full of
feuds with everybody. He belonged to the literary and esthetic Left,
opposing all existing institutions. Björnson's characterization
exhibits Drachmann at the height of his poetic production.
His most popular prose book had recently stirred the Danish national
heart and roused the spirit of Scandinavism. The collections of his
poems: Songs by the Sea, Tendrils and Roses, Youth in Poem and Song,
he never surpassed. Perhaps the best were the group of Venetian
Songs, written in Venice in the spring of 1876, to which time
belongs also his finest story, Two Shots. During the next decade
Drachmann underwent an extreme conservative reaction, but about 1890
returned again to his youthful passion for rebellion, romantic
radicalism, and the religion of esthetic freedom.
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