Sweden's Laureate: Selected Poems of Verner von Heidenstam/A People
A PEOPLE.
I.
The People.
(Cf. Nahum III, 18.)
The prophet Nahum speaketh thus
To Nineveh, to Assyria's king:
"The pilots of thy people slumber,
And each one of thy chieftains, Prince,
Dwelleth apart and doeth naught;
Thy scattered people roam the mountains,
For no voice ever summoneth them."
The People.
(Cf. Nahum III, 18.)
The prophet Nahum speaketh thus
To Nineveh, to Assyria's king:
"The pilots of thy people slumber,
And each one of thy chieftains, Prince,
Dwelleth apart and doeth naught;
Thy scattered people roam the mountains,
For no voice ever summoneth them."
I tremble at the word: a people!
So full of song, so full of wailing,
Of thunderbolts and trump o' doom.
I shrink together at the word
As at a heaven-towering giant,
Whose foot is crunching in my ribs
As I might crunch a mussel-shell.
A people! Toward the sky it flames.
In a dark valley waggons rattle,
And savage men in wild-beast skins,
With naked children, wasted women,
Plod ever forward, ever forward,
Forgetful of the roads they followed
And no more knowing whence they came.
The children ask, but no one answers.
There rises from the throng of elders,
With ice-gray beard and shaggy mantle,
One-eyed, a raven on his shoulder,
And sword unsheathed, a wonder-man.
He motions to the bards—and sadly
They sing of their forgotten birthplace,
When midnight stareth on the tents.
He speaks—around the altar-stone
That, blood-smeared, stands beneath the oak-tree
He sets new images of gods
And stands himself as god among them.
Then groweth leaf-o'ershadowed Birka,[1]
Where amid oar-song viking vessels
Cut glad the waves. On yon high prow
Stands the dread fifty-winter sea-king
With captured bride and hails his home.
Soon speech as soft as festal raiment
Is woven, timed to gentler breathing.
Then holy bells ring, centuries hurry
Like shadow of clouds across the lands.
So full of song, so full of wailing,
Of thunderbolts and trump o' doom.
I shrink together at the word
As at a heaven-towering giant,
Whose foot is crunching in my ribs
As I might crunch a mussel-shell.
A people! Toward the sky it flames.
In a dark valley waggons rattle,
And savage men in wild-beast skins,
With naked children, wasted women,
Plod ever forward, ever forward,
Forgetful of the roads they followed
And no more knowing whence they came.
The children ask, but no one answers.
There rises from the throng of elders,
With ice-gray beard and shaggy mantle,
One-eyed, a raven on his shoulder,
And sword unsheathed, a wonder-man.
He motions to the bards—and sadly
They sing of their forgotten birthplace,
When midnight stareth on the tents.
He speaks—around the altar-stone
That, blood-smeared, stands beneath the oak-tree
He sets new images of gods
And stands himself as god among them.
Then groweth leaf-o'ershadowed Birka,[1]
Where amid oar-song viking vessels
Cut glad the waves. On yon high prow
Stands the dread fifty-winter sea-king
With captured bride and hails his home.
Soon speech as soft as festal raiment
Is woven, timed to gentler breathing.
Then holy bells ring, centuries hurry
Like shadow of clouds across the lands.
Now all grows still, as mournful-still
As when a limpid St. John's Eve
Sets heavenly glint on sound and bay;
But in the heart's deep secrecy
Dwells dread, when anxious lips are silent.
My people, though your hand be cold,
The frost that chills is of the dawn.
Your pilots slumber, O my people,
And each one of your chieftains, too,
Dwelleth apart and doeth naught.
As when a limpid St. John's Eve
Sets heavenly glint on sound and bay;
But in the heart's deep secrecy
Dwells dread, when anxious lips are silent.
My people, though your hand be cold,
The frost that chills is of the dawn.
Your pilots slumber, O my people,
And each one of your chieftains, too,
Dwelleth apart and doeth naught.
II.
Sweden.
Oh Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, native land,
The home and haven of our longing!
The cow-bells ring where armies used to stand,
Whose deeds are story, but with hand in hand
To swear the ancient troth again thy sons are thronging.
Sweden.
Oh Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, native land,
The home and haven of our longing!
The cow-bells ring where armies used to stand,
Whose deeds are story, but with hand in hand
To swear the ancient troth again thy sons are thronging.
Fall, winter snow! And sigh, thou wood's deep breast!
Burn, all ye stars, from summer heavens peeping!
Sweden, mother, be our strife, our rest,
Thou land wherein our sons shall build their nest,
Beneath whose church-yard stones our noble sires are sleeping.
Burn, all ye stars, from summer heavens peeping!
Sweden, mother, be our strife, our rest,
Thou land wherein our sons shall build their nest,
Beneath whose church-yard stones our noble sires are sleeping.
III.
Fellow-Citizens.
As sure as we have a fatherland
We are heirs to it one with another,
By common right in an equal band,
The rich and his needy brother.
Let each have his voice as we did of old
When a shield was the freeman's measure,
And not all be reckoned like sacks of gold
By a merchant counting his treasure.
Fellow-Citizens.
As sure as we have a fatherland
We are heirs to it one with another,
By common right in an equal band,
The rich and his needy brother.
Let each have his voice as we did of old
When a shield was the freeman's measure,
And not all be reckoned like sacks of gold
By a merchant counting his treasure.
We fought for our homes together when
Our coast by the foe was blighted.
It was not alone the gentlemen
Drew sword when the beacons were lighted.
Not only the gentlemen sank to earth
But also the faithful yoemen;
'Tis a blot on our flag that we reckon worth
By wealth, and poor men are no men.
Our coast by the foe was blighted.
It was not alone the gentlemen
Drew sword when the beacons were lighted.
Not only the gentlemen sank to earth
But also the faithful yoemen;
'Tis a blot on our flag that we reckon worth
By wealth, and poor men are no men.
'Tis a shame to do as we oft have done,—
Give strangers the highest places,
But beat our own doors with many a stone
And publish our own disgraces.
We are weary of bleeding by our own knife,
When the heart from the head we sever;
We would be as one folk with a single life,
Which we are and would be forever.
Give strangers the highest places,
But beat our own doors with many a stone
And publish our own disgraces.
We are weary of bleeding by our own knife,
When the heart from the head we sever;
We would be as one folk with a single life,
Which we are and would be forever.
V.
Soldiers' Song.
Beat the drums there, boys! Go ahead, make way!
Hurrah for country and king!
Hurrah for the Riksdag, where old men stay,
Pound the gavel and scratch at their heads all day,
And cough and blink at the ceiling so gray
Ere they let the gold-pieces ring!
Soldiers' Song.
Beat the drums there, boys! Go ahead, make way!
Hurrah for country and king!
Hurrah for the Riksdag, where old men stay,
Pound the gavel and scratch at their heads all day,
And cough and blink at the ceiling so gray
Ere they let the gold-pieces ring!
But when it's time that for people and king
Our blood on the snow shall run,
They don't tie a man with a money-bag string,
For then, young or old, the man 's the thing.
All right, then, comrades. Strike up and sing!
We'll be as one people, as one.
Our blood on the snow shall run,
They don't tie a man with a money-bag string,
For then, young or old, the man 's the thing.
All right, then, comrades. Strike up and sing!
We'll be as one people, as one.
We'll be as an eagle, faithful and dumb
Mid petty clamor and clangor.
When the thunder rolls at the beat of the drum,
Then between the gray crags our banner shall come.
We'll be heard when we swoop from our rocky home
And yell with the might of anger.
Mid petty clamor and clangor.
When the thunder rolls at the beat of the drum,
Then between the gray crags our banner shall come.
We'll be heard when we swoop from our rocky home
And yell with the might of anger.
VI.
Invocation and Promise.
If the neighbor-lands three should cry: "Forget
Your greatness of bygone ages!"
I'd answer: "Arise, O North, who yet
May'st be what my dream presages!"
The vision of greatness may bring again
New deeds like those of our betters.
Come, open the graves—nay, give us men
For Science and Art and Letters!
Invocation and Promise.
If the neighbor-lands three should cry: "Forget
Your greatness of bygone ages!"
I'd answer: "Arise, O North, who yet
May'st be what my dream presages!"
The vision of greatness may bring again
New deeds like those of our betters.
Come, open the graves—nay, give us men
For Science and Art and Letters!
Aye, close to a cliff let our people stand
Where a fool his poor neck may shatter.
There are other things, men, to hold in your hand
Than a brim-full Egyptian platter.
It were better the plate should be split in two
Than that hearts should rot when still living.
That no race may be more great than you,—
That 's the goal, why count we the striving?
Where a fool his poor neck may shatter.
There are other things, men, to hold in your hand
Than a brim-full Egyptian platter.
It were better the plate should be split in two
Than that hearts should rot when still living.
That no race may be more great than you,—
That 's the goal, why count we the striving?
It were better to feel the avenger's might
Than that years unto naught should have hasted,
It were better our people should perish quite
And our fields and cities be wasted.
It is braver to take the dice's hap
Than to mope till our fire is expended;
It is finer to hear the bow-string snap
Than never the bow to have bended.
Than that years unto naught should have hasted,
It were better our people should perish quite
And our fields and cities be wasted.
It is braver to take the dice's hap
Than to mope till our fire is expended;
It is finer to hear the bow-string snap
Than never the bow to have bended.
I wake in the night, but I hear no sound
Save the waters seething and churning.
Like a soldier of Judah, prone on the ground,
I could pray with passionate yearning.
I ask not years when the sun shines bright,
Nor for golden crops I importune.
Kind Fate, let the blazing thunderbolt smite
My people with years of misfortune!
Save the waters seething and churning.
Like a soldier of Judah, prone on the ground,
I could pray with passionate yearning.
I ask not years when the sun shines bright,
Nor for golden crops I importune.
Kind Fate, let the blazing thunderbolt smite
My people with years of misfortune!
Yea, smite us and lash us but into one,
And the bluest of springs will follow.
Ye smile, my folk, but with face as of stone,
Ye sing, but your joy is hollow.
Ye rather would dance in silk, forsooth,
Than solve your own riddle truly,
Ye might awake to the deeds of your youth
In the night when ye sorrow newly.
And the bluest of springs will follow.
Ye smile, my folk, but with face as of stone,
Ye sing, but your joy is hollow.
Ye rather would dance in silk, forsooth,
Than solve your own riddle truly,
Ye might awake to the deeds of your youth
In the night when ye sorrow newly.
Then on, shy daughter, in hardship bred,
Look up and let sloth forsake thee!
We love thee so that, if thou wert dead,
Our love could once more awake thee.
Though the bed be hard, though the midnight lowers,
We'll be true while the tempest rages,
Thou people, thou land, thou speech that is ours,
Thou voice of our souls to the ages!
Look up and let sloth forsake thee!
We love thee so that, if thou wert dead,
Our love could once more awake thee.
Though the bed be hard, though the midnight lowers,
We'll be true while the tempest rages,
Thou people, thou land, thou speech that is ours,
Thou voice of our souls to the ages!
- ↑ Birka, or Birch Island, was a port of the Vikings near to where Stockholm now stands.