SOLBLOT mit VON HEIDENSTAM-Buch
Vorwort und drei Gedichte exklusiv auf NONPOP
With twinkling stars the sky is crowned,
Although the peasant with his light
Is stumbling on his farm-yard round.
Now to the woods with deep, soft sound
Goes fluttering the Bird of Night.
The cottage dock is striking five,
The streak of morn is gleaming,
The factory wheels are all alive.
The fire and sparks are streaming.
To north, where pine- and fir-trees float,
The earliest rays have hurried
To tinge the heath. A cow-horn's note
Across the smooth lake is carried.
The beams now touch a pale white peak,
Or on some torrent settle
That frozen hangs on ledges bleak.
Above a Lapp's tent whirls the reek.
And flames leap round his kettle.
Out on the snow, with branching horns
His deer stand in a ring there.
No house, no tower yon land adorns.
Nor is there bell to sing there.
Night seethes around, an ocean vast.
For all things come to night at last.
Thou sun, whose might bestoweth
On each least plant a quickening dower,
Grant us thy bright creative power
As long as day still gloweth
Keen is our heart, but time is short.
Oh, hark to our imploring,
Thou whom our fathers once would court,
On us thy radiance pouring.
Go forth, go forth, thou new-born day,
With morning-song and hammer-play.
May dusk-fear come not o'er us!
Kindle brave strife, our hearth-stone guard;
Send, lightning-like, a spirit sword
To flash the road before us
Shine far across our folk and land.
Make rich our soul, make firm our hand.
So that with gladness we may bear
Such years as age shall bring,
And still like sowers onward fare
Into the world's new Spring!
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, dose 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?
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
'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.
Michael We. für nonpop.de
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