Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (340 page)

XVIII

BURNT SHIPS

To skies that were brighter
 
Turned he his prows;
To gods that were lighter
 
Made he his vows.

The snow-land’s mountains
 
Sank in the deep;
Sunnier fountains
 
Lulled him to sleep.

He burns his vessels,
 
The smoke flung forth
On blue cloud-trestles
 
A bridge to the north.

From the sun-warmed lowland
 
Each night that betides,
To the huts of the snow-land
 
A horseman rides.

Original written 1871. Translation reprinted from the
Westminster Gazette
of June 9, 1903, with revisions from MS.

XIX

THANKS

HER griefs were the hours
 
When my struggle was sore, —
Her joys were the powers
 
That the climber upbore.

Her home is the boundless
 
Free ocean that seems
To rock, calm and soundless,
 
My galleon of dreams.

Half hers are the glancing
 
Creations that throng
With pageant and dancing
 
The ways of my song.

My fires when they dwindle
 
Are lit from her brand:
Men see them rekindle
 
Nor guess by whose hand.

Of thanks to requite her
 
No least thought is hers, —
And therefore I write her,
 
Once, thanks in a verse.

Original written
ca.
1871. Translation reprinted from the
Westminster
Gazette
of June 11, 1903.

XX

A HOME STUDY

THE house was quiet, and hushed the street.
 
I sat with my lamp in a shade;
The room was wrapped in a dusk complete; —
In came the children, nodding sweet
 
Through the mist my pipe had made.

They came, my dream-winged children, a band
 
Of romping girls and boys, —
Fresh-cheeked as after a bath — oh, grand
Was the race we started through fairyland,
 
With the maddest, merriest noise.

But just as the fun was at topmost rate,
 
I chanced to look in the mirror.
And there stood a stranger, grave, sedate,
Close-buttoned, with eyes of the grey of slate,
 
And slippers, or I’m in error.

With that, my madcaps were stricken dumb;
 
One stands like a block of wood,
Another falls to sucking his thumb; —
You know how the boldest boys turn mum
 
If a stranger but intrude.

Original written 1864. Translation reprinted from the W
estminster Gazette
of May 20, 1903.

XXI

THE PETREL

THE storm-petrel broods where soundings fail; —
‘Twas an old sea-captain told me the tale.

Of surf and spindrift her plumage drinks;
She treads the rollers and never sinks.

With the sea she will fall; with the sea will rise;
In calm she is mute; at the tempest she cries.

Something ‘twixt flying and swimming it is,
A dream between heaven and hell’s abyss.

Too light for the waves, too heavy for air — ;
Ah! bird and bard, — our trouble is there!

And the worst of it is, to the ears of the wise,
Most of the story is old salt’s lies.

Translation printed from MS. notes.

XXII

MUSICIANS

MY thoughts went out to her nightly
 
The silvery summer through;
But the path bore down by the river
 
In the alder-wood wet with dew.

Ha! song with a shudder in it
 
Is the spell for a woman’s will,
That through halls and high cathedrals
 
Her dream be to follow thee still.

I called from his pool the kelpie;
 
I sold my soul for his art;
But when I had mastered his secret
 
She lay at my brother’s heart.

Through halls and high cathedrals
 
I played my way alone;
And the shudder and song of the torrent
 
Have made my soul their own.

Original published 1851; subsequently revised. Translation reprinted from
We
stminster Gazette
of May 5, 1903.

XXIII

BIRD AND BIRDCATCHER

WANTON boy, a fowling gin
 
Once of pinewood slips I wrought,
 
Set it, lo! as quick as thought
Fluttered a snared bird therein.

Then did I with grim delight
 
To my nursery bear the cage.
And the captive bird affright
 
With grimacing looks of rage.

When I had indulged my mood,
 
Sated well the cruel fit,
On a chair the cage I stood,
 
Cautiously I opened it.

See the captive ply his wings!
 
Freedom, life, are his again!
Out toward the light he flings —
 
To fall crushed against the pane.

Poor caged bird, avenged at last!
 
Now the boy himself is pent
In a prisonhouse aghast,
 
Fluttering and impotent.

Him in turn an eye espies
 
Through the bars with fearful stare;
All his soul it terrifies,
 
Thrills him with a cold despair.

And when, opening through the walls,
 
Freedom glimmers on his sight,
Lo! some barrier mocks his flight,
 
Down with broken wings he falls.

Original written soon after 1850; published 1871. Translation printed
from MS.

XXIV

THE DAYLIGHT COWARD

WAS ne’er a schoolboy bolder
 
Than I, in schoolboy days —
That is, till the mountain’s shoulder
 
Had hidden the sunset rays.
But lo! with the first advances
 
Of night over hill and dale,
I was frightened by goblin fancies
 
From legend and fairy tale.

And scarce had I closed an eyelid,
 
I dreamed such a medley of things, —
God knows, my wits were beguilèd
 
And all my courage took wings.

Now, everything that hurts me
 
Or helps me seems reversed;
The time my courage deserts me
 
Is when the dawn comes first.

Now it is trolls of daylight —
 
 
Life, busy life, is the troll
That kindles a dismal grey light
 
Of fear in my freezing soul.

I snatch at the black disguises
 
Of bugbear Night, and hide; —
Then up my ambition rises
 
Like an eagle in its pride.

Nor flood nor flame can daunt me;
 
I sail in falcon-sweeps;
No more my terrors haunt me —
 
Till the next morning peeps.

But strip me of night, the bereavement
 
Puts all my poor wits to flight;
Yes, if ever I boast an achievement,
 
‘Twill sure be a deed of night.

Translation reprinted from
the West
minster Gazette
of June 24, 1903.

XXV

THE MINER

BEETLING rock, with roar and smoke
Break before my hammer-stroke!
Deeper I must thrust and lower
Till I hear the ring of ore.
From the mountain’s unplumbed night,
Deep amid the gold-veins bright,
Diamonds lure me, rubies beckon,
Treasure-hoard that none may reckon.

There is peace within the deep —
Peace and immemorial sleep;
Heavy hammer, burst as bidden,
To the heart-nook of the hidden!

Once I, too, a careless lad,
Under starry heavens was glad,
Trod the primrose paths of summer,
Child-like knew not care nor cummer.

But I lost the sense of light
In the poring womb of night;
Woodland songs, when earth rejoiced her,
Breathed not down my hollow cloister.

Fondly did I cry, when first
Into the dark place I burst:
“Answer spirits of the middle
Earth, my life’s unending riddle!—”

Still the spirits of the deep
Unrevealed their answer keep;
Still no beam from out the gloomy
Cavern rises to illume me.

Have I erred? Does this way lead
Not to clarity indeed?
If above I seek to find it,
By the glare my eyes are blinded.

Downward, then! the depths are best;
There is immemorial rest.
Heavy hammer burst as bidden
To the heart-nook of the hidden! —

Hammer-blow on hammer-blow
Till the lamp of life is low.
Not a ray of hope’s fore-warning;
Not a glimmer of the morning.

Original written in 1851. Translation from W
estminster Gazttte, July
11,
1903.

XXVI

ON THE FELLS