Chapter III: Chorus

Who art _Thou_, whom a thousand names trace Through all times that are gone and each tongue? Thou wert infinite yearning's embrace, Thou wert hope when the yoke heavy hung, Thou wert darkening death-terror's guest, Thou wert sun that with life-gladness blessed. Still Thine image we changefully fashion, And each form we would call revelation; Each man holds his for true with deep passion,-- Till it crumbles in poignant negation.

SOLO

Who Thou art, none can tell.
But I know Thou dost dwell
As the limitless search in my soul--it is Thou!--
After justice and light,
After victory's right
For the new that's revealed, it is Thou, it is Thou!
Every law that we see
Or believe there may be,
Though we never can knowledge attain, it is Thou!--
As my armor and aid
Round my life they are laid,
And with joy I avow, it is Thou, it is Thou!

CHORUS

Since we never Thine essence can know, We have thought mediators of Thee;-- But the ages their impotence show, We stand still, while no way we can see. If in sickness for succor we thirst, Is there balm in the dreams that have burst? Stars of hope and of longing eternal, That we saw o'er life's sorrows arisen, Shall they sink in death's terrors nocturnal, Only turn into worms in our prison?

SOLO
He that liveth in me,
Needeth no one to be
Mediator; I own Him indeed: it is Thou!
Is eternal hope prized
As from Him; is baptized
By His spirit my own,--is it Thou, is it Thou --:
Shall not I, who am dust,
His eternity trust?
I take humbly my law; for I know, it is Thou!
Was I worth Thy word: Live!
Let Thy life power give,
When Thou wilt, as Thou wilt,--it is Thou, it is Thou!

QUESTION AND ANSWER

THE CHILD

Father! Within the forest's bound No bird I found, No sound of song the woods around.

THE FATHER

The bird that glad his song us gave, Flies o'er the wave; Perhaps he there will find his grave.

THE CHILD

But why does he not wait till later?

THE FATHER

He goes where light and warmth are greater

THE CHILD

Father! It selfish seems to me, Far off to flee, When all we others here must be.

THE FATHER

With new-born spring comes new-born song; By instinct strong The better new he'll bring erelong.

THE CHILD

But if in death the cold waves swallow--?

THE FATHER

Others will come; his kin will follow.

SUNG FOR NORWAY'S RIFLEMEN (1881) (See Note 73)

Fly the banner, fly the banner! For our freedom fight! 'Neath the banner, 'neath the banner, Riflemen unite! Graybeard in the Storting Gives his vote for right and truth, Rifle-voice supporting Of our armèd youth. Music runeful Ring out tuneful Bullets sent point-blank, Fiery coursing, Freedom forcing Way to royal rank; They from silent valleys To the Storting's rallies Bring the clear "Rah! Rah!" And there clamors o'er us Loud the rifle chorus, Piercing and repeated: "Rah! Rah! Rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah."

As the lingering echo rattles, Listens sure our Mother Norway, That her sons can go the war-way, Fight her freedom's future battles.

WORKMEN'S MARCH (See Note 74)

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. That makes _one_ of many, many, That makes bold, if fear daunts any, That makes small the load and lighter, That makes near the goal and brighter, Till it greets us gained with laughter, And we seek the next one after.

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. Marching, marching of few hundreds, No one heeds it, never one dreads; Marching, marching of few thousands, Here and there wakes some to hearing; Marching, marching hundred thousands,-- All will mark that thunder nearing.

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. Let us march all, never weaken Time from Vardö down to Viken, Vinger up to Bergen's region,-- Let us make _one_ marching legion, Then we'll rout some wrong from Norway, Open wide to right the doorway.

THE LAND THAT SHALL BE (DEDICATED TO HERMAN ANKER AND M. ANKER ON THE OCCASION OF THEIR SILVER-WEDDING, SEPTEMBER 15, 1888) (See Note 75)

Land that shall be
Thither, when thwarted our longings, we sail,--
Sighs to the clouds, that we breathe when we fail,
Form a mirage of rich valley and mead
Over our need,--
Visions revealing the future until
Faith shall fulfil,--
The land that shall be.

Land that shall be!
All of our labor to sow seeds of gain
Grows in the ages when _our_ names shall wane,
Gathered with others', 't is stored in the true
Will to renew.
This then shall carry our labor within,
Safely within
The land that shall be.

Land that shall be!
Tears that are shed over evil's foul blight,
Blood-sweat in conflict to win higher right,
Hallow the will unto victory's cost.
Let us be lost,
Rooting out wrong, that the good we may sow,
Soon overgrow
The land that shall be.

Land that shall be!
Looming in beauty of colors and song,
Golden in sunlight that glad makes and strong,
Present in children's eyes, looking to-day
Down when you pray.
Winning good victories gives us the power
To own a brief hour
The land that shall be.

YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN, STRONG AND SOUND

Young men and women, strong and sound, Adorn with beautiful excess Of play and song and flower-dress Our fatherland's ancestral ground. They dream great deeds of ages older, They long to lead to battles bolder.

Young men and women, strong and sound, Our nation's honor are, in whom Our whole life has its better bloom, Rebirth upon our fathers' ground Of them of yore. Anew there flower The old in young folks' summer-power.

Young men and women, strong and sound, Can doubly do our deeds and fill With higher hope for all we will,-- Are growth in character's deep ground, To larger life drawn by the spirit They from our forefathers inherit.

NORWAY, NORWAY (See Note 76)

Norway, Norway, Rising in blue from the sea's gray and green, Islands around like fledglings tender, Fjord-tongues with slender, Tapering tips in the silence seen. Rivers, valleys, Mate among mountains, wood-ridge and slope Wandering follow. Where the wastes lighten, Lake and plain brighten Hallow a temple of peace and hope. Norway, Norway, Houses and huts, not castles grand, Gentle or hard, Thee we guard, thee we guard, Thee, our future's fair land.

Norway, Norway, Glistening heights where skis swiftly go, Harbors with fishermen, salts, and craftsmen, Rivers and raftsmen, Herdsmen and horns and the glacier-glow. Moors and meadows, Runes in the woodlands, and wide-mown swaths, Cities like flowers, streams that run dashing Out to the flashing White of the sea, where the fish-school froths. Norway, Norway, Houses and huts, not castles grand, Gentle or hard, Thee we guard, thee we guard, Thee, our future's fair land.

MASTER OR SLAVE

Lo, this land that lifts around it Threatening peaks, while stern seas bound it, With cold winters, summers bleak, Curtly smiling, never meek, 'Tis the giant we must master, Till he work our will the faster. He shall carry, though he clamor, He shall haul and saw and hammer, Turn to light the tumbling torrent,-- All his din and rage abhorrent Shall, if we but do our duty, Win for us a realm of beauty.

IN THE FOREST

List to the forest-voice murmuring low: All that it saw when alone with its laughter, All that it suffered in times that came after, Mournful it tells, that the wind may know.

WHEN COMES THE MORNING? (FROM IN GOD'S WAY) (See Note 77)

_When_ comes the real morning? When golden, the sun's rays hover Over the earth's snow-cover, And where the shadows nestle, Wrestle, Lifting lightward the root enringèd Till it shall seem an angel wingèd, Then it is morning, Real, real morning. But if the weather is bad And my spirit sad, Never morning I know. No.

Truly, it's real morning, When blossom the buds winter-beaten, The birds having drunk and eaten Are glad as they sing, divining Shining Great new crowns to the tree-tops given, Cheering the brooks to the broad ocean riven. Then it is morning, Real, real morning. But if the weather is bad And my spirit sad, Never morning I know. No.

_When_ comes the real morning? When power to conquer parries Sorrow and storm, and carries Sun to the soul, whose burning Yearning Opens in love and calls to others: Good to be unto all as brothers. _Then_ it is morning, Real, real morning. Greatest power you know --And most dangerous, lo!-- Will you _this_ then possess? Yes.

MAY SEVENTEENTH (1883) (See Note 78)

Wergeland's statue on May seventeenth Saw the procession. And as its rear-guard, Slow marching masses, Strong men, and women with flower-decked presence; Come now the peasants, come now the peasants.

Österdal's forest's magnificent chieftain Bore the old banner. Soon as we see it Blood-red uplifted, Greet it the thousands in thought of its story: That is our glory, that is our glory!

Never that lion bore crown that was foreign, Never that cloth was by Dannebrog cloven. I saw the _future_, When with that banner by Wergeland's column Peasants stood solemn, peasants stood solemn.

Most of our loss in the times that have vanished, Most of our victories, most of our longing, Most that is vital: Deeds of the past and the future's bold daring Peasants are bearing, peasants are bearing.

Sorely they suffered for sins once committed, But they arise now. Here in the Storting Stalwart they prove it, All, as they come from our land's every region, Peasants Norwegian, peasants Norwegian.

Hold what they won, with a will to go farther; Whole we must have independence and honor! All of us know it: Wergeland's summer bears soon its best flower,-- Power in peasants, peasants in power.

FREDERIK HEGEL (See Note 79)