THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

172
Just east of the Homberg Sound.
An onshore wind makes a ugly chop
And but two feet under there’s ground.
The foam flashes white there, glitters like gold
However dead calm it be; —
But though the breakers be never so bold
Inshore it’s most often calm, all told,
In the broken force of the sea.
Inshore Terje headed; his vessel flew
Like an arrow through foam and spray;
But hard in his wake the jollyboat crew,
Fifteen of them, toiled away.
It was then that he called through the surf’s loud roar
To God in his direst dread:
“Hidden away on the stony shore
Sits my wife in a house that is wretched and poor
And waits, with the child, for bread!”
But fifteen raise more of a din than he can;
An echo of Lyngør’s griefs.
Luck’s on the side of the Englishman
Patrolling through Norway’s reefs.
Then Terje rammed on the shoaling top,
The jollyboat grounded as well;
The officer in the bow called “Stop!”
He lifted an oar-butt and let it drop
To stove in the cutter’s shell.
The impact shattered both rib and plank,
A torrent of sea gushed through;
In two feet of water that cargo sank,
But Terje’s defiance grew.
He broke the armed cordon that had arrived
And over the gunwale he sprang, —
He dived and he swam and again he dived;
But the jollyboat cleared; though he turned and contrived
The gun-fire and sabres rang.
They fished him out, hauled him over the side;
A salvo from the corvette;
Aft on the poop-deck, flushed with pride,
Stood the captain, scarce eighteen as yet.
His very first prize was Terje’s boat,
His vanity knew no check;
But Terje saw that escape was remote; —
That strong man knelt with a sob in his throat
To plead on the warship’s deck.
He bargained with tears, in return they made fun,
They bartered their scorn for his plea.