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

173
An east wind was rising, so England’s son,
Triumphant, put out to sea.
Then Terje fell silent: befall what may,
He kept his grief private now.
Yet all of his captors were moved to say
That suddenly something seemed blown away
From the clouded span of his brow.
He spent five long years in the hulks, men swear,
Confined in the prison’s din.
His shoulders grew bent, he turned white of hair
In dreaming of home and kin.
He brooded on something he never unveiled
As though the one treasure he owned.
Then eighteen-fourteen came and peace prevailed;
Then home Norway’s captives, with Terje, sailed
In a frigate the Swedes had loaned.
Back home on the quayside he came ashore,
Ship’s pilot by royal writ;
But few in that grizzled creature saw
The young sailor who’d left so fit.
His home was another’s; he went to crave
Some news of his darling pair:
“The husband forsook them and nobody gave,
They both ended up in a common grave
That the parish’s pauper-folk share.” — —
Years passed by and he plied his trade
On the furthermost isle did he;
There wasn’t a foe in the world he’d made,
Whether by land or by sea.
His eye, though, sometimes with menace glared,
When surf on the shoals tossed high, —
And then he seemed troubled, so folk declared,
And then there were few who would not feel scared
With Terje Vigen by.
One evening — bright moon and a leeward flaw —
There’s a stir where the pilots sit;
An English yacht being swept ashore
With foresail and main both split.
The flag on the foretop displayed the red
And wordless appeal abroad.
A little inshore was a cutter that sped
Close-hauled and tacked through the gale ahead
Till the pilot stood firm on board.
He looked like a grizzle-haired hero — he manned
The helm, showing no concern; —
The yacht responded, stood out from the land,