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

263
Thus it is mind’s eye will see you
wondrous, merged with Denmark’s reaches, —
with a day, a lovely sea-view
by the Sound mid lofty beeches. —
But one question must be faced:
will the nation
ever, in its agitation
and negation,
sink this wealth by genius graced
in oblivion’s purgatory?
Will some alienated age then blunder,
like an English pirate plunder
this armada, Denmark’s glory?
See, we brothers,
colour-, form- and word-compilers,
dabs at building,
or however else we style us,
we, who for our craft of beauty
felt the need for heavier duty
timbers for our keels, less yielding,
we can’t blame our fate on others
if our navy
is sub-standard sometimes maybe.
Many clippers, showy cusses,
rigged out as sublime personas
can at last
end up classed
with the ship-Jeronimuses.
Many a hull rigged out and splendid —
under-written by coevals, —
overwhelmed at sea and rock-scarred,
have, wrecked by marine upheavals,
sometimes ended
being towed back to the dockyard,
minus guns and gear, o’er blown as
all the other Magdelonas.
We shall think our luck ne’er ceases
if caprice is
kind to laid-up masterpieces,
stores them gently
for the antiquarian gentry.
Scenic art, so it’s assented,
borne to flower
for an hour,
must like soapy bubbles scented,
must like meteors of the night,
blaze, then shatter,
traceless scatter,