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

48
Though a death-knell it toll
Yet the song’s without pain,
For there’s wistful delight one can wrest
From one’s swathing the soul
In a passionate strain
As one dies on the motherland’s breast!
Brynjolf Bjarme
ON AKERSHUS
Summer night has spread its kindly
Veil upon a world that’s sleeping;
Silver-pale the stars behind the
Eerie mist are dimly peeping.
Now the wave within the narrows
Soothes its bosom, moaning gently;
Hark, `tis childhood songs it hallows,
Songs remembered reverently!
Cloaked in sleep the city drowses
Peacefully, serenely sprawling;
Far away the churchyard rouses
To a sound — the night-watch calling.
Akershus’s old eye ranges
Calmly seaward through the vapour;
Sometimes he, methinks, exchanges
Nods with Hovedøy, his neighbour.
Akershus, that ancient giant,
Stands in thrall to introspection,
Glides, perchance, with oar compliant
On the stream of recollection.
See, they visit him — the vanished
Forms from ages far receded,
To the grave no longer banished
Through the hall glide unimpeded.
High behind the fan-lights quivering
Beams of livid light assemble,
Yes, I see it plain and shivering,
Gripped by silent terror, tremble.
Look, who is yon knightly figure
In whose eye dark fire smoulders,
He who without sound or vigour
Sits his throne with drooping shoulders?