Idyls of Norway and other poems

Hark, whence come those strange vibrations, whence that haunting monotone,
Like a mournful voice in darkness, crooning softly and alone,
Breathing melancholy whispers that might move a heart of stone?

What lone soul, surcharged with sorrow, voices here its weird lament,—
Here where Europe's eager exiles, still with hope and strength unspent,
Throng beneath the wide-flung portals of this mighty continent?

Hark! methinks that in the music of that gently murmured strain
I detect a Norseland cadence, trembling through its sad refrain,—

Something wild and vague, awaking strange responses in my brain.

Ah, behold, there sits the minstrel high above the surging throng,
On a heap of chests and boxes, playing dreamily along,
Luring back his vanished Norseland by the tone's enchantment strong!

Well I know those guileless features, mirroring the childlike soul,
And those patient eyes and placid, that disguise nor joy nor dole,
And the sturdy, rough-hewn figure, rugged like a fir-tree's bole.

In his violin whose hollow chambers plaintively resound
Is a hushed metallic tremor—shadow voices, felt not found,
By the louder human bustle to the blunter senses drowned.

How they gently stir within me buried chords that long were mute;
And dim memories, awaking, quiver with a life acute,
Of my youth, with its ideals and the long and vain pursuit!

God, the judge, the stern and loving, dwelt among my childhood's hills,
And his voice was in the thunder and his whisper in the rills;
Visibly his hand extended in my little joys and ills.

And his eye, so large and placid, kept its watch behind the cloud;
Saw that all went right in Norway; cheered the humble, awed the proud;
And amid the forest stillness oft, methought, he spoke aloud.

Avalanches, hail, and lightning sped the message of his wrath;
He destroyed and he relented, spreading like a healing bath

Sun and rain to raise the harvest in the devastation's path.

Rude, perhaps, though not ignoble, was that calm and simple life,
Blooming in idyllic quiet and with hope and promise rife,
Sheltered safe from vexing problems and from thought's harassing strife.

Hush, the minstrel's mood is changing! He has bade the old farewell!
From his sight has Norway faded, with the mountain-guarded dell
And the legend-haunted forests where the elves and nixies dwell.

Through a maze of wildering discords—presto and prestissimo,—
Runs the bow—a wild legato rocking madly to and fro,
As if wrestled in the music, hope and longing, joy and woe.

Joy has triumphed! See how broadens life beyond this moment's bar!
How the future brightens, beckons, wide, refulgent, star on star;
And the prairies' rolling harvest glimmers faintly from afar.

Blindly hast thou come, O minstrel, like a youth of old renowned,
Who his father's asses seeking, by good chance a kingdom found;
Awed, I ween, and wonder-stricken, standing sceptred, robed, and crowned.

Thus shalt thou, who bread art seeking, conquer boons undreamed, unsought;
Thou shalt learn to doubt and suffer; lose thy peace so cheaply bought;
Souls grow strong and blossom only on the battlefield of thought.

Thine shall be the larger knowledge which the daring age has won;

Thou shalt face the truth, unquailing, though thy faith be all undone.
Bats may blink in dusky corners; eagles gaze upon the sun.

Creeds may vanish, thrones may totter, empires crumble in decay;
But the ancient God of Battles is the God of strife alway;
Who shall bless his foe that wrestles bravely until dawn of day.

University of Virginia Library

THE MINSTREL AT CASTLE GARDEN.