Father! Within the forest's bound
No bird I found,
No sound of song the woods around.

THE FATHER

The bird that glad his song us gave,
Flies o'er the wave;
Perhaps he there will find his grave.

THE CHILD

But why does he not wait till later?

THE FATHER

He goes where light and warmth are greater

THE CHILD

Father! It selfish seems to me,
Far off to flee,
When all we others here must be.

THE FATHER

With new-born spring comes new-born song;
By instinct strong
The better new he'll bring erelong.

THE CHILD

But if in death the cold waves swallow—?

THE FATHER

Others will come; his kin will follow.

SUNG FOR NORWAY'S RIFLEMEN
(1881)
(See Note 73)

Fly the banner, fly the banner!
For our freedom fight!
'Neath the banner, 'neath the banner,
Riflemen unite!
Graybeard in the Storting
Gives his vote for right and truth,
Rifle-voice supporting
Of our armÈd youth.
Music runeful
Ring out tuneful
Bullets sent point-blank,
Fiery coursing,
Freedom forcing
Way to royal rank;
They from silent valleys
To the Storting's rallies
Bring the clear "Rah! Rah!"
And there clamors o'er us
Loud the rifle chorus,
Piercing and repeated: "Rah! Rah!
Rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah."

As the lingering echo rattles,
Listens sure our Mother Norway,
That her sons can go the war-way,
Fight her freedom's future battles.

WORKMEN'S MARCH
(See Note 74)

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
That makes one of many, many,
That makes bold, if fear daunts any,
That makes small the load and lighter,
That makes near the goal and brighter,
Till it greets us gained with laughter,
And we seek the next one after.

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
Marching, marching of few hundreds,
No one heeds it, never one dreads;
Marching, marching of few thousands,
Here and there wakes some to hearing;
Marching, marching hundred thousands,—
All will mark that thunder nearing.

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
Let us march all, never weaken
Time from VardÖ down to Viken,
Vinger up to Bergen's region,—
Let us make one marching legion,
Then we'll rout some wrong from Norway,
Open wide to right the doorway.

THE LAND THAT SHALL BE
(DEDICATED TO HERMAN ANKER AND M. ANKER ON THE
OCCASION OF THEIR SILVER-WEDDING, SEPTEMBER 15, 1888)
(See Note 75)

Land that shall be
Thither, when thwarted our longings, we sail,—
Sighs to the clouds, that we breathe when we fail,
Form a mirage of rich valley and mead
Over our need,—
Visions revealing the future until
Faith shall fulfil,—
The land that shall be.

Land that shall be!
All of our labor to sow seeds of gain
Grows in the ages when our names shall wane,
Gathered with others', 't is stored in the true
Will to renew.
This then shall carry our labor within,
Safely within
The land that shall be.

Land that shall be!
Tears that are shed over evil's foul blight,
Blood-sweat in conflict to win higher right,
Hallow the will unto victory's cost.
Let us be lost,
Rooting out wrong, that the good we may sow,
Soon overgrow
The land that shall be.

Land that shall be!
Looming in beauty of colors and song,
Golden in sunlight that glad makes and strong,
Present in children's eyes, looking to-day
Down when you pray.
Winning good victories gives us the power
To own a brief hour
The land that shall be.