For A Charity Fair (In A Copy Of Minor Pieces)

Some poor man in need
To bless and to feed,
I bring at its worth,
This day of my birth,
A book, - from my youth I must own.
But Who in His power
Gave bud and gave flower,
To bread can transform
In want's winter-storm
Each leaf that my Springtime has grown.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson was a Norwegian writer and one of the four great Norwegian writers, along with Henrik Ibsen, Jonas Lie, and Alexander Kielland. Bjørnson is recognized for his pivotal role in Norwegian literature and his works contributing significantly to Norwegian national identity. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1903 and also wrote the lyrics to the Norwegian national anthem, 'Ja, vi elsker dette landet'. Bjørnson was an influential figure in Norway's cultural and political life during his lifetime.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

The Land That Shall Be

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Bergliot

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Our Forefathers (January 13, 1864)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Daniel Schjötz

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Bier Of Precentor A. Reitan (1872)

(See Note 56)

With smiles his soft eyes ever gleamed,
When God and country thinking;
With endless joy, his soul, it seemed,
Faith, fatherland, was linking.
    His word, his song,
    Like springs flowed strong;
They fruitful made the valley long,
And quickened all there drinking.

Poor people and poor homes among
In wintry region saddest,
In Sunday's choir he always sung,
Of all the world the gladdest:
    "The axis stout
    It turns about,
Falls not the poorest home without,
For thus, O God, Thou badest."

With sickness came a heavy year
And put to proof his singing,
While helpless children standing near
His trust to test were bringing.
    But glad the more,
    As soft notes soar
When winds o'er hidden ha...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Per Bo (1878)

Once I knew a noble peasant
From a line of men large-hearted.
Light and strength were in his mind,
Lifted like a peak clear-lined
O'er the valley in spring sunshine,
First to feel the morning's beam,
First refreshed by cloud-born stream.

Wide the springtime spread its banner,
Waving in his will illumined,
Bright with promise, color-sound;
Heritage of toil its ground.
Round that mountain music floated,
Songsters sweet of faith and hope
Nestled on its tree-clad slope.

Sometime, sometime all the valley
Like him shall with light be flooded;
Sometime all his faith and truth
Sunward grow in dewy youth,
And the dreams he dreamt too early
Live and make him leader be
For a race as true as he.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

To Sculptor Borch (On His Fiftieth Birthday)

(See Note 32)

With friends you stalwart stand and fair,
To-day of fifty years the heir;
The past your works rejoicing praise,
But forward goes your gaze.
Your childlike faith, your spirit true,
Your hand that never weary grew,
A home's sweet music, love of wife,
Make ever young your life.

You dared believe with heart alive
That here in Norway art can thrive.
You forced the hardness of our stones
To harmony of tones.
You laid our wild world's secrets bare
And caught "The Hunter" near the lair.
Our nation's moods, of beauty born,
Your "Girl with Eggs" adorn.

As o'er a slope's snow-covered brow
A youth came swiftly flying now,
You saw him, raised your hand, and lo!
He stood there, chiseled snow.
But your "Ski-runner's" c...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

To Johan Dahl, Bookdealer (On His Sixtieth Birthday)

(See Note 31)

Our glasses we lift now and drink to our host!
        "Hurrah!"
Give heed to our ditty, we sing you our toast!
        "Aha!"
The first thing appearing is what he was nearing,
When uproar not fearing he came for a hearing
        'Fore skerry-bred eagle
        And Wergeland regal.
        Oh! Ha!

He came like an innocent spring-lambkin ewe-born,
        Oh, woe!
So neat and so fine in his guilelessness new-born
        Like snow.
The flesh so delicious was chopped up to farce-meat,
And later by Wergeland found for a farce meet,
        And gayly 't was swallowed,
        And all the bones hollowed
        And strown.

But swift as Thor's he-goats to life again skipping,
        He sprang
Whole skinned t...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Johan Ludvig Heiberg (1860)

(See Note 7)

To the grave they bore him sleeping,
Him the aged, genial gardener;
Now the children gifts are heaping
From the flower-bed he made.

There the tree that he sat under,
And the garden gate is open,
While we cast a glance and wonder
Whether some one sits there still.

He is gone. A woman only
Wanders there with languid footsteps,
Clothed in black and now so lonely,
Where his laughter erst rang clear.

As a child when past it going,
Through the fence she looked with longing,
Now great tears so freely flowing
Are her thanks that she came in.

Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring
Whispered to him 'neath the foliage.
She flits softly, gathering, storing
Them as solace for her woe.

***

F...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Lector Thaasen

(See Note 27)

I read once of a flower that lonely grew,
Apart, with trembling stem and pale of hue;
The mountain-world of cold and strife
    Gave little life
    And less of color.

A botanist the flower chanced to see
And glad exclaimed: Oh, this must sheltered be,
Must seed produce, renewing birth,
    In sun-warmed earth
    Become a thousand.

But as he dug and drew it from the ground,
Strange glitterings upon his hands he found;
For to its roots clung dust of golden hue;
    The flower grew
    On golden treasure!

And from the region wide came all the youth
To see the wonder; they divined the truth:
Here lay their country's future might;
    A ray of light
    From God that flower! -

This I recall now ...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson