The Child In Our Soul

Toward God in heaven spacious
With artless faith a boy looks free,
As toward his mother gracious,
And top of Christmas-tree.
But early in the storm of youth
There wounds him deep the serpent's tooth;
His childhood's faith is doubted
And flouted.

Soon stands in radiant splendor
With bridal wreath his boyhood's dream;
Her loving eyes and tender
The light of heaven's faith stream.
As by his mother's knee of yore
God's name he stammers yet once more,
The rue of tears now paying
And praying.

When now life's conflict stirring
Leads him along through doubtings wild,
Then upward points unerring
Close by his side his child.
With children he a child is still
And whatsoe'er his heart may chill,
Prayer for his son is warming,
Transforming.

The greatest man in wonder
Must ward the child within his breast,
And list 'mid loudest thunder
Its whisperings unrepressed.
Where oft a hero fell with shame,
The child it was restored his name,
His better self revealing,
And healing.

All great things thought created
In child-like joy sprang forth and grew;
All strength with goodness mated,
Obeyed the child's voice true.
When beauty in the soul held sway,
The child gave it in artless play; -
All wisdom worldly-minded
Is blinded.

Hail him, who forward presses
So far that he a home is worth
For there alone possesses
The child-life peace on earth.
Though worn we grieve and hardened grow,
What solace 't is our home to know
With children's laughter ringing
And singing.

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

Ingerid Sletten (From Arne)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

The Maiden On The Shore

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Magnus The Blind (From Sigurd Slembe)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Question And Answer

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

English

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Child-Songs

Still linger in our noon of time
And on our Saxon tongue
The echoes of the home-born hymns
The Aryan mothers sung.

And childhood had its litanies
In every age and clime;
The earliest cradles of the race
Were rocked to poet's rhyme.

Nor sky, nor wave, nor tree, nor flower,
Nor green earth's virgin sod,
So moved the singer's heart of old
As these small ones of God.

The mystery of unfolding life
Was more than dawning morn,
Than opening flower or crescent moon
The human soul new-born.

And still to childhood's sweet appeal
The heart of genius turns,
And more than all the sages teach
From lisping voices learns,

The voices loved of him who sang,
Where Tweed and Teviot glide,
That sound to-day on all the wind...

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The Children's Heaven.

    The infant lies in blessed ease
        Upon his mother's breast;
    No storm, no dark, the baby sees
        Invade his heaven of rest.
    He nothing knows of change or death--
        Her face his holy skies;
    The air he breathes, his mother's breath;
        His stars, his mother's eyes!

    Yet half the soft winds wandering there
        Are sighs that come of fears;
    The dew slow falling through that air--
        It is the dew of tears;
    And ah, my child, thy heavenly home
        Hath storms as well as dew;
    Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome,
        And quench the starry blue!

    "My smile would win no smile again,
        If baby saw the things
    That ache across his mother's brain
        The whi...

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Lessons For A Child.

I.

There breathes not a breath of the morning air,
But the spirit of Love is moving there;
Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree
Mingles with thousands in harmony;
But the Spirit of God doth make the sound,
And the thoughts of the insect that creepeth around.
And the sunshiny butterflies come and go,
Like beautiful thoughts moving to and fro;
And not a wave of their busy wings
Is unknown to the Spirit that moveth all things.
And the long-mantled moths, that sleep at noon,
And dance in the light of the mystic moon--
All have one being that loves them all;
Not a fly in the spider's web can fall,
But He cares for the spider, and cares for the fly;
And He cares for each little child's smile or sigh.
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Christmas, 1880.

Great-hearted child, thy very being The Son,
    Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;--
For who is prodigal but he who has gone
    Far from the true to heart it with the false?--
    Who, who but thou, that, from the animals',
        Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own,
        Can tell what it would be to be alone!

Alone! No father!--At the very thought
    Thou, the eternal light, wast once aghast;
A death in death for thee it almost wrought!
    But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last,
    And call'dst out Father ere thy spirit passed,
        Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow,
        But doing his will who greater is than thou.

That we might know him, thou didst come and live;
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To My Father (Upon His Retirement)

(See Note 42)

In all the land our race was once excelling.
In richer regions it e'en now possesses
Broad seats and fruitful; but by fate's hard stresses
Our branch was bent and bowed to blows compelling.
Now toward the light again it lifts aloft
Its top, and fresh buds crown it, fair and soft.
The flowing fountain of your faith has laved it,
To life's late evening thus your strength has saved it.

As rests the race in time of chill and rigor,
And from the deeps that lie within its being
Draws to it what alone can nourish, freeing
Its powers to full prophecy of vigor, -
So I divined the unseen stir in you
Of nature's might that you could not subdue;
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In mystery mute descends this power's stri...

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I Would I Were A Child.

    I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
And follow Thee with running feet, or rather
    Be led thus through the wild.

    How I would hold thy hand!
My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,
Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting,
    Over this sea and land.

    If a dark thing came near,
I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,
Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
    And so forget my fear.

    O soul, O soul, rejoice!
Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;
A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winning
    With gentle eyes and voice.

    The words like echoes flow.
They are too good; mine I can call them never;
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