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Bjørnson, Bjørnstjerne: Holger Drachmann (Holger Drachmann in English)

Portre of Bjørnson, Bjørnstjerne

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Holger Drachmann (Norwegian)

Velkommen vår-bud! Kommer du fra skogen?
Ti du er våd i håret, løvet, støvet…
har du kræfter prøvet?
har du slå's med nogen?
Den larm omkring dig af den løste flom,
som følger dig i hælen - vend dig om:
den sprøjter på dig! - var det den, du slå's for?
Du var der inne mellem trøsk og stubber,
hvor længst de steller, disse vinter-gubber;
de vilde eje den? de satte lås for?
Men du fik kræfter af den gamle Pan!
De skreg vel skrækkeligt og spådde slæmt?
Og din bedrift, de kaldte den vel ran?
- Hvær vår det hænder; men det snart er glæmt.

Du ned dig kaster ved det salte hav.
Det også løste sig; det spiller mod dig.
Du kænner takterne; ti Pan oplod dig
sin kunst en kvæld-stund ved en viking-grav.

Men mens du hviler i naturens favn,
du hører kamp-trav på den våde jord,
du ser på damperne, der går mod Nord
med friheds-flag; - det roper på dit navn.

Og sådan slides du imellem to? -
frihedens kæmper, som nu stolt sig flokker,
naturens sagn-liv i sin drømme-ro;
de første maner og det siste lokker.

Snart dine sange som en kamp-lur knægge,
snart siver kælne gænnem rør ved strand.
Du er natur-magt halvt og halvt en mand,
og du har ænnu ikke enet bægge.

Men som du spiller, og som selv du er
(faun-artet kærlighed hos viking-længsel
i kraftfullt skifte), vær velkommen her, -
skønt du har døren med dig og dens hængsel!

Ti netop det var, hvad vi trængte nu:
op, op for våren! Denne kvalme duft
af konge-røgelse og munke-snus,
ja, denne svind-sot i romantisk dus
er slæm for lunger som moral: frisk luft!

Heller en slurk venetianske sange
i sydlandsk yppighed og farve-under;
heller "to skud" (om æn de gør lidt bange)
mod alt vort klissede opfostrings-plunder.

Velkommen vår-bud fra den ranke skog,
fra havets rullen og fra kampens trav!
Om tit lidt skødesløst din streng du slog, -
hvor der er rigdom, kan jo kuttes af.
En kæmpes lader alle små-trold klandre.
Jeg ælsker dig; du er ej som de andre.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.dagbladet.no

Holger Drachmann (English)

Spring's herald, hail! You've rent the forest's quiet?
Your hair is wet, and you are leaf-strewn, dusty…
With your powers lusty
Have you raised a riot?
What noise about you of the flood set free,
That follows at your heels,-turn back and see:
It spurts upon you! -Was it that you fought for?
You were in there where stumps and trunks are rotting
Where long the winter-graybeards have been plotting
To prison safe that which a lock they wrought for.
But power gave you Pan, the ancient god!
They cried aloud and cursed your future lot?
Your gallant feat they held a robber's fraud?
-Each spring it happens; but is soon forgot.

You cast you down beside the salt sea's wave.
It too is free; dances with joy to find you.
You know the music well; for Pan resigned you
His art one evening by a viking's grave.

But while on nature's loving lap you lie,
The tramp of battle on the land you hear,
You see the steamers as they northward steer
With freedom's flag;-of your name comes a cry.

And so is torn between the two your breast:-
Freedom's bold fighters, who now proudly rally,
In nature's life and legend dreamy rest;
The former chide, the latter lures to dally.

Your songs sound, some as were a war-horn braying,
Some softly purl like streams on reedy strand.
Half nature-sprite and half as man you stand,
The two not yet one law of life obeying.

But as you seem and as yourself you are
(The faun's love that the viking's longing tinges),
We welcome you, no lock is left nor bar,-
You bring along the door and both the hinges.

Just this it is that we are needing now:
The spring, the spring! These stifling fumes we bear
Of royal incense and of monkish snuff,
Of corpses in romantic cloak and ruff,
Are bad for morals and for lungs: Fresh air!

Rather a draught of Songs Venetian, cheerful,
With southern wantonness and color-wonders,-
Rather 'Two Shots' (although they make us fearful)
Against our shallow breeding and its blunders.

Spring's herald, hail! come from the forest's choir,
From ocean's roar, from armèd hosts and grim!
Though sometimes carelessly you struck the lyre,-
Where rich growth is, one can the rank shoots trim.
The small trolls jeer the gestures of a giant,
I love you so,-unique and self-reliant.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.gutenberg.org

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