=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *= This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at https://www.fadedpage.com. This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Odes and Echoes _Date of first publication:_ 1954 _Author:_ Paul Bjarnason (1882-1967) _Date first posted:_ June 25, 2022 _Date last updated:_ June 25, 2022 Faded Page eBook #20220636 This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net [Cover Illustration] =ODES and ECHOES= =_By_= =PAUL BJARNASON= COPYRIGHT 1954. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED NOVEMBER 1954 BY UNION PRINTERS LTD., VANCOUVER, CANADA. TO THE READER _Some learned and reputable writers have said that the Icelanders are a nation of poets, or at least rhymesters; that anyone who has the inclination can write some sort of passable verse. That is not quite true. Undoubtedly they do write more verse per capita than any other people, and most of the product is remarkably good from the standpoint of workmanship. But only a certain proportion of it, of course, can be classed as poetry: an artistic composition with a message._ _The main reason for this penchant of the Icelandic people very probably lies in the facility of their language. Being highly inflected it lends itself well to concise and pithy phrasing, so difficult in a tongue requiring modifiers, aids and articles to “round up” and corral an idea. Being also almost inexhaustible in wealth of word formation and shades of expression, more often resembling hints than statements, it is a vehicle peculiarly well suited to the poets’ art. Perhaps no other medium can so well bring out the alliteration, metre and music that so long has distinguished poetry from prose._ _Due to the difficulties in this regard in the field of English, many eminent writers and critics of recent years have advanced the propaganda that poetry is, or rather should be, altogether independent of form and style and melody. In fact they have gone so far as to encourage a studied avoidance of anything suggestive of symmetry and order, either in thought or form. Long-deprecated defects, deliberately multiplied, are hailed and exalted as points of merit. A product most “stunning” and exotic in construction is often featured as a piece of art and the author eulogized as a new star in the poets’ galaxy._ _This interpretation, resulting in a trend that threatens to become rather more than a passing phase, springs mostly, I think, from a painful sense of frustration. Not having an adequate instrument of expression for their particular need, the argument supplies an escape. Instead of lowering the scale of values to allow for higher marks, a new and arbitrary objective is accepted for evaluation._ _The English language is an excellent medium of expression both in public and private life and serves well in all classes of prose literature. But it definitely has its shortcomings in the field of poetry, and most acutely so when it comes to interpreting the strict and intricate style of Icelandic verse. It is therefore with a great deal of trepidation that I submit these samples to the random reader. In some cases I have adhered strictly to the Icelandic form, in regard to both alliteration and the rhyming; but for the most part I have compromised to a degree, in deference to idiom and clarity._ _A few of these poems (like the Northern Lights, by St. G. St.) are constructed to a form that is exclusively Icelandic, where assonance (near-rhyming) and rhyming occur in alternate lines. The rhyming in both cases is confined to each individual line, the first or second accented syllable being made to near-rhyme or rhyme with the last, as the case may be. To one who is wholly unacquainted with such versification the effect may be in a great measure lost, especially in regard to the near-rhyming, unless it is pointed out._ _Obviously only the more simple works have been attempted in this collection, and yet I know they have lost much in the translation. It is a great responsibility to do over a piece of art. But if these specimens can serve to throw one gleam of Icelandic poesy beyond its present narrow confines, my object will have been attained and I shall feel fully rewarded for the effort. And possibly it may prove just enough to spur others, who are better equipped, to take on the work and finally present to the world a tolerably fair example of a sizable store of literature, in many respects both unique and worthy, but still almost entirely unknown._ —P. B. =__CONTENTS__= =__ODES__= Page Moods........................................ 15 Remote Control............................... 16 The Bittersweet.............................. 17 A Reverie.................................... 18 The Unalogue................................. 19 The Peace Problem............................ 20 The Crime of ’98............................. 21 The Doxology................................. 22 The Progress................................. 24 The Peace Garden............................. 26 Friendship................................... 27 Our Ship of State............................ 28 Evening...................................... 29 Our Heroes................................... 30 Not Guilty................................... 31 Christabel................................... 33 Iceland...................................... 34 =__ECHOES__= Canada—By Gisli Jonsson...................... * Millennial Hymn—M. Jochumsson................ 37 Our Mother Tongue—M. Jochumsson.............. 39 The Road—Th. Erlingsson...................... 42 The Terms—Th. Erlingsson..................... 46 Yes, I Have Loved Before—Jakobina Johnson.... * Thou Golden Flower—Jakobina Johnson.......... * The Death of Summer—Einar P. Jonsson......... 49 Winter—Einar P. Jonsson...................... 51 Breakers—Einar P. Jonsson.................... 52 At My Mother’s Grave—Einar P. Jonsson........ 53 Like a Child—J. Magnus Bjarnason............. 54 The Buckster—J. Magnus Bjarnason............. 55 Sandy Bar—G. J. Guttormsson.................. 59 Roosevelt—Sig. Jul. Johannesson.............. 62 Our Fatherland—Sig. Jul. Johannesson......... 65 Iceland—Sig. Jul. Johannesson................ 66 A Romance of the Road—K. N. Julius........... 68 From “Verses”—K. N. Julius................... 69 At the Crossing—F. H. Berg................... * Ruins—F. H. Berg............................. * The Cataract—Kr. Jonsson..................... * Hope—Kr. Jonsson............................. * The Tear—Kr. Jonsson......................... * At the Nursery—Gudm. Magnusson............... * My Land of Dreams—Gudm. Magnusson............ * To Canada—Armann Bjornson.................... * The Crime—Pall S. Palsson.................... 82 You Alone—Pall S. Palsson.................... 83 Smiles—Pall S. Palsson....................... 84 The Nurse—Stgr. Arason....................... * I Go To Sea—Sverrir Haraldsson............... * The Librarian—Jon Helgason................... * The Journey—Orn Arnarson..................... 91 The Parson’s Confession—David Stefansson..... 92 The Beggar Woman—Gestur Palsson.............. 96 The Lyre—Ben. Grondal........................ 97 Poverty—Jon Thorlaksson...................... 97 The Desert—Jon Runolfsson.................... 98 The New World—Einar H. Kvaran................ 99 Tone Poem—Gudm. Stefanson.................... * The Fording—Pall Olafsson.................... 100 The Call—Hjalmar Jonsson..................... 101 Thinking Aloud—Hjalmar Jonsson............... 101 Birds In a Cage—Hannes Hafstein.............. 102 Just Like the Tender Flower—H. Petursson..... 103 Thule’s Lament—St. G. Stephansson............ 107 Lone Peak—St. G. Stephansson................. 108 Northern Lights—St. G. Stephansson........... 108 Eloi Lamma Sabahkthani—St. G. Stephansson.... 109 When I Was an Editor—St. G. Stephansson...... 113 The Brothers’ Destiny—St. G. Stephansson..... 114 Armistice—St. G. Stephansson................. 119 The Northern Lights—Einar Benediktsson....... 144 A Fog at Sea—Einar Benediktsson.............. 146 My Mother—Einar Benediktsson................. 148 Under the Stars—Einar Benediktsson........... 150 The Shepherd’s Adventure—E. Benediktsson..... 151 A Sunday at Mossfell—Einar Benediktsson...... 153 Snowla—Einar Benediktsson.................... 157 Thule—Einar Benediktsson..................... 159 The Swan—Einar Benediktsson.................. 164 Wave-Life—Einar Benediktsson................. 166 Mountain Air—Einar Benediktsson.............. 168 The Thames—Einar Benediktsson................ 170 Starkad’s Soliloquy—Einar Benediktsson....... 173 Calm Seas—Einar Benediktsson................. 178 The Pawnshop—Einar Benediktsson.............. 179 Rev. Oddur’s Disappearance—E. Benediktsson... 180 The Opal—Einar Benediktsson.................. 185 From “An Essay in Rhyme”—E. Benediktsson..... 186 * Authors omitted due to copyright consideration. ODES —Assembled from stray thoughts picked up on the byways of life. MOODS Spring, lovely spring! Thou art In Nature’s files The cheery counterpart Of human smiles. Summer, so gaily guised! Life’s chronograph In thee has symbolized The merry laugh. Autumn, so bleak and brown! On Nature’s chart— As on a face—the frown Of Time thou art. Winter! Time’s icy shell! On Life’s quick page Thou art the parallel Of human rage. The seasons, one by one, The moods we feel, Are but the skeins upon Life’s spinning wheel. 1934 REMOTE CONTROL “God is in His Heaven” And things are far from right. We slave from seven to seven For shelter through the night. Our plans to pots are driven By press and racketeer, For God is in His Heaven And doesn’t seem to hear. The shelves with goods are swaying; The shops are full of meat. Yet many a man is praying For more to wear and eat. Our wheat is sent to Sweden, While bread is very dear; For God is up in Eden And doesn’t interfere. The birds are blithely singing And bravely flying north. A vernal breeze is bringing The buds and crocus forth. Just man, the wise, must wonder And worry what to do; For God is still up Yonder. —I think He’s puzzled too. No beast will stalk another Within the selfsame clan, Nor prey upon a brother, As man does unto man. If Nature is to leaven Our daily bread of fear, God’s place is not in Heaven. I think He should be here. 1935. THE BITTERSWEET I know a lovely maiden— A minx I wished to say— Who charms and tantalizes With her sweet, confounded way. Her neck is like the opal. Her hair is soft as silk. Her cheeks resemble roses Upon a sea of milk. Her eyes are either cruel Or else with pathos melt. Behind her hot caresses A hardness may be felt. A cupid’s bow her mouth is, But sometimes upside down. Her pouting ends with laughter. Her smiles begin a frown. At times she is so lovely And looks so pleased and good. —And then she turns sarcastic And seems so cold and rude. I like her and I loathe her; My love blows cold and hot. And sometimes I am happy; And sometimes I am not. And though I cannot leave her, I often wish I had. I know I shall be sorry. I know I shall be glad. 1899. A REVERIE Our cells have not forgotten The time we lived in caves, When tribal feuds were rampant And all the gods were knaves; When warriors were the masters And all the rest were slaves. Our ruins grim and hoary Depict the castle age, When every mother’s hopeful Became a serf or page, And every knight, hysteric, Was on a pilgrimage. It is a long, long story Of fears and hates and pain, Where every saint was tortured And all the “reds” were slain. —And yet in every protest There was a little gain. For in this age of science And wealth and ether waves, When Art obeys her master And Nature, led, behaves, The burden shall be lifted, At last, from all the slaves. And Earth shall be an Eden Where mankind, happy, dwells; Where no one bows to Worry And none his honor sells; Where every serf is willing And love, not fear, compels. I know they stone the dreamers Whose dreams are young and bold. But this one is a day-dream That daring men behold, Of better things than poet Or prophet ever told. In truth it is a vision Of wiser things to do; A kindly invitation Of Fate to me and you, —And what remains is only To make the dream come true. 1931. THE UNALOGUE In spite of Moses, Abraham, The Ark and Genesis, God’s one advice—instead of ten— To man, was simply this: “I’ve made a world for thy delight. Its goodness I bespeak. The treasures may be hard to find, But thine, if thou wilt seek. “Go help thyself. Dispel the doubts That so confuse thee now. Should’st thou forget, the master key Is limned upon thy brow.” 1934. THE PEACE PROBLEM A hundred years of chronic peace Beneath the Bridge of Time has flowed Since Hate, enslaved to Fear’s decrees, Beside our frontiers grimly strode. No Christian aims inspired the “plutes” To send the strutting robots home: Brave Greed, their master, saw the fruits That might be gathered from the loam. Their minds, diverted, quite forgot The menace just beyond the line; And so each busy patriot Beheld no more the foe’s design. And now the Brain Trust of the state, With experts from the titled class, Is laboring to investigate How such a thing could come to pass. That worthy group has sweated blood For two long years without surcease; And still it is as clear as mud What may account for such a peace. For though they’re wise and from the East, The problem baffles all their lore. They ask a few more years at least This knotty question to explore. And when their findings are proclaimed At last, and stated to be sound, Another bureau must be named To try to ravel what they found. But meanwhile doubts must give us pause And leave us trembling at the knees; For should they fail to find the cause, This land must suffer on in peace. 1934. THE CRIME OF ’98 Thou wert to me the land of liberty, Where lust for conquest would be deemed a sin. I knew the weak would kneel in trust to thee, And nursed the hope that justice would begin. It was a dream. My lips no longer shape A lover’s tribute to thy stainless fame. Adaze, with trembling hands I hang the crepe That hides my country’s dread, beloved name. The strong and wise may argue as they will That other races need the white man’s rod; But though they rule the dupes that dread their skill, They dare not whisper such a lie to God. Our hypocrites with shrewdness say, “We keep The simple, for their own good, thus at bay.” Ah fools! Should men be kept in dungeons deep And dark, to fit them for the light of day? 1899. THE DOXOLOGY I rose and found the dawn unchanged, The sunrise as of old. The morning had its maiden blush, The midday still its gold. I knew the evening’s quiet touch, The sunset’s crimson hue. The stars at twilight winked at me Just as they used to do. I walked afield and found the lea Still fragrant, thick and green. The trees still waved their leafy arms, In manner quite serene. The robin sang, the brook still played, The breeze felt just the same. The cows at eve with udders taut Looked innocent and tame. I wondered. It was all so strange. I knew the people’s needs. I thought the food plants and the grass Had turned to useless weeds. I thought that nature and the earth Had suffered grievous change; That rains had ceased, the soil had struck And cows died on the range. I looked about and saw what seemed A mummy in the rain, Who with a span of mangy mules Was plowing down the grain. I asked him why, in face of want, He wouldn’t save the wheat. He smiled with sympathy and said: “With lots there’s less to eat.” Again I looked. A squad of men Was stationed all around, Intent, I thought, on dumping grain In tons upon the ground. I asked my friend why this might be. He spread his bony chest And said: “These worthy men are here To fight the ’hopper pest.” Once more I looked. I saw afar Where ships at anchor lay, Whose crews were busy pitching out Their cargoes in the bay. Again I quizzed. My friend replied: “It’s plain as plain can be, If apples grow too well they must Be dumped into the sea.” It was not plain to me; but then I thought it must be so. I felt appeased; yet one thing more I wanted still to know. I asked my friend to tell me straight If we were in B.C. He froze me with a sneer and said: “Wake up! This is A.D.” I said no more and turned to go, When on my startled ear A soul-requiting anthem broke In accents sweet and clear. Methought I saw a great white dome, And on its portico An angel sang: “The Lord be praised From Whom all blessings flow!” 1934. THE PROGRESS When time was young men learned to know That cows give milk where grasses grow; That fruits and nuts and goodly grains Will grow abundant if it rains. They thought it well for all to eat. They even stored the surplus wheat. For Nature, rich and often kind, Was now and then a little blind. They had no labor-saving tools. They hadn’t thought of using mules. But through the spirit of the hive The rugged managed to survive. In time they learned to fashion rafts. They came to know the simple crafts. The schemers hoarded on the sly, And some grew wealthy by and by. So when the first depression came They started up the profit game. They made the hungry sweat, to wit, For just enough to keep them fit. And thus the age of slaves began. Thus came “The Master and the Man.”— A system fraught with sin and grief, Where centuries brought no relief. At last through dreams and discontent The toilers grew belligerent. ’Twas then the wily master clan Devised a new and better plan. They said, “We’ll lend you chips for use To buy from us what you produce.” And lo! The witless, weary slaves Took up the yoke—and praised the Knaves! But all the chips could not re-buy The rank and meagre food supply, For mothers and the new-born slaves Were not considered by the knaves. Yet that indeed was not the worst: The chips were borrowed from the first; So all the toilers ever use Is owed to those who don’t produce. No matter how the fathers bled, We slaves are always in the red. The chattel serf who died was through; Our debts must follow me and you. So when it comes to judgment day, Should we be called and asked to pay, With costs and interest all applied, Then I, for one, will suicide. For though my bleeding back is strong, Eternity is far too long To labor on account—and yet Not long enough to square the debt. 1934. THE PEACE GARDEN There are wars in the oldest story. There are wars in the Land of Nod. There are wars for the sake of glory And wars for the grace of God. There are wars on the upland ranges. There are wars on the deep blue seas. There’s a war that the souls estranges —But only a prayer for peace. There’s an arch to the oldest bully. There’s an arch to the newest cad. There’s an arch to the most unruly Who struck when the world was mad. There’s an arch to the boldest raider, Who forced the weak to their knees. There’s an arch to the keenest trader —And now there’s an Arch of Peace. They plant by the gates a garden To greet when the brave returns, To comfort the hearts that harden Where hell on the earth still burns. With busts of the new-time Neros They tip its chevaux-de-frise, —Not one for the patient heroes Who worked in the cause of peace. Since Eve in the Garden of Eden Her ears to the Tempter lent, Some turks of the times or a Hedin Our temples of peace have rent. And so for a sinner’s pardon We sue on our bended knees And offer a Goodwill Garden To grow in the cause of peace. —We fenced in the land with frigates And forts in the long ago, And stationed a band of brigades To battle the so-called foe. But strangely we found that the faster We fired the whole police, Instead of a grave disaster It gave us continued peace. The forts with the mold have mingled. We’ve melted the guns into plows. The swords that the sentries jingled Will serve us to prune the boughs. The “foe” that we harmed and hated Are helping to plant the trees; For blindly we both awaited This bond of eternal peace. 1932. FRIENDSHIP As long as the sun has brilliance, As long as the years endure, As long as a saint has virtue, As long as the truth is pure, As long as the heart has feeling And the mind has a thought to spare, A friend will have friends aplenty, And friends for each other care. 1930. OUR SHIP OF STATE (In the hungry thirties) You’ve read about the Roosevelt deal, The Douglas plan, inflation And other nostrums said to heal And help a floundering nation. You’ve heard our doughty captain speak —His hands and face uplifting,— “No statesman would estop a leak While still at sea and drifting. “You know I’ve had to watch and wait Until the storms abated. By sitting tight I’ve saved the State, Through seas most agitated. “For nothing, save the grace of God, Can guide the fearless skipper. But once our frozen funds are thawed I’ll fix the blasted clipper. “I’ll stamp my trusty iron heel On all the Reds about me, Who state there is a steering wheel And stir the mob to flout me. “O where are now the pioneers Who plowed the land unaided? They never preyed upon their peers. They simply hewed and spaded. “They never asked the State, when licked, To be a sort of mother To wet-nurse every derelict As if he were a brother. “Alas! I fear the day is dead That bred the old go-getters. Today the ‘beggars’ ask for bread, And even doubt their betters. “I know the system seems to be In some ways rather flooey. But if you plug and pray for me I’ll patch it up; no hooey!” 1935. EVENING The sun was gliding earth’s far rim below. The glint that erstwhile played upon the deep Was stilled, as if the waves had gone to sleep. Meanwhile the sky took on a crimson glow That softly spread and faded as I gazed, From gold to rose, from rose to pearly gray, As if some unseen master hand at play A color-dream upon the sky had traced. Soon Night approached with soft and stealthy tread And gently drew the drapes of twilight to. She tucked the earth, as if her child, to bed And slaked its fever with her cooling dew; Then wiped the frescoes from the vaulted wall And spread her shadow blanket over all. 1937. OUR HEROES We praise the flock that freely went to battle And fast in death beneath the poppies lies. We glorify the dolts that, dumb as cattle, We drove unwilling to the sacrifice. We build a lofty marble cairn or column And carve it deep with “slush” to those who fell; And once a year with faces sad and solemn We show regret for making Earth a hell. We sent them forth to fight their distant brothers In foreign lands, where things were new and strange, And when they fell we mollified the mothers With make-believe and promises of change. But some returned and sought the recognition We seemed at first so anxious to give. And that brought on a nasty new condition —We never really thought they’d need to live. The banks provided dearly for their dying, —Our dumb-bells had already signed the note. But when they ask for something satisfying, Our saviors with the funds are all remote. To kill a single soldier in the trenches Was said to cost some five and twenty grand. The derelicts returned, like toiling wenches, Get twenty cents a day I understand. Of course we know the overhead is heavy. We hear it costs the realm a dollar ten —Beside the graft that goes with such a levy— To get each twenty pennies to the men. 1936. NOT GUILTY His father was born on the banks of the Clyde. His Bengalese mother was darker of hide. For neither was he the causation. A comfortless hut was the home that he knew And hunger and cold were his lot as he grew Like a weed in the wilds of creation. With urchins and paupers he played in the street; He played in the storm and the rain and the heat, A target for taunts and abuses. A stranger to kindness, a cuff on the ear, And curses, inured him to hatred and fear. Let him give account that accuses. At school he was ordered to push and compete, To prey on the weaker and strive for a seat Where honor and ease were the prizes. In church he was told that the Christian goal Was to capture a berth for his own little soul, And pray as the preacher advises. He learned from his cronies to lie and deceive, To lurk in the darkness and by-ways to thieve, A course that his conduct was shaping. No father commanded, no mother implored; By most of the “great” he was shunned and ignored. What chance had his class of escaping? Ye judges, I ask who is innocent here? Who offered a lead to a nobler career, That the best of his bents might awaken? Who showed him the path to his portion of earth, The plenty the toilers had left him at birth, And his purse that the pirates had taken? —————— His parents were wealthy and born to the blood. No beggar was he in the slums and the mud. Not much was denied him that money could buy. His mates in the play were the rich and the high. So when he in turn threw his hat in life’s ring, Of hardship and troubles he knew not a thing. He graded all men as the good and the bad. The good were the smug and the idle who had. The poor were to him as the ass or the ox, Just an ancient need, like the goose to the fox. So when he developed a craving to kill, His conscience felt but an innocent thrill. He had, like the other, been often misled. He honestly thought he had paid for his bread. He thought that the buying of bonds on the mart, And bleeding the toilers, was doing his part. So when you are tempted to censure his sin, Be sure that you probe where the errors begin. The game as designed has a system of rules, Where some may disport at the cost of the fools. The masses, we know, are but pawns in the play; Yet prelates and kings are as helpless as they. It is wrong and unwise for a brother to blame. ’Tis better to alter the rules of the game. 1936. CHRISTABEL (An hypothetical ending to Coleridge’s unfinished poem) ——————— Bard Bracy to Roland’s castle sped And bravely his liege’s message read, Though ringed about by a hostile band, To die perchance at the first command. The haughty baron turned ghastly pale As Bracy unfolded the gruesome tale. Burning within was the grim old feud, A rancour that both had nursed and rued. At first deep hatred with pride combined To harden his eye and betray his mind; But slowly in turn, as the tale unwound, Sir Roland bowed in thought profound. It warmed his heart to feel a hand Extended by an old-time friend. “To horse!” he cried, “ye gallants mine; We ride to greet Sir Leoline.” Sir Leoline was at the gate As Roland crossed the bridge in state. The two embraced with sighs and tears For friendship lost those many years. The castle doors stood warm and wide To welcome all the guests inside. The tables groaned with meats and wine And Christabel and Geraldine Expectant stood with arms apart, More radiant now and light of heart. The instant that the foes embraced, And friendship all their bonds unlaced, The spell that held fair Geraldine Had broken like a strand of twine; And Christabel again was free To seek her own fair destiny. The hate the former friends had nursed Had made their souls in part accursed; And so the taint—as next in line— Descended on fair Geraldine. Her doom was to impersonate, Without intent, that spell of hate. —But in the words of Christabel: “It broke, and all will yet be well.” 1943. ICELAND (A class poem) Where lazy mornings greet the gladsome hills And grey-blue valleys tremble in the haze; Where glaciers, weeping, start the rippling rills That riven lowlands in the distance glaze; Where grassy slopes amid defiant snags Rise slowly, meekly to their destined height, Contrasting, as it were, the jaunty crags With the omnipotence of gentle might; Where heaven’s fireworks send a silver stream To swathe the landscape in its pallid light, And summits in their pearly parkas gleam, To people every by-room of the night; Where every whisper that thy lips may leave In loud, deep echoes fills thy startled ear, And cascades from the waves of ether weave A wonder legend that the poets hear; Thou knowest well it is our Thulean isle —An Eden that all praises but defile. 1900. ECHOES —From the Icelandic of various authors, both in America and the homeland. MILLENNIAL HYMN (Iceland’s national anthem) —M. Jochumsson— God of our land! Our land’s great God! With lauds we emblazon Thy all-holy name. Time’s legions, the centuries, shaped Thee a crown From the suns in the heavens aflame. One day at Thy throne is a thousand years, A thousands years only a day: A meek little flower of time with its tears That trembles and passes away. Iceland’s thousand years: A meek little flower of time with its tears That trembles and passes away. O God above! On bended knees We bare Thee, as children, our deep-burning soul. We tender Thee, Father from age unto age, As earnest, our holiest toll. We stammer and thank Thee a thousand years, And throng to Thy refuge as one. We stammer and thank Thee with tremulous tears The trials our destiny spun. Iceland’s thousand years Were the morning’s deep-icicled measure of tears That melt in the rays of the sun. God of our land! Our land’s great God! Our life is a quivering, quivering reed. Forsaken we perish. For prowess and faith We pray unto Thee in our need. O, be Thou each morning the life-giving light To last through the day of our strife; Our comfort and guard in the gloom of the night; Our guide on the highway of life. Iceland’s thousand years Shall prosper the nation, repay all our tears And purchase the kingdom of life. 1936 OUR MOTHER TONGUE —M. Jochumsson— Strung beneath the ocean’s anger Are the ties that man devised: That in lands so long estrangèd Link the minds of humankind. Yet a mightier tie and token, Tended by the gods, may send Through our souls a deeper solace, Sung in our own mother tongue; A tongue that stood the strain of ages, Steeled to all that man can feel: Ice and hunger, fire and fury, Fear and breathless siege of death— Wondrous tongue of song and saga, Surely modelled by the gods, Laughing in the odes of gladness, Or it sobs with hearts athrob. Through the wear of weary ages It was a mentor Heaven-sent, Nectar for the nights of hunger, Nursed us when we lay athirst; Light within the lowly cottage, Long our winters’ evensong; Mouthpiece for the news of nations, Nestor of the dizzy past. Firm it stood through storm and earthquake, Stood the iron test of fire; On the bitter field of battle Bought the freedom that we sought. Cultured land of light, thou wilt be Long remembered in our songs, With thy viking-soul unshaken, Self-commanded hero-land. “Tell me, do our women wonder We are thin and yellow-skinned?” Asked a bard, and made immortal Master-dirges to the past. Bleeding through the bold and giddy Battle clangor, Hedin sang. Thorir and the mighty muttered Maxims while they swung the axe. Sturla mused in bitter battles. Bleak was time when Snorri rhymed. Inspiration lifted Loftur. _Lilja_ grew among the ruins. Arason with soul undaunted Shook the headsman with a look. Hallgrim with his holy passion Helped to brace a dying race. What’s the tongue? An aimless, empty, Odd absurdity of words? No, ’tis art, alert with living Light and soul of wondrous might; Mind’s incarnate mantle, shining; Memory’s bastions of the past; Life astream in rippling runnels; Rhyming symphonies of time. Long preserved in stirring story Stand the annals of the land: Frantic pain and searing sorrow; Songs of glorious days of yore; Budding love and fearless fury; Fate’s relentless punishments; Peaceful homes in happy image; Hallowed times that live in rhyme. Vision, traits and language linger Longest in the common song. Those who themed our thousand ditties Through the years have been the peers. Hear ye, bards that fable fondly: Freedom ceases, left in peace. If ye find the tales they tell us Truthful praise—beware, O youth! Meet unbowed, with might and vigor, Mammon’s long and cruel wrongs, With thy hapless lot delighted. Luck impersons every curse. What is freedom? Froth and twaddle; False unless it spells success. Earth becomes a sorry shambles Should we moulder where we stood. Lend thy peaks, O land of Thule! Loan me once thy godly throne! Other vistas every-whither Offer grandeur, wonder-land! Guilty age with golden altars, God commends thee to the sod. Fear success, but force the issue. —Friendless are the wealthy lands. Hear ye, bards of bleakest Thule, Bare your standard to the air! To your care—so hear me Heaven!— Handed is the motherland. And the Harp, though bent and broken, Blanched in storm and avalanche, Singed in fire through songless ages, Shall arise from lullabies. By the sun that shines in heaven, Sacred honor and the dawn, Let the young in living chorus Long preserve their mother tongue! Write amain, with runes of fire, Reason—that it may increase. Man, aspiring through the spirit, Spells eternal life. Farewell! 1930 THE ROAD —Th. Erlingsson— Supposing with firmness we force right ahead, Though faced with the steeps of Resistance? For though we have plodded and patiently bled, No path that we found in the open has led To the land of our dreams in the distance. It’s setting our pulse and our patience aboil How pithless and few is our number. But it would embitter each son of the soil To seek for the fruits of our clamor and toil, And find but the crypts we encumber. Beyond the long road to that ravishing land The riches we seek are abiding. That freehold awaits the unfaltering band, With flashing rewards in each liberal hand, Yet over the hills ever hiding. How well you remember the tear-laden tale They tell of humanity’s stages! You’ve seen the enthusiast falter and fail, While forth the bold pioneer blazed the new trail In the jungles of earth, through the ages. How many a bowlder was bathed in the gore Of the brave whom the multitude followed! But every new martyr enabled a score To enter the breach where he struggled before, For the rocks by his hot blood were hollowed. While the darkness of old, in the depth of its night, Like death o’er the fastnesses lowered, The only relief in that faith-killing fight Was fixing the gaze on that region of light Where the sun-mantled tops gaily towered. ’Twas ever the hope of that heavenly goal That heartened the chief to the dashes, While heads of the church threatened Hell for his soul And hirelings of despotism sought the last toll As they burned his live body to ashes. Thou charmed the first heroes, O On-coming Age, With the arch of thy brow still aglitter! And one day the lowly who live by a wage At last will emerge from the slavery stage. What a day that will be for the bitter! Then all the blue sky will be cloudless and clear, For our cause will be heard by a master Whom mankind can love without mixture of fear, Who misses no heartbeat, a sigh or a tear, Nor hounds us with Hell and disaster. And then the poor weaklings can weather the blast On the wind-beaten ridge where they cower; For after the trials and toil of the past The tempting new vistas imbue them at last With visions of pleasure and power. What a bliss for the weary to wake up anew In that wonderful age, when the masses Can safely embrace and retell what is true, Without taking a chance on the rack or the screw And the verdict that Piety passes! I vision the time when the victor shall stand And view the rich sweep of The Valley, And greet the long-coveted goshen of land, While gambolling hordes from the battle-scarred band With shouts to its rendezvous rally. They’d fought through the desert with faith-given poise; For freedom indeed is the leaven. And master and peon shall mingle their voice, Demanding the deed to the land of their choice From the despots, both here and in Heaven. However acute be the cost and the pain, That cross will be light as a feather, When the settlers file into their sunny domain, Where servants of Truth and Equality reign, And sing their hosannas together. I know that we comrades may fall in the fight Before the last pathway is beaten. But hail to the first one who forces the height And feasts on the prospect revealed to the sight, Though his last day that scene is to sweeten. We’ve only a handful of hearts in the game, But the whole of our strength we are giving. We know what a tribute the trail is to claim, But trust that the Future will nail up each name, Though our graves may be lost to the living. Though many a cliff on the course may debar Or crush me betimes in the races, Undaunted I head for the highlands afar, And hail with delight every toiler and car That the way to the wilderness faces. And though you’ll make fun of the fool on the hill Who falls by the wayside defeated, Don’t doubt for an instant that others, athrill, Will enter the ranks and continue until The last rift in the road is completed. I believe that thy triumph, O Truth, in the end Will attend to the final equation. That’s why, O King, to thy bidding I bend, And bravely await what the future may send, In the fullness of Freedom’s invasion. Then rise all ye quitters and come to the fight! Our cause will be lost if we dally. For Pluck is the beacon, the beckoning light, That brought us through Tyranny’s negative night —And the god who will give us The Valley. 1923 THE TERMS —Th. Erlingsson— If you can watch the hordes of Hell upheave and rebel, With Dignity atremble in the toils of its spell, And every prop that holds the heavens whittled in two— Then I will calmly sing my song and share it with you. If you will hate the haughty knave who hog-ties your soul And forces you to act as if you honored his role, And buys applause from peons that his powers subdue— Then I will lend my heart to wholesome hatred with you. If you can love the lonely slave who leans on his chains And will not kiss the hand that holds the whip, as he strains, And to the bitter end unbowing battles it through— Then I will to my dying day adore him with you. And should you wish to solve the wondrous secrets of life, Beginning on the alphabet as aid in the strife, And scorn to look through others’ eyes—so often askew— Then I would also like to learn my lessons with you. If you embark and breast the foam when breakers run high, Without a private passage to the Port in the sky, And keep your pace and purpose with your peril in view— Then over all the seven seas I’ll sail it with you. And when you face the night of nights with no land in sight, And murky billows beat upon the boat in its flight, If you can hold the helm, no matter what may ensue— Then out upon that dismal deep I’ll dare it with you. 1925 THE DEATH OF SUMMER —E. P. Jonsson— There’s a dismal knell on the ambient air. The echoing forest in bleak despair Resounds to the surf’s intoning. A cloudful of misery hangs on high, There’s a hint of fear in the morning sky, And the city itself is groaning. The beacons of summer are burning low. Abend you see in the afterglow The tops of the trees aquiver. I feel in the moan of the sounding surge The solemn tones of the funeral dirge For the last of the leaves ashiver. The people that hunger for love and light Have lost their way in the chilly night, And hurry, they know not whither. Their hearts are filled with the fear-blent doubt That Fate compels, as they look about On the wind-swept leaves that wither. Everything seems to be doomed today. There’s a doleful sound to the poet’s lay, That erst was so free and airy, Each sylvan bower is sere and bare. It seems like a funeral everywhere, For the earth her own must bury. The landscape fades as the fury grows; Yet the faith that the summer of life bestows Lives on through the tireless ages. The autumn winds off the Arctic zone From out of the prairies force a groan, And the blizzard about us rages. The sickles are piling row on row. For rule in heaven and earth, we know, Two forces are fast contending: The falling leaves and the fear of death, And faith in the summer’s eternal breath, Its hand to our hopes extending. 1930 WINTER —E. P. Jonsson— Thou comest afar from the frigid spaces To fill up the land with snow. The surge of thy lusty song embraces Assault on our peace, I know; But also in human hearts it places A hint of the summer-glow. Thy mantle enshrouds the bays and beaches And buries the flowers deep. The sound of thy healthy harp-string reaches Each harbor that lies asleep. The glow that enhaloes thy heart impeaches The howl of thy chilly sweep. Many a prank we have played together As pals in my native land. I heard in the call of thy coldest weather A kindly but stern command, And saw thee abroad, with thy broken tether —A broadsword in either hand. Many have wished for thy death, O Winter, From weakness and lack of heart. No runes like thine could the proudest printer Impress on his eager chart; Nor would the hand of a Titian tinter Attempt such a work of art. Thy voice, at times with its tone of ire, Is tender beneath and sweet. Thy fury is dulled by the dream-desire To dwell on thy ’prisoned heat. I hear in thy breast, as I hear in fire, The heart of Eternity beat. 1930 BREAKERS —E. P. Jonsson— The seas on the bars are beating. About, on the sand dunes, lie The flanks of the fated vessels That foundered in years gone by. Though most of the rafts are riven And the writing is worn and old, Man’s tortuous road to reason The wrecks on the beach unfold. The surf by the capes is crowding. It creeps on the rising lith And hugs to its breast each billow That broke on the scarry frith. The breakers resemble Saga. They sweep to the fore again A coastful of ancient cargoes And corpses of long-dead men. Yet out to the tameless ocean The eyes of the fearless turn, To vision afar, in fancy, The fringe of a new day burn. —A soul from the source eternal Must seek where the storms are rife. We rot in the dreamy doldrums; To dare is the food of life. 1932 AT MY MOTHER’S GRAVE —E. P. Jonsson— How still the eve! Yet o’er thy grave’s quiescence, From out the deeps of thought a voice is calling. Meseems a holy dew in drops is falling Adown the visage of the bower’s Presence. Here both the living and the dead are dreaming. A dying glow the templed silence kisses. How oft a soul with learning’s largess misses The living truths that on this bourne are teeming! Slabs with Nordic runes—in rows—engraven, Arise above the meadow’s far expanses; Preserving ever true, though time advances, Returning gleams of light from Story’s haven. Our joys and tears, like rains, when all is over, Must end their journeys in the self-same ocean. Thy mound, a legacy to love’s devotion, Is laden with the rose and four-leaf clover. That morns and noons must wane away is certain. A westering shaft the gathered haze is cleaving. I feel a mystic hand my web unweaving. Thy weary son eftsoons will draw the curtain. Voiceless night. The moody murk is weeping. My muse’s theme reposes in the dingle. Here, where the nations’ dust-remains commingle, The Memories come to bivouac with the sleeping. 1932 LIKE A CHILD —J. M. Bjarnason— I’ve rambled o’er the road of life Unreconciled, And to the last I’ve laughed and whimpered Like a child. Yet I have sought for life and light And looked about, A child of faith that fought the bane Of fear and doubt. Throughout the pleasing park of life I’ve played my fill, And broken all my bonny toys, As babies will. I’ve weeded every hill of hope On hands and knees, And sung my little poem-prayers To plants and trees. But trees have lost their charming coats And colors gay; And seared is every shoot of hope Beside the way. And so I leave my land of dreams With lyric sighs, Just like a boy that loves to croon His lullabies. May Heaven’s light so lead me on, Though lure-beguiled, That I may end my life just like A little child. 1941 THE BUCKSTER —J. M. Bjarnason— Come sit on the bar of my sawbuck a while; It is safe as a rock, I trow. Although it is worn and withered and old It will not complain, I know. No, I am the one that is weary and spent In the work that I have to do. The strength of my arms is ebbing away, As even my soul is, too. I’ve toiled it for seventy summers on end —For seventy and five, my lad. While some of them may have been mild and bright, Yet most of the lot were bad. Each year in its turn, since I wandered west, Was the worst of the endless string; For what have I earned in this land of light But labor and want—not a thing. In silence I’ve trudged with my saw and the buck, Like a sheep on a barren plain. I’ve snooped, like a thief, in the loathsome lanes And looked as a rule in vain, To see if there wasn’t a pile on the place Or a pole I could sever in two, That people might know I was willing to work —For wages or food, ’tis true. In the burning rays of the summer sun I’ve sweated and toiled amain. In winter my ill-clad feet would freeze, Though flushed with the grinding strain. Where I happen in time, with a trembling hand I tap on the master’s door; But the hardest task and the trial is To tell what I want, once more. All I can say is “Kind sir, cut wood?” And it sounds, I’m afraid, like a prayer— And then I explain by shaking the saw As swiftly as ever I dare. At last when he sees what my errand is And offers to make a deal, If I mention “A dollar to cut one cord” He cringes and squirms like an eel. He puffs and he blusters and pushes me off, Till the price is the one he’d choose; For “profit” was made for the men of ease, And mine is to slave and lose. To make it still harder I’ve had to compete With the headstrong impractical fools, Who offer their service so shamefully cheap That I saunter away with my tools. And no one has felt like a friend in need, Or furthered my case if he did. My silvery locks were a sign to most To serve me the lowest bid. —And yet I have met with some friendly folk (A few) where I made a call, Who gave me a handout of butter and bread —To beg is the worst of all. This cloak that I wear is a wonderful gift From a woman across the street. I know that her husband wore it once; It’s warm and so strong and neat. These boots—like a prince’s!—the tapster took And tossed in my path one night. He looks like a rake of the careless kind, But the core of his heart is right. In every place there are some good souls Who seek to improve your lot. But who wants to beg like a brazen cur, Or bend to a pauper’s cot? For him who was once quite well-to-do And willing to spend his cheque, It is hard to accept a daily dole And drift like a human wreck. You ask if I have not a sister or son, To see that I’m housed and clad. No. All my relations and fellows and friends Are faded and gone, my lad. One day with my Bertha and Katie I came; But Katie took sick and died. The climate out here is so cold and dry, And comforts were not supplied. The work in the laundry was lengthy and hard, And a little, frail girl was she. For reading and leisure her life was meant— To learn was an ecstacy. So gentle and loyal, I loved her the best— The last of my children five. My sad, old days would be sunny again And sweet, were she still alive. My Bertha was always so bold and so free, But beautiful as a queen. The life in the taverns enticed her fast And tainted her mind, I ween. She lost her heart to a handsome crook And hastily ran away. He stole her, in fact, with his stylish ways. She is starving, I fear, today. You ask if there wasn’t a son. Yes, sir. Their souls are a gospel to me. There never were better or manlier men, So manly they were—all three. They say that young Benny was stronger than Steve, Whose strength was enough for three; But Raven, if taunted, the twain could hold, So terribly strong was he. All of them longed for a life on the sea —The land was so dull and tame— To match their strength with the stormy deep And strive for the boldest fame. But many a cruise on the main was rough —Too much in the end for me! They perished at last, my poor little boys —My poor little boys—all three. I’ve often been happy and overly rich, But all that I had is gone. I sway in the blast like an aged oak, With even its sap withdrawn. 1931 SANDY BAR —G. J. Guttormsson— Long I strolled, though late the hour. Lightnings set the skies aglower, While a drenching summer shower Swiftly filled each step ajar. Through the aspen arbors gleaming On I sauntered, vaguely dreaming, ’Till I came upon a quiet Camping ground at Sandy Bar; Where the pioneers, in passing, Pitched their tents at Sandy Bar. Silence reigned. All signs have faded Since the early fathers waded Through the leagues of lakes that made it Like an ocean near and far. Death, that in their dreams abided, Darkly o’er the floods presided, Casting ’neath his falcon feathers Fateful gloom on Sandy Bar,— From his wings, so broad, a baleful Black-out over Sandy Bar. Sturdy fathers, fey and ailing, Feared the Summoning Angel’s hailing Ere they could be set for sailing Safely to life’s Port afar. Sick for weeks on ships a-tossing Souls were not prepared for crossing. Standing face to face with terror Few could rest at Sandy Bar. Pressed for time, on pins and needles People walked at Sandy Bar. All their tragic toil and scourging To my heart like pain came surging; For the old remains emerging Marred the foreground like a scar. As I looked the lightning flashes Lit the scattered heaps and ashes, Where exhausted men and mothers Mutely rest at Sandy Bar; Where the immigrants so gamely Gave their all at Sandy Bar. Those who came to seek and settle Showed their earnest will and mettle, Well content to wage a battle With conditions under par. Since the hour of immigration All their mass-determination Was to make their way to freedom, Westward bound from Sandy Bar; Blaze a trail through bog and jungle Branching out from Sandy Bar. Thoughts of old within me straining On my heart their darts were training, As if cosmic eyes were raining All the tears of pain there are. Shafts of lightning, like a token, Left the highest trees all broken, As if spirit hopes were hewing Highways out of Sandy Bar, Hewing lanes to life and glory Leading out from Sandy Bar. Thus the braves who fell a-fighting From their graves the path are lighting, All the willing ones uniting With their long-abandoned car. Every hope shall earn fruition In each mind that has ambition To take up the uncompleted Exodus from Sandy Bar, To pursue the ever-onward Aims that grew at Sandy Bar. He who makes new paths, and passes, Plants ambition with the masses, Bringing forth, like frosted grasses, From the soil an avatar. Though some active urge decreases In each living thing that freezes, In my fancy ice encrusted All the grass at Sandy Bar. Plants still green with frozen fragrance Filled the air at Sandy Bar. Shining spectral shades, I doubt me, Sent a stream of warmth throughout me. Phantom gleams on graves about me Glittered faintly like a star. All the brawn that blessed the sleeping Buried now the earth is keeping, Where it lies forever idle In the ground at Sandy Bar. All that death could overpower Is interred at Sandy Bar. As the beating rain abated, Breezes kind, so long awaited, Crowding on the clouds so freighted Cleared the sky for every star. Routed packs with fury flashing Farther to the north were dashing, Till a riftless reach of heaven Rested over Sandy Bar. Heaven, where the leaders landed, Looked with peace on Sandy Bar. 1943 ROOSEVELT —Sig. Jul. Johannesson— “Thy long-sought land of Promise I lay before thy gaze, The land wherein thy people Shall dwell in coming days. But o’er its sacred border Thy foot shall never tread. Anear the goal thy spirit Shall gather with the dead.” Thus long ago to Moses, The man, Jehovah spake —A doom that mixed forebodings Of life and death awake. Moses led his people A long and toilsome way, Till gleaming in the offing The fields of Goshen lay. Jehovah spared his servant For one enraptured look; Then signed his earthly chapter And closed his mortal book. Roosevelt led his people A long and toilsome way, Until his land of promise In brilliant prospect lay. God blessed him with an image Of all its features grand; A land of peace and plenty, The peoples’ freedom-land. Oft with his trusty Fala Beside the hearth he sat, While with the earth’s far peoples He shared his weekly chat. And all the troubled millions That listened, far and near, Could feel his vibrant power Dispel their chronic fear. Some men of strength and valor Among the dross are born. An innate trend to goodness Some others may adorn. But few among the masters —As human records state— Are gifted with the nature That makes them good _and_ great. Roosevelt’s hope and vision For home and world embrace The faith that peace eternal May bless the human race. An eager world had listened Through many an hour of fear, While o’er the void he sent them His messages of cheer. Now this our mighty Moses, So noble, wise and true, Has scaled life’s highest summit And waved his last “adieu.” His feet the Lord has guided Across the desert wild, As any loving mother Will guide her stumbling child. And all the mighty nations Stand awed and thunderstruck, As if the hopes of mankind Were trampled in the muck. Across the foaming ocean Love’s tribute to his worth Is wafted from the heart of The smallest state on earth. One hope, nay, one conviction, From out the chaos stands: That pilgrims, fired with purpose, From all betroubled lands Will seek for truth and courage And visions new and brave, And find that inspiration Beside his hallowed grave. “Ægir’s daughters” softly Sing their lullabies. Beneath a rain of roses A child in slumber lies. 1945 OUR FATHERLAND —Sig. Jul. Johannesson— Amuse, in His glory, when God surveyed Our great but unfinished sphere, Of matter He found He had made enough, But most of it out of gear. As over the lands from place to place His piercing gaze He ran, To find in the world a worthy home To welcome His chosen man —’Twas here that He paused to plan. Though Nature in silence must play her part In patience, at God’s command, Each atom astir from year to year Must yield to His mighty hand. His vision is still the same, it seems— The same as it first began,— So when He fashions a finer soul To finish His super-man —’Tis here that He has to plan. No graver duty was given to man By God, than His sweet command: That every Thulean battle his best To better his fatherland. Each son abroad, while he dwells adrift, Must dream, like the exile can, Of the joy of lending a hand at home And helping the Artisan To perfect His wondrous plan. 1929 ICELAND —Sig. Jul. Johannesson— A fire of hate throughout the earth is burning, As if King Death dictated all our learning —As if life’s sunny day to dusk were turning. The lords of war write every act that passes, Each edict that would starve the poorer classes. Like witless sheep, they fool and fleece the masses. The deadly strife is high and low alarming. Each land prepared the cause of man is harming; For, strange to say, our hope lies in disarming. Our motherland that lesson now is teaching, While long-embattled states continue preaching Of wars, and strive each other overreaching. Dear isle, thou art a haven consecrated, A country by the god of peace located, Where human rights, not raids, are emulated. I know thy sons their swords at one time rattled. The sagas much about their valor prattled. But now they stand for better things embattled. The age-old ways of other lands thou breakest; From errors seen a lesson new thou takest; From broken rafts a bridge to Heaven makest. No race nor clan on earth our own transcended. Some innate law our sturdy growth attended. From kings and slaves our blood was truly blended. Remember, then, thy destiny and dower, Thy duty to the world each pregnant hour: To be a guiding light to peace and power. God bless thee, mother by the outer ocean, And all thy hundred thousand souls’ devotion To peace and art and every true emotion. May countless “Jons” be born to be thy genii, To bless thee with a halo deep and sheeny —But never a “Hitler,” never a “Mussolini.” 1940 A ROMANCE OF THE ROAD —K. N. Julius— In pensive mood beside the road I flung an empty flask, But fancied that my thirst was undiminished. I fumbled for another one. You needn’t stop to ask— I never leave a thing like that unfinished. My head grew weak and dizzy; The day resembled night, And duly everything began to flutter. I tumbled over headlong; I tumbled up aright —And tumbled off again into the gutter. I lay there in a swoon, Just a limp and sleepy soak; And loafers hurried by me as if glad to. I thought I must have died In the dark, and had a stroke —Or drunk a little more than I had had to. But I managed to recover, As you certainly can see, And Satan lost a prize he might have landed. So at last the fact is proven, Through Lazarus and me, That Life can beat the Devil single-handed. 1923 From “VERSES” —K. N. Julius— Worthy Elis, all unstrung, In his cell is groaning: “Go to hell and hold your tongue!” He is telephoning. —————— Should I be caught without a fork or shovel, He who notes my normal cares Will know that dung is getting scarce. —————— With other riches running low, I wring a measure From out my secret soul—and throw To swine the treasure. —————— That this hulky hog is you I hate implying. Honestly though it is true That I am lying. —————— I must confess that frequently, With few or none to hear and see, And empties scattered all agley, I ask my God to succor me. —————— Too much the muse exacted From me so ill-content. No inspiration acted On only “two per cent.” 1934 THE CRIME —P. S. Palsson— In dreamy contentment the day was enjoyed And drew to a close like the rest. Her soul was alight with a love that is pure And license had never oppressed. Her mind, like a babe at the bosom of dreams, Went back to her earliest days; And memory’s ties with her kindred and kith Were kind as the morning’s first rays. She sensed in the starlight the sorrows of life, Assessed on the ages gone by. But none of the evils that come with the clouds Of crime ever darkened her sky. For sun-gilded lands with their summers of faith Her soul with bright memories filled. Her morning of life with its mystical wand Its magic of hope had distilled. She felt no alarm as she passed through the park, At peace with all humans at large. Through years of devotion she’d yearned to anneal The young that were placed in her charge. She loved, always loved, every creature and child That conquered the threshold of life. Her mind was a stranger to darkness and doubt And dread of the murderer’s knife. Alas, all in vain proved her visions and faith: A villain her byway patrolled, A serpent in ambush to sully her life. The sequel may never be told, How dauntless in spirit she duelled the foe Till death was her only release. Her heart valued honor much higher than life. Sweet heroine, rest thou in peace! 1946 YOU ALONE —P. S. Palsson— I thank my God that he gave me you, A goddess of beauty rare. No other could help me to hold in view The heavens, so calm and fair. No other could show me the simple way The seeker for truth must go; And only to you do I owe today For all that I feel and know. No other could tune up my tiny harp That timid and idle lay, Nor whisper with tact if my tones were sharp, And tell me the theme to play. No other could free me from fear and doubt, In face of the cosmic strife, Nor help me to feel in a faith devout The facts of eternal life. I thank my God for His gift to me: A goddess to love and prize, Who raised me to heights from which to see Our Heavenly Paradise. 1950 SMILES —P. S. Palsson— A friendly smile awakens love and light And laughter in a heart devoid of ease; It makes the glow on furrowed faces bright And fills the soul with happiness and peace. A smile of scorn can build within the best A blaze of hate no will can long conceal; It tears the finest tendons in the breast That time can never quite amend or heal. A kindly smile may quicken strength anew And kindle faith that erst was still and dead; It makes the hapless hunger to pursue The hidden wonder-realms that lie ahead. Each hour that gave us dreams and daily breath Is dimmed and tainted by the cynic’s sneer. It turns a song into a dirge of death And drowns our longings in a sea of fear. 1950 THE JOURNEY —Orn Arnarson— Starting forth on Fate’s long journey Fired with hope the eager lad. Brand-new shoes and some provisions Satisfied and made him glad. But some wonder-wine of courage Was the best thing that he had. Having reached life’s hilly stages, Hemmed about with sleet and snow, On a drift the swain now seated Says in accents weak and low: “Lunch kit empty, outworn shoes, And the road gets worse, I know.” “Barefoot and without provisions It is hard to trudge the snow. Yet, were anything in the bottle I’d bestir myself and go. Heaven is now my hope and stay. Hast Thou not, O Lord, I pray, A drop to fill that flask of mine? I feel I’m through without the wine.” “Utter silence everywhere! Is even prohibition There?” 1948 THE PARSON’S CONFESSION —David Stefansson— For thirty long years I have served, unsighing. No silence atones for the guilty past. The inner man in his mask is dying. Remorse impels me to shrive at last. My conscience duly its debts confesses. I dread the impending bugle call. I hear the wails of the misled masses, The millions that kneel in the judgment hall. II I studied the texts with a weak aversion; There was no pressure from inner need. I felt no desire to seek incursion. My soul was untouched by a holy creed. I drifted about like a beast unthinking And blandly ignored the mind’s arrears, —And yet stray hopes in my heart were linking Some heavenly bliss with our earthly tears. At length I was duly ordained a pastor. One day I accepted a modest call. I saw in the stories how many a master Had managed to shine in a dingy hall. I looked into mothers’ confiding faces. I felt the deep yearning of pious men And hungering souls in the simplest places, —I see it now, if I did not then. Men hastened my errors with earnest praises, And even proclaimed me a gifted youth, Who’d lead their souls through the lightless mazes, Who loved his God and the simple truth. III My messages all were an aimless chatter And every service besmirched the cloth. I was like the rhymesters who rave and clatter And ream out cantos of tasteless froth; A blind man to point out the path that matters; A peon who thinks we are much too free; A father who sends out a son in tatters To seek live coals on a snowy lea. —I buried and catechised, christened and married And quietly did what the rules declare. I gazed on the skies as I prayed and parried And piously feigned that my heart was there. I was but Hypocrisy, primmed in a cassock; A parvenu, dressed in a cleric’s gown. I lied in the pulpit, I lied on the hassock. I lured to the fold all the wrecks in town. I followed the rites of a ritual hoary; I rattled the scriptures thick and fast. In meekness I tendered to God the glory When groups found peace in their work at last. But what was the right, and the way to win it, Was one thing I never desired to press. I numbered each pew and the people in it. They prayed for little; I gave them less. I spoke like a mentor and posed like a power. I promised redemption for those who fall. I proffered the Gospel each godless hour; I gabbled and fumed—about nothing at all. IV I sensed what I was. I had wished for glory And weakly forgave what I did amiss: An erring shepherd—the same old story— Who shirks and falls for a traitor’s kiss. I lacked the manhood to make retraction. I muddled along for thirty years, And offered, in signal of satisfaction, The silvery locks that the mob reveres. There is many a flaw in the cup and caster, Though quite unseen in the temple’s glare. But why should a gray and godless pastor Deglaze the blemish and lay it bare? —For men must grovel to gain to power. My gown of sable could hide its thrall. I preached on each Sabbath the selfsame hour, Received my stipends—and that was all. V What am I? A sanctified arch-deceiver Who serves the lust of his will, for pay; Who rapes the soul of the rote-believer —A racketeer on the holy way. He prowls and evades and sells deception And sums his gains in the dead of night. He trades in things that entail surreption And touches the pure with a deadly blight. He’s called to arouse, but he soothes the seeker With soapy unction and lullabies. He should not hinder, but help the weaker And hearten the temper that dignifies. His efforts should be to unbend the erring And burn their sins in the fires of right. His lamp should brighten, instead of blurring. His bulk is most when he stops the light. To rule in the church is his chief ambition; To crush the values the fathers prized; His penchant: inaction and inanition; His occupation—betraying Christ. VI Thirty years spent—and the spell is breaking. My spirit, through grace, is unchained at last. My soul is cloven, my conscience aching. I’ve conquered the trammels that held me fast. Laid open, my bosom its faults confesses. I fear the impending bugle call. I hear the wails of the misled masses, The millions that kneel in the judgment hall. 1933 THE BEGGAR WOMAN —Gestur Palsson— She huddled on the stoop on a cold and stormy day And shrank into herself till a crumpled heap she lay. A bony hand was groping and reaching all about Her tatters, in the vain attempt to keep the weather out. Her eyes were cold and dim, as if the light within had died Out in the killing blasts that sweep Life’s unforgiving tide. They shifted to and fro with a blank and aimless stare, But saw and sought for nothing through the windows of despair. Her sallow brow was wrinkled, where furrow furrow crossed; The cruel memorandum of sorrow’s awful cost. For who can tell the anguish, the pain and bitter tears, The derelicts of mankind must suffer through the years. She may have been a diamond, a bright and lovely thing, That fell out of its setting in Luck’s bejewelled ring, Or else a pearl that someone had tossed into the deep —A dull and worthless fragment now on Life’s dank refuse heap. 1936 THE LYRE —B. Grondal— From mystic realms, by Heaven consecrated, Now casts the sun to earth his parting gleams. Bedewed, a fairer land has long awaited, Where lilies fondly kiss the purling streams. There dwells a maid ’mid din of fall and river And dreams, aweave upon the purple haze. The northern lights like silken curtains quiver. Across the sky the moon forever plays. Above, in airy halls that cannot crumble, The colonnades resound with melody. Below, the thunders of the earth, arumble, In undertones support the rhapsody. Œolian strings with amber hues aglitter, Forever play the music of the spheres, In lands of peace no bloody feuds embitter: Abodes of light my fairy domineers. 1929 POVERTY —Jon Thorlaksson— Through all the years that I remember Stark Want has been my paramour. From life’s young May to late December That luckless bond has held secure. How long we shall continue thus He knows Who first united us. 1936 THE DESERT —Jon Runolfsson— With silver steeples shining gleams The city of my boyhood dreams, Beyond the sand-plain, sere and bare. The serried palms will guide me there. There, glinting in the sun, I see The symbol of my destiny. Beyond this ruddy sea of sand My soul beholds the promised land. No threat or menace may avail To march me off the beaten trail, And no compulsion, path or sway —The palms are there to show the way. —The journey finished, far and drear I find the selfsame desert here: A parched and withered waste of land. My weary eyes are filled with sand! 1930 THE NEW WORLD —E. H. Kvaran— Other lands may live on ancient glory And lean their destinies on past renown; May dig among the fossils, far and hoary, To find the pearl of life and honor’s crown. Not so with thee, whose sons are up and doing And sing amain their happy roundelay, Each manly task with noble zeal pursuing. Thy sun was never brighter than—today. Other lands to sham their souls are giving, To seek the glamor in the halls of state. Here thy sons must seek an honest living, And service is the hall-mark of the great. Upon thy shores the sun of freedom playing Outshines the brilliant globoid in the sky; And every thrall for independence praying Upon thy smile of welcome must rely. O land of faith and freedom’s holy dower, That fate reserved for youth and purity, Imbue us all with manhood’s mighty power To meet unbowed each fell conspiracy! Yea, give us strength to soar each sacred hour To sunny peaks of love and charity, O land of faith and freedom’s holy dower That fate reserved for youth and purity! 1929 THE FORDING —Pall Olafsson— I stood aghast with awe indeed As angry forth the river sprang. It would devour my starving steed. Astang the floes beneath me sang. But vowing still to ford the flow, I fought the pack the current brought, Allowed my horse a “half a show.” O what’s a task if that is not? 1928 THE CALL —Hjalmar Jonsson— Friends are passing fast away, Fate’s insistent call obey. Perhaps I, too, am due today, With dented armor, shield aspley, A broken helmet, shattered sword and sins to pay. 1932 THINKING ALOUD —Hjalmar Jonsson— Full well I know the bang and boom Of bells that toll so near. Fast approaching Death and Doom Are dinning in my ear. Visions float in front of me For future contemplation. With dying eyes I dimly see The drama of creation. 1940 BIRDS IN A CAGE —H. Hafstein— O how it pains me through and through To think of the birds in cages, Torn away from the boundless blue, Its breath of life and the thrills they knew, And the fears that are freedom’s wages! Ye poor little playthings of Error! How plaintive your cry and your terror! Don’t flutter your wings, just sit and sigh. Insult them not by trying. The bars of the cage your claims defy; And could ye escape, the walls deny Any further attempt at flying. To those that have wings and a vision ’Tis weary to live in a prison. But minds that have always refused to fly, Unfaltering look, without anguish, On the free-born pent in a puny sty, In the pitch of life, till they mope and die —Condemned to their level to languish. Ye poor little playthings of Error, With your plaintive cry and your terror! 1929 JUST LIKE THE TENDER FLOWER —Hallgr. Petursson— Just like the tender flower That grows beside the way And greets the morning hour In nature’s bright array Before the reaper falleth To earth and withered lies, So, when the Angel calleth, Man, young or aged, dies. All men to higher forces Must answer soon or late. On life’s uncertain courses They meet the selfsame fate. And no one, poor or wealthy, Can buy a day’s reprieve. When summoned, weak or healthy Without delay must leave. To me, as to the sower, King Death, it seemeth plain, Is like the tireless mower Who cuts the standing grain. And roses, reeds and sedges Fall victims with the grass Before the sickle’s edges, Wherever he may pass. Mankind impatient races, Nor ever hesitates, Right into Death’s embraces. Beyond the grave awaits. The multitudes keep milling To one predestined goal; And all, both loath and willing, Must go—there’s no parole. For neither wealth nor station Can turn grim Death aside. No bribe nor supplication Can buy a single stride. All human power faileth His lifted hand to still. No prayer nor threat availeth Against his iron will. Men, ever dazed and fickle With doubt, are unaware How Death may swing his sickle, On whom or when or where. By one accustomed highway Into this life we come, But many a devious byway Appears to lead therefrom. Since Death all men arraigneth And marketh for his own, No sanguine hope remaineth He’d spare but me alone. And as we still inherit Old Adam’s native lust, I know I truly merit To be returned to dust. No right the mind espouseth Can make this life my own. The soul my body houseth Abides there as a loan. The Lord, whene’er He pleaseth, May claim His goods in fee; And Death, His servant, seizeth What hath been lent to me. Content in Jesus’ keeping With meekness I obey, Less worthy than the sleeping, Whose last remains are clay. Whene’er the call resoundeth, No strength nor pleas avail; But when the night surroundeth, My courage shall not fail. My Saviour now resideth Amongst the pure Above And in His wisdom guideth All things with perfect love. While ending death’s fell power He on the crosstree died, That I might from that hour For aye with Him abide. He conquered death by dying And set the spirit free. While on His strength relying No harm can come to me. Though deep in earth be hidden My bones, for timeless rest, My soul will bide unchidden In Heaven among the blest. Christ dwells with me each minute. In Him my trust I keep, Outside the house or in it, Awake or when asleep. Without Him hope were sterile And hollow in the strife. Through Him, in spite of peril, We gain eternal life. In Jesus’ name I’m biding; In Jesus’ name I’ll die. With Him my footsteps guiding No fate can terrify. So, Death, though I be near thee And foul has been my guilt, I say: “I do not fear thee. Come hail whene’er thou wilt!” 1954 THULE’S LAMENT (To her homing war sons) —St. G. Stephansson— My tongue a plaint composes, My heart compels a tear, On greeting you exhausted From the battle’s grim career, With broken shields and sabres With kindred blood asmear. A blessing high—without intent— Was rendered me by him, Who first disarmed my eager sons, Unscathed of heart and limb. Our friendly shores, at peace with all, No fears may since bedim. But thrice accursèd be the knaves My errant sons beguile To war, with blinded eyes, upon A neighbor’s domicile; As Hoth, with tragic innocence, Obeyed a tempter’s wile. About the graves of No-man’s-land May peace be with the slain; And may the stains of clotted gore Conceal the marks of Cain. But oh, to view the human wrecks That wander back again Repletes a mother’s pain! 1933 LONE PEAK —St. G. Stephansson— Lone Peak rears his bust to the beautiful sky, And the bulrushes gaze on astounded. The copsewood refuses to clamber so high And the creepers lose footing around it. And though the cold blasts ever beat without ruth On his brow, in the strife he engages, Unconquered he stands, as if courage and truth Were carved from the rock of the ages. 1924 NORTHERN LIGHTS —St. G. Stephansson— Gleaming through the gloaming, Geysers, wild, arising, Tip the rocks with tapers, Twos and more afusing. Lambent rays illumine Living bows aquiver. Rainbows, lined with lanterns, Light the way so brightly, ’Round the summits running Rills of golden spillings. Winter’s hand, in hundreds, Heaves the flares at even. Icy cones, like candles, Quicken till they flicker. Spangles thrown asprinkle Spray the night with daylight. Glossy reaches glisten, Glasslike, to the flashes Of the fireworks’ fury Far beyond the Arctic. 1930 ELOI LAMMA SABAHKTHANI —St. G. Stephansson— No horns were blown nor havoc made When He was in the Manger laid. No diary the date has shown; His day of birth is still unknown. And even yet our age is blind To excellence in humankind. But somewhere Nature’s twirling Tide Will tender payment, multiplied. His Time, we know, would not agree To name His anniversary, And let each current Christmas lay Acclaim, instead, the longer day. His catechism was common toil, His copy-book the living soil, Where nature, old, yet all abloom, In every knoll concealed a tomb Of poet, whom the people spurned, Or prophet, later stoned or burned; Where fathers broke each others’ bones, And builded sons memorial stones. Amid those scenes there came the call That comes to leaders, one and all: To mend the ills that cause decay And cure the blunders of the day. In whispers low the human flood Said “Here’s a prophet in the bud.” The mother-heart, that hoped and yearned, The hallmark on His brow discerned. He saw what ailed society. That sin was not impiety; Not penury that pinched the folk In part, nor yet the Roman yoke. He saw that narrow selfishness Was searing all our happiness; That the burden of each citizen Was saddled on by fellowmen— Men of craft and cruelty, Who clamored for servility; Who took on faith the favored guess That faking may beget success. He preached that human love, alone, Could lead the way to Heaven’s throne; That all our deepest wisdom went To waste, if lacking good intent. His text upon the profiteer And penny-slave had thin veneer; But every sinner found defence Whose fault was just incompetence. He charged a cankered ministry, With creed-enslaved mentality, Who fear the light and sell their soul For softer jobs and more control. O’er the crowd He cast a spell That charmed the groping infidel; For something in a soul divine Can serve a thought that words confine. And every truth His soul was sent He seemed to think self-evident; Forgetting that the mind of man Is multi-cosmopolitan. But how remiss the multitude His message found, He understood, When, after all His soul had sown, They sought for Him the local throne. For men believed that vision was The work of schools, alone, because Some brands, at least, were brought or sent In book-form to the ignorant. But she’s your own soul, eloquent With insight, hope and sentiment; Like his, who sat beside her door And served ten thousand years before. II To fail in building brotherhood Embittered Him upon the rood. It broke His heart of hearts to see How hopeless such a task would be. And His complaint upon the cross Comes pealing down the years to us, When Bigotry and blinded Hate About His standard congregate. III But evermore the gods beget, And gospel themes are written yet; And from the self-same source is hurled Each servant that improves the world. And there are always mighty men; And mundane culture, now and then, And Fancy’s bright, effulgent whole Are focused in a godly soul. But every martyr, man or saint, Has made in turn the same complaint: That when his heart and hope were spent The harvest seemed a punishment. That pain of mind the preacher draws Who pleads for better faiths and laws, And dies, with all his efforts banned, An outcast in his fatherland. And ’tis the leader’s lot to see His labors’ sad futility, When mankind, full of self-deceit, Keep signing up their own defeat. And the poet’s portion is To perish in the chrysalis, And carry to the bier, unborn, The budding visions of the morn. And even the peasant pioneer, Who plows the glebe beside the mere, Succumbs ere he, himself, can see His service to humanity. 1924 WHEN I WAS AN EDITOR —St. G. Stephansson— So maudlin, with pity and pathos I stood If someone who erred got the lashes; If hanged, I’d weep over the ashes. With vocal dispraise such injustice I viewed. But somehow as soon as the war-craze ensued, When slaughter en masse was the popular mood And corpses all over the planet were strewed, With dumb indecision I stood. For there was the problem of friendships and food —One’s sympathies nobody cashes. To dampen my conscience-clashes The cracks in my honor I artfully glued With unctuous lies that I hastily brewed —And cheered just as loud as I could. 1953 THE BROTHERS’ DESTINY —St. G. Stephansson— For ages the growth had been garnered. The ground was still blowing away. And closer and closer each farmer Had cut down the trees and the hay. Each tenant, in turn, that departed Had taken his pound since he started And timed the last take to the day. Each son that succeeded his elders Received a less fruitful estate. The longer the line of the fathers The less would the heritage rate. The last of the lot were two brothers To live on the desert the others Had looted and left to its fate. They blamed all their forebears and fathers For faithless and shameful neglect. On nostrums and needs they debated, But never agreed in effect. Yet faster than language could frame it, They felt that they had to reclaim it, Or flee from a region so wrecked. One brother, less sanguine, decided To search at the borders for gold. He deemed that there must be some metals In mountains so rugged and old. At night he had noted a glimmer, A nebulous kind of a shimmer, From underground treasures untold. The other one went on the warpath To wake up the glade and the field, To coax the young birch from the border And better the ground and the yield, To lure the tough ling up the highlands, To liven the pines on the dry-lands And sew up the sward till it healed. They parted; for pride and ambition So pull at the ties of the clan. No other enticements can answer When Honor has called to the man Who gears not his work to his wages, But wills the result to the ages And plans to improve what he can. As brothers they talked at the table And teamed at the games of the day. As foes on the commons they quarreled On questions of state, as we say. But always the better-fixed brother Would be the same friend to the other And share both his house and his hay. II In centuries progress is patterned And proved, not in days or in years; And visions that time found the truest Betoken which epoch endears. But always the people are proudest And play up their freedoms the loudest Whenever no author appears. Though both of the brothers have vanished And buried the story now lies, And none of the tales that are told us The text of their lives may comprise. The will and the work they expended To worthwhile improvements have tended And paths that would open the eyes. III In sooth there’s a fable or folklore Some few are repeating today That deep in the past when the people Were poorer and full of dismay, A skeleton bleaching and broken Had been to the finder a token That tempting rich treasures there lay. Who froze there in raiments so ragged The rock-slide alone could retell. One forearm, though brittle, still beckoned To breaks in the side of the fell. In frost-cracks that long had been littered The loadstones in particles glittered Like ghost-eyes agleam in a cell. And much of the precious metal The mob that came after had found; For Toil, ever tempted by profit, Kept tearing the wealth from the ground. The mountains, now mined to their bases, Were moved through the gaps in their faces And yielded up stores that astound. For profit the brother had blasted The boulders with weakening hands And torn from the treasures behind them Their time-honored rock-woven bands. And man set the mountains ashiver, To make them consent to deliver And bow to their master’s commands. And still ’mid the rocks and the ruins Men root for the glittering dross. They follow the rut like their rivals And reap but the toil and the loss. —It seems like the shade of the brother, Still shining, reveals to another The spectre of gold and its gloss. IV In Sundale’s new farmsteads, so fertile, By folks it’s remembered and told How gardens had built out their borders While birches grew stalwart and old. The barrens got fewer and fewer, The fatherland better and newer —A sight for the sons to behold! A tree in what once was the wasteland Keeps watch o’er the dale and the steeps, And under its shadow in silence ’Tis said that the brother now sleeps. A hillock near-hidden with flowers Is his, that envisioned these bowers And sealed up the sandpits for keeps. And people have faith in the forest That fondly has sheltered the one Who fostered the trees and the flowers And first of the tribe had begun To bid for more dews for the dry-lands, To drive the brave furze up the highlands And temper both shower and sun. The vessels our seamen are sailing Were sawn from the timbers at home, And proud of their part, as a symbol, They play it wherever they roam. From ports with the products of labor They ply to the marts of a neighbor Or sally afar o’er the foam. When summer returns on its cycle And sweeps out the cold and the snow, It seems that the brother’s own being Still bides in the soil that we hoe, —Like hope had been sown in the seedlands, His soul in the beautiful treed-lands, His mind in the grasses that grow. V We see in each fact, not the fable, As feebly we search and appraise, That law, if illucid, is stable And leaves but one prospect to face: To think not in hours, but in ages, At eve not to claim _all_ our wages, Will bring out the best in the race. Through sins that may seem to enfetter The sharp will instinctively learn To change what is best to a better In building the future we earn—. It isn’t today, with its dancing And dreams, but the art of advancing, That buys what the seers can discern. 1953 ARMISTICE (Written in 1915) —St. G. Stephansson— _Prologue_ Come, sing about the season Or something for the heart. Try not to rouse the reason Or rip the blinds apart. _Epilogue_ If reason fails to rule emotion, When running wild, just like the ocean, No man can tell what straws will stay it, What storms of life may turn or sway it; For in the hands of Ignorance It is the helpless butt of chance. * * * The shooting for the moment had abated, The sound of battle faded to a whisper. The dead and dying o’er the field enscattered, In no-man’s-land, prevented further action. So like a breastwork ’twixt the poisèd armies, The carrion wall restricted will and vision. Repellent unto both the feet and senses In random piles the human flesh was lying, Inert and maggoty or feebly crawling. A momentary truce had been agreed on The while the sappers dug the putrid masses. That done, as planned, the hard and bitter conflict Could be resumed with fresh and added vigor. Meanwhile about the chessboard of the nations The pawns, each on its spot, were idly resting. Across the gory space between the trenches, At normal pitch, the human voice could carry. * Beside a tattered tree-bole at the forefront A tired youth arose upon his haunches. All day through filth and blood he had been crawling Beneath a rain of lead and shrapnel flying. The long night through, uncovered in a shell-hole, In icy slush he’d lain with fear and shivered. Still sweet to his unhardened nerves and sinews Was this brief resurrection to the sunshine. * Across the gap a seasoned, greying trooper With cautious glances rose from out his crater. His clothes and shoes were wet and blood-bespattered. Though he himself was hale and still unwounded. There he had lain for days among the fallen, Protected by the mounds of dead around him. Beside him lay his son in death—the youngest— And on his right a life-time pal lay slaughtered. The stench of rotting flesh was in his nostrils And overhead the cloud of bursting shell-fire. To sit in peace and hang his feet in comfort Adown his hungry grave a fleeting moment To him was now a privilege and pleasure. * The soldier boy that faced him in the open— The enemy, the hated foreign terror, Who surely had so lately tried to kill him And may have sent the hot and deadly bullet That killed his son—he now accosted gaily As one enmeshed without intent or purpose In lamentable deeds that both detested. * “Good day to you!” he said in accents kindly And, strangely, spoke the language of the other. “To both of us this lull is welcome, comrade.” The mother tongue that brought so kind a greeting To him, so lately torn by fear and hatred, Assuaged the feelings like a benediction. The very lameness of the words as uttered By one whose tongue had clearly been accustomed To other tones and phrases, while assuring, An added tinge of kindliness imparted— As when a child with diligence is trying To copy well the diction of its elders. * “Good luck to you!” the puzzled youth responded. “An erstwhile foe, I greet you for the moment As father.” * “Then a son ’twere meet to call you, Since you now deign to speak of me as father, Though yet I cannot as a son consider Another one but him who lies beside me, A corpse now in our mutual grave untended. That is no sign of enmity or hatred Between us two.” * “The while the lull continues, To him who has so long and well defended His fatherland, in spite of age, the stripling Can bow, and unashamed converse with honor.” * “My years do not deserve this adulation. I never owned a foot of my fair country. Another reason sent me forth to battle. For ages all my kin were serfs and tenants Without domain. A haughty native chieftain Deprived us of our goods and lands and houses And gave them as a present to a crony To hold in fee forever. So the story Is told by those who to their sorrow know it. Of one thing I am certain: that my master In peace and quiet dwells within his castle While I and mine for him like this are dying. No doubt you own a home that needs protection?” * “A house and home? No, I live in a city And am for sale from day to day to masters Who set the rates of pay, decide the hours And own the tools, the shops and vacant spaces. Perhaps you, father, joined the fray with ardor Because you people are so proud and warlike, With none to speak for peace and mediation, As ours have done. My nation has so many Who counsel peace and often sing its praises. They even lend some dollars to preserve it.” * “No, I’m not here because our propaganda For peace was less than yours in pitch or phrasing. We were the first of all, if you remember, To get the Nobel Prize, so highly valued. And yet we shot, as if he were a felon, The one who tried to stop this Armageddon! The rich, grown famous for their great possessions, As death approached vied blindly with each other To hang upon ‘The Tree of Peace,’ with unction, Their hats, packed full of bonds against the public, That one last decent gesture might engloss them And save their hated names from due oblivion. But now again they have reversed the verdict And term this war a necessary evil. ‘A war to end all wars’ they glibly name it And thus attest their will to peace and freedom. Perchance the tongues of peace among your people Are not so prone to double-talk and shamming?” * “Your spokesmen were, it seems then, like our poets Who sang to us for half an age in concert Of peace on earth, of charity and friendship, Like Christian men: then gladly took to screaming The martial anthems, each in his best measure, As quickly as the first loud cannon sounded, Until the farthest outposts of the nations In answer rumbled forth. Old politicians Who long had been advising strife and conquest, In discord with the attitude prevailing, Were scarcely heard above the spate that followed, And stopped—perhaps to listen in, delighted. An old and faithful comrade in our country Through all his life had led the dumb providers, Demanding for the dispossessed and homeless A modicum of fare and peace and freedom. The butt of hate and harm from all the mighty, In weal or woe he bore the flaming banner Of peace and justice for the ragged masses. With tongue and pen and faith he fought this madness, While we, his wards, opposed him in the struggle. We shook our knotty toiler-hands in anger, Commanding him, our leader, to be silent. That vile betrayal broke his heart and courage; And now a wreck, bereft of hope and reason, He roams alone, awaiting his last summons. We hear that all the ancient holy churches That graced your spacious land in bygone ages Have lost their hold upon the teeming masses: That heathendom among you now is rampant. Perhaps that evil wave has caught you, father, And forced you, though unwilling, into battle?” * “No, it was neither heathendom nor weakness Within our holy church that drove me hither. The Christian and the skeptic are united About this new crusade, and stand together. Our preachers are, as one, devoutly praying For more and better weapons for the nations— Among the lot my own revered confessor, Who had for fifty years at every Yuletide Announced in many oily words of welcome The Prince of Peace—the while there was no fighting But when the din of warfare shook the welkin, He blessed the favored signal from the pulpit. With grave resolve he opened up the Scriptures To prove that he who would not shoulder musket With smart goodwill, for God and for the chosen, Had sadly misinterpreted the Gospel And fallen prey to blind and heathen thinking. Conversely, maybe, in your land the clergy And church—no doubt as powerful as ours is— Have prayed for peace and deprecated warfare?” * “Not so! Our church in every phase and manner Resembles yours, and many a leading shepherd Who taught the members all the Christian virtues, Himself has fallen on the field of battle. We hear that even our new peerless leader, The head of church and state in our great empire, Has carried high before the gathered army The sacred icon of our true religion, Thus dedicating all the battle forces To war, and to our new-found god—to Woden. The very infidels of old, the godless, Are flocking to the chapels and repenting. As throngs refill our erstwhile empty churches, Revival and reform are in the offing. Are you perhaps engaged in this fell struggle To re-instate a creed that has been dying?” * “The Church has called and duly consecrated Our cause, like yours. To me it has no meaning. A frenzied call to service and repentance Has left me cold. What profit to abandon The token peace and brotherhood prevailing, And then revert to former faiths and customs, That through the painful centuries have given The civilizing methods and the culture To which this grim and bloody field bears witness? Results are facts. They never have been clearer. I went to school, in line with laws and custom, And learned the academic art of killing. To me that training meant but little, comrade, Since slaying was a branch of civic duty. Soon war was kindled up and I conscripted. Had I refused I would have been arrested, Condemned to die as if I were a traitor And shot at dawn—a lesson to the people. There were some young to feed. I had to struggle In their behalf. A war is fraught with dangers; But there, with luck, a wound may not be fatal; The gun squad’s is. The odds decided for me. A yeoman in a land without conscription, No doubt you went to war with slight coercion?” * “My part as soldier in the forces, father, Resembles yours. Before the war had started A wave of deep unrest and strikes impended. While men in droves were destitute and idle And millions starved, the goods in stores were rotting. Distress was said to stem from lack of money And blamed, we heard, on overmuch production. The rulers and their wealthy friends together Had long ago devised a fit solution: A larger mortgage load upon the people In loans and bonds was called for, thus enslaving The unborn too, through all the coming ages, To pay the magic, self-renewing profit. Dire poverty within a world of plenty Has now become the major cause of warfare. But few there were who foresaw all the horror! When keyed to war and all it meant, the nation Ignored the need for civic rights and welfare— The work and wages that sustain the masses. The owners stopped production for the people And offered half a wage to all the healthy And young who would enlist and join the army To save the fatherland. The state would feed them. For me it was the practical solution, That I might eat and help to feed my mother, Who is a widow from a former bloodbath. My father, true, was only gravely wounded And lingered for a time, in bed and helpless. When I had grown to boyhood, fit to labor, The pension he had drawn was discontinued. The taxes were a cause of much complaining, And here the masters spied a chance for saving. They were convinced that I could earn the wherewith For our support. The solemn promise given To us, and many another, could be broken. But now again while I’m alive and fighting The state allots a stipend to my mother. As long as there are many thousands wanted Who seek this livelihood, through need and pressure, ’Tis well to pay at first with grace and honor. By those, unfit, who stay behind unchallenged, The youth who never volunteered for service Is shunned and often openly insulted— A slam that very few defy undaunted. Through economic need and fear I’ve fought you. You shoot at me because your laws compel it. The cases match, except that your dictator Is said to have provoked the tragic crisis.” * “Nor am I in this mess because last August A countryman of mine was seized with panic And shot a noted duke. The cause lies deeper. A while ago you named a truer reason For all this long and murderous disaster. The people, after long and painful thinking About their plight, in spite of toil and pinching, Suspected there was something topsy-turvy. The doubting spread and all the props of power Began to tremble o’er the gloomy prospect. And so they planned—the native and the foreign, Who always stand together for survival— A remedy to still the bitter grumbling. A nation locked in struggle with another Forgets in time her daily civic worries. The tyrant changes, in her twisted thinking, From foe to friend, her hero and defender. The super-nation blather, as a fillip To those who want to rule, is also useful. The rivalry to shape the varied peoples In thought and action to their own, regardless— Albeit only for the passing moment— Affords a breathing spell for further planning. The culture in the world of man, emerging, Can only stem from brave, unfettered thinking In divers lands, that often clash and differ. Like this, from childhood, I have found it, comrade. You could, I fancy, tell the selfsame story.” * “Indeed I could. But in the press and pulpit We call it something else: to guard our freedom! I well remember when our stolid thousands In uniform were mustered, due for action, The mayor said: ‘’Tis well you have, my heroes, Some more important aims and things to ponder Than wages and the worries of the masses. The war confers on us a signal blessing.’ And I recall that leaders from the city Behind the lines took time and leave to travel, For rest and pleasure, to the front in numbers If, thanks to luck, the shelling had abated. They praised us and inquired if we had wishes That could be met. No boon would be too costly For us, the brave. But we were all reluctant To hurt the feelings of these kindly masters By asking for the one thing they were neither Empowered nor inclined so soon to grant us: A world at peace; an end to all this killing. And then one day, when we were busy clearing The gory field, like now, the same old question Was asked by groups that came again to visit. Our doctor is a kind and clever surgeon Who binds our wounds with patient care in silence. But when he heard the oft-repeated question He said with heat: ‘Since you are bent on helping, Roll up your sleeves, pick up a spade or shovel And go to work, to dig these rotting corpses. We need the rest. The time allowed us presses.’ How fast it worked! The patriots in a twinkling Were gone—and have not since returned to cheer us. I do believe that could you witness, father, How, come what may, we spare our sick and wounded, It would amaze you how, against such numbers, We often stood our ground with pluck and honor. It’s not so hard to show unbounded courage When victory, through greater strength, is certain.” * “I care not for the victory you speak of. A state that wins is not for long the victor. The vanquished, glum and restive, live for vengeance And prosper on the sweet anticipation. And soon or late the victor in his triumph Will fall a victim to the snare it bought him. When Rome had spent herself in winning battles And lost, the while, the flower of her manhood, The slaves and misfits left to reap the glory Had neither wit nor will to save the pieces. Just such a fate awaits our own successes. My will in such a storm is but a plaything That’s blown about without intent or meaning. What help or sense, for instance, is in curing Our wounds and sending us again to battle, To be the target for another missile? Such kindness is a blind and cruel error That just prolongs our pain—or so we found it.” * “Without much thought I, too, have wondered, father, About the very things that you have mentioned. It touched my feelings rather than my reason, But I can now perceive what you complain of. When we were promised, as is now the custom, Security and peace for all this turmoil, The pride of states, together with the boasting, Outran the will and power of fulfilment. And as I saw the afterbirth of action— The thousands dead and maimed among the ruins— It struck me that our masters, in their panic, Had led us, with scant feeling, into error; That they had, willing, when it came to choices, Brought home to us the pattern of their Congos. But as I knew such thoughts were labeled treason, I ‘passed the buck’ and harbored them in silence. Not long ago I, too, lay sorely wounded And suffered much; but kindly care and science Nursed back to life and strength my ailing body. I hailed with joy my growing health and vigor, Unmindful of the fate that might await me. And yet it was a shock to me what happened The very day they said I would recover And sent me back to harden in the trenches. Upon the bed I rose from, in my presence, They placed another gravely wounded soldier Who seemed near death, so wracked with pain and worry. To cheer him up the doctor said with feeling: ‘A month or two and I will have you mended. Just look! and—pointing at me—see your comrade! A while ago he was as dead as you are, And now you see him just as good as ever And on his way again to join the fighting.’ With this he meant to brace the gloomy patient. But, strange to say, the lad rose up in anger And said; ‘No, never, knave! will I permit you To cure me for the battlefield and trenches, To suffer endless thirst and fear and torture. Much rather will I die here at your pleasure, Whatever method you may choose to end me, With drug or knife. So do your worst, and welcome!’ With startled feelings at his words, I pondered A fleeting spell, and fled with haste unseemly To hear no more. Of course the man was raving —And yet I shuddered at the sense he uttered! Like ours, no doubt, it is your consolation That this great conflict, global and exhaustive, Will be the final military struggle. For when it stops, a wave of peace ensuing Will spread, ’tis thought, from pole to pole unbroken. The fight today, they say, will speed that era. Our side has banished freedom to acquire it, And you resist because your faith is lagging.” * “Do we, the dupes who have no votes nor voices To shape our lives according to our wishes, With tooth and claw contend with one another About our right to live in peace and freedom? Such dumb obedience to mobs and masters Has made us into beasts and cannon-fodder. The meek are often kicked from post to pillar. Are we not both, without our own approval, Sent hither by our self-appointed masters? To both they give the very same assignment; The difference only how the ranks are facing. Within, I know, we had been contemplating A life of peace. But tired now and older We are too spent to think about it longer. But what of youth, the brave and enterprising, Who faced with hope a long and pleasant future? Killed off! In heaps star-scattered ’round the trenches! And so the coming epoch will be peopled By aged duds and self-centred wretches. The peace—if peace will come to those now living— Will be the peace of impotence and error: A truce that swims in failures and lost causes. For such a life the payment is excessive! In times gone by the diplomats of nations Spoke each to each in soft and honeyed phrases. They practised well the subtle art of talking With tongue in cheek, and drafting fake agreements. Today with every crime they charge each other, The daily papers burn with accusations And all the great and wise have joined the wrangling. It could be lucky for the lesser nations That stand apart from all the strife and fury, If all the powers left them uninvaded— To prove each other base and wilful liars, When charging that they harbor such intentions. Could you have, son, refrained, if you had chosen, From fighting me, since you possessed the power And also were convinced you had to conquer? My actions were not voluntary either. For even peace-time rivals to each other Will pledge our goods and lives in every crisis. Behind the scenes they hide their vile collusion Until they start to fight about the booty. The citizens, who dream about their freedom, Are sold in bulk to serve abroad whenever It suits the whim or will of either tyrant.” * “Thus we have likewise often found it, father. Our allies seem at times to be unwilling To die like flies on foreign soil embattled. In spite of claims, we know they lack the fire That drives the man defending home and country. We know they feel, down deep within their being, That they were tricked into the sorry bargain. Still we believe that all the world’s best culture, As represented by the side we favor, By crafty foes is threatened with extinction And stands undaunted fighting for survival. Your side has seldom been the first to forward The aims of man, or do the pioneering In this our age of science and invention. A stagnant world of famine and depression Would be our sorry lot if you should triumph, And all the gains of ages would be cancelled. You have aspired to total domination, And in your haste forgot to build your fences. In lands like yours it never could be easy To see the many aims and undercurrents That ebb and flow in ever-growing volume Beneath the surface of the war-psychosis.” * “Quite true. I lack the knack and native talent To scan the value of each rumor-story. My purview has indeed a small horizon. I well remember, though, that in my homeland The people bled for thirty years profusely. The reason was perhaps of little moment; The question only: whether it were proper To seek for God with methods of the reason Or let our preachers douse the public conscience With dope and holy-water disinfectant. And now there is another church accepted, Much richer and if possible more vicious In aim and content than the Roman species. Between the two the policies are fashioned. With reason misapplied, the toiling public Is kept in want while merchant kings are fighting Amongst themselves about the dwindling markets In backward, needy, undeveloped regions, To feed their parasites and spineless stooges. The wars pertain to commerce, not to freedom. Our culture and our much-admired inventions, Applied by misfits in a planless era, Instead of blessing us with peace and plenty, Have brought the sorry mess we see about us. And will perhaps the destiny of mankind, With all its pride, at last be self-destruction? Will men persist in planning and producing Machines of death from which there’s no escaping, By either side, with victory or honor? Or will they be compelled to stop, exhausted, Beneath the weight of their own machinations? Has not your nation, proud and often envied, Pursued this course and more than any other Induced the rest, the more reserved and timid, To emulate and follow her example? Regardless though of where the blame attaches, Perhaps this spate of blood will break our fetters.” * “That thought reminds me of a thing that happened The other day, when we were caught short-handed Defending our prize military weapon From capture by your overwhelming forces. ‘Big Bertha’ was our greatest, most effective Machine of death constructed since creation. Against the onslaught of your teeming numbers Our choice was flight, or mass annihilation. Our captain, raving mad, in desperation Sent wave on wave in vain into the battle. Though head to heel our fighters fell in layers He grimly drove them on without compunction. But when your bandits broke our last battalion And blew the ‘wonder’ into bits and pieces Our doughty captain wept just like a baby. Though hard repressed like other sons of peasants You, father, may have dreamt of fame and fortune And felt that you were born to be a leader. You may have thought the arts of war the answer. To youth the stories of our war-famed heroes Are captivating tales, not soon forgotten.” * “Win fame through war!—for us the pawns, so puny, Whom hidden hands that play the game for profit Can move and sacrifice in flocks at pleasure? The masters even sell their valued key-men Upon the board of play, if in the long run The strategy will trap—in their opinion— The other side, and mate it at the finish. They send us forth to certain death as decoys. A herd of sheep, in essence, we are gathered And driven in a body to the barracks, Not knowing which are to be shorn or slaughtered. Nor do the owners care which strain or portion Is left alive to forage through the winter. The metal cross and other gaudy baubles By accident may hit, just like the bullet. In former ages gallantry and courage Were personal and sacred to the hero, A trait by friend and foe alike admitted. The fame he earned, attacking or defending, Was his by right, to relish and remember. The fighters met each other in the open, Both wild and free, and strength and skill were noted. The killers now are unseen lethal agents, Like epidemics sweeping through the nations.” * “Undoubtedly the glittering adventures Are gone from wars that men today are waging. Yet I can tell a simple tale of valor About a youth back home who had resisted The call to arms and disobeyed the masters. Cajoled and threatened, pleaded with and pestered, Despised and shunned and said to stain and blacken The honored name of brave and loyal fathers, A craven renegade afraid of dying, He steadfastly refused to join the army. But then one day, as fateful luck would have it, We learned that one of your advance divisions Had pierced our lines without intent or orders And would escape unless we could surround it. The strange terrain was rugged and uncharted, So we engaged this youth to lead our columns The best and quickest way. He knew the lay-out. But after hours of hard and weary going Our captain, now suspicious, took his rifle And, aiming at the youth who faced him, thundered: ‘Unless we reach our goal within the hour, I’ll shoot you like a dog! Now, laggard, hurry!’ The boy looked at the gun and, smiling, answered: ‘Too late! I cannot now, sir, take your offer. You never will hereafter find your quarry. I’ve led you far astray with tact and purpose To save some lives, if only for the moment, For mine—and now you, sir, may shoot, and welcome!’ A score of rifles spoke and tore to tatters The gallant youth. And there in peace they left him. A short time later, when I told the story To one who had been captured from your forces— We both were in the mood for reminiscing About the things that happen in the armies— He thought a while and then burst out in laughter. ‘O now at last,’ he said, ‘I know the reason Why Falkenheyn so quickly was promoted! His title, that of general, was given For skill and forethought in that great withdrawal— He was the officer in that adventure—. They soon bedecked his breast with stars and crosses, Although he modestly objected, saying That he was not entitled to the glory: The march had been his normal speed of movement! The modesty shown by the old commander Was much acclaimed. His deep reserve and candor Was known and counted on throughout the nation. Appearances would indicate, I fancy, That he would be the last of all our leaders To want the doubtful symbol of distinction Required to wear that lie as decoration If he could know to whom the signal honor Belonged—to wit: your boy, the brave dissenter.’ Do you believe, as I do also, father, That when this senseless slaughter will be ended The ghosts of many such, among the ruins, Will stand revealed to many eyes now blinded— That, rising from this rank abomination, The wrongs unveiled will shame us into thinking? Perhaps by reason of this cloud of hatred The little nations standing by as neutrals— But reaping none-the-less their share of losses— May profit through the over-all disaster.” * “What state is neutral, son, when powers wrangle? Have we not published to the whole of mankind— To our own glory and the foe’s discomfort— That we can keep the costly warfare going From year to year on end, without impairing Our goods and lands? The profit from investments Abroad, so long pursued, will pay the piper. What land is neutral, since the scattered peoples Co-operate in paying for the business? Of course you also tap the selfsame sources To meet the bill. The world at large pays tribute To both of us, as agents in the wrecking. If any nation sitting on the sidelines Could still so shape her course that all the flower Of her young people would escape the slaughter, Her culture might survive. She might adventure To build anew—and maybe earn a future. The only key to that desired condition Is just the will to see the silver lining In centuries to come—and fortify it With faith and deeds, in spite of other outlook. Events instil into the major powers The craze for war. Its high proponents gaily Direct the moves. They welcome every error That leads to civic strife among the classes And use the fears and turmoil as a pretext To arm the state, in readiness for action. The ones who set the world aflame so foully Use every ruse to win and gain as allies The states that are attempting to be neutral. They promise, press, decry, appeal and threaten —As they have need—assistance or destruction. With more ill-will than quoted in the Scriptures About the rich man, groaning in his torment, Who wished to warn and save his friends and brothers From such a cruel fate as he had suffered, They want to plunge the world to death and ruin. The story of the rich man may be garbled, But never in the hell of human warfare Has there been any sign of love or kindness. And what has been the fate of faithful leaders, The few who would not break their solemn pledges For peace, and gamely stood by their convictions? One simply falls a prey to the assassin. Another is maligned among his fellows And duly charged with treason and convicted. A third, gone mad, avoided and abandoned, With aimless tread is hobbling to oblivion. The Roman prince himself who rules, on paper, Complaining says: ‘Behold the man, ye judges!’ We weep and pray for those who die in battle, The martyrs who are through with pain and worry. But all the hate and misery remaining Are more entitled to our aid and pity. At times one hopeful thought has made me wonder; If all this murder-lust among the nations Would strike at every household under Heaven And slay a husband, father, son or brother— With Sorrow breaking in through every doorway And sitting, most unwelcome, there forever— The common loss might unify the victims And make them feel anew their ties of kinship, The sharpest tongue of truth is our experience. But first we both must die, and many another. —And now I see the field is being readied!” * “Our rest, in truth, is almost finished, father. The dead no more obstruct the line of vision. But I forgot that in my little knapsack I have some food. For though I felt some hunger, The things you’ve said have held me so attentive That I forgot. But now I shall be eating.” * “A minute, son, just while I change my posture! It isn’t good for me to see your dainties.” * “Here, catch this morsel! You have long been starving. I well can do without until the evening. Look, father! I have thrown the parcel over.” “No, eat it, son; for you are also hungry.” * “That may be true, but I have lost the feeling. I now recall that you have lain there famished For many days and nights and held your crater Against our fire, while we have alternated For sleep and rest and now and then a mouthful.” * “For all your native kindness shown, I thank you! That it survives—at least among the privates, The mob—here in this filthy cess of hatreds, Gives hope. But as for me, it matters little What comes or goes. The end, I ween, approaches. I dared not, laddie, look upon you eating. The wolf of hunger in an empty stomach, So tempted under arms, could not be trusted. Determined not to harm you, with intention, I asked for leave to turn, the while you feasted.” * “Our momentary time of truce is ended. I hear our trumpets calling loud for action.” * “Our drums are droning orders for resistance!” * “Beware! My hand is on the weapon, father.” * “Then welcome, son, into the grave here with me!” 1953 THE NORTHERN LIGHTS —Einar Benediktsson— Has man ever gazed on a grander sight Than the gods’ high realm in a blaze of glory, Resplendent with torches in tier and storey? —What toper could revel on such a night? Like a maiden the earth is without a blight In its alban kirtle of frosted roses. Each granule of sand is a cinder, bright. Ensilvered the winding brooklet dozes. The Arctic at night is alustre with light That the living aurora imposes. From the highest plane to the sombre sea The scene is enacted without a shutter. Each sylph asplutter with flounce a-flutter Is falling and rising in ecstasy. Some hand with its fingers of filigree The fiery ocean of ether splashes. From here below to the life-to-be We look amazed while the drama flashes. And the glaciers on high are agaze with each eye That gleams in their crystal sashes. In the light of that wonder our problems appear So petty and mean that they vanish unbidden. Though roughly I’m chidden my rancor is hidden; At rest with the masses, no slight can sear, For the vaulting above is so bright and clear. Each blazing star is a magic pinion. It lifts our hopes to a higher sphere, Where Heaven recharges each lowly minion. We are sensing tonight and asserting our right As servants in Light’s dominion. How vast is the infinite ocean of space And eerie the barks that its waters are plying! Each skipper on high to a haven is flying, Whether he veers or goes onward apace. But blind is the urge that the eye obeys And the author his light in the dark composes. With bended knees and a burning face We bide at the wall the temple encloses. But into the garden the gateway is barred, And God in His sanctum reposes. 1925 A FOG AT SEA —E. Benediktsson— Above the ocean, formless, huge and hollow, The heightless void my dusky barque surrounds. No vista greets the eye; no song of swallow The silence breaks, as night the day impounds. The lazy air its bated breath is holding. About me lies, without a sign of molding, The nameless highway that the nations follow. As if a shadow-hood on high were trailing From heaven’s rim, the darkening west returns The lowering cloud, that, calmly ’round me sailing. In creeping, ghostly fog the sea interns; While dark of mien, with dripping hair and bosom, The “daughter of the atmosphere,” so gruesome, With clammy fingers fondles deck and railing. The halting boat its head is calmly rolling And holds its dripping neck above the waves. Alarum bells in warning tones are tolling. A tireless eye of light the darkness braves. The sail to yard, like cloak to arm, is clinging, A cloudy breath the wheezy stack is flinging. Abaft you feel the spurs the speed controlling. The thick and woolly fog that fills the alleys A fearful monster places everywhere. The crew resembles giants from the galleys, The genial swain a troll, the dog a bear. And towering in the mist the mast is fading. The mainsail, spar and boom in haze are wading, While snowy crests divide the water-valleys. Around the ship no fish nor fowl is wending. No fitful sounds a living thing reveal. The yeast beneath the prow no life is lending. The lifeless words upon the tongue congeal. But no restraint can tame the trackless ocean; Between two worlds the billows are in motion. And Hoth of Storms again his bow is bending. Below the clouds a saving gleam presages A sunny welcome, though the fog rebels. The course a magic finger guides and gauges. A giant arm of steel the boat propels. Afar, we know, the land of Leif is biding, Whose lovely maiden name the Fates are hiding —A day-bright world of dead, forgotten ages. 1930 MY MOTHER —E. Benediktsson— Mother, I’ve sailed o’er the seas afoam. To southward the lands are fading. A scarf for my isle with the icy dome The afterglow is braiding. At last my ship is heading for home. My heart is the bill of lading. From stolid crowds that the streets infest I steer for thy spires so conely. I find no men where the mobs congest, Nor music in noises only; But he is the welcome and willing guest Who visits himself when lonely. Abroad in the storm and the times that try Thy truths with my heart were pleading. I dreamt of the past, when I played thee nigh, And peacefully thou wert reading. If seas were calm or the surf ran high My soul on the dream was feeding. At every step along Bifrost burned A beacon our minds erected. From thee, with pleasure and love, I learned The language our isle protected; For that’s where the gods, in trust, interned Each tone that a thought affected. We heard in the lilt of her lullabies The language our fancy teaches And the ages honed from its hardy guise, ’Mid hills and on sandy reaches. From nature’s morning to reason’s rise It wrote on the manless beaches. The rhymes I loved and the lullabies, Though lost, with my dreams are blending. A mountain swan, in my fancy, flies Afar, with his song unending. And a mother stands by the ocean-ice, Her arms to her son extending. Aloft the wings of thy faith have flown Where the frosted rose was lying. The swell of thy first young force was thrown When Fate each heart was trying. —No keener pain in my soul was sown Than to see that thy hopes were dying. Whenever I flee with a fallen crest Thy faith new courage giveth. The burdens lift at thy hope’s behest. Thy hardy spirit liveth. And thine, on the earth, is the only breast That all my sins forgiveth. Wherever my ship on the billows swung, In search of a deeper learning, Unmarred forever thy image clung And into my soul was burning. Thou placed my hand on thy harp, bestrung, When my heart for the muse was yearning. Thy life and the songs that my soul regaled Are seas that the minds are laving. Mother, my lines that so long had failed At last on thy shield are graven— The reason I boarded, the reason I sailed, The reason I’m back to the haven. 1930 UNDER THE STARS —E. Benediktsson— Bright the silvery sands are gleaming. Souls renew their waning might. Sleepy reefs and dunes are dreaming. Dance the sylphs, with torches beaming. Fast propelled, a ship in sight Sweeps into the magic night. Softly ’round its sides are leaping Silver-crested billows, weeping. Even the deep is dumb tonight; Death his secret thoughts is keeping. Glorious scene! A silver spire Sits upon a granite bar. Earth beneath a nameless fire Kneels to wonders that inspire. Greetings pass from star to star; Steep in dreams the glinty spar. Forth amain the mind is faring. Many a soul above is staring. Fateful, sizzling suns afar Silent wonder-hosts are snaring. Through my soul each suasive hour Seas and light my being claim. I can feel a phantom power— Former ages’ sacred dower. Mystic laws from lights aflame Lead us on to joy or shame. Magic strength from starry spaces, Streaming through our hearts, amazes. All our glowing future fame From the skyey splendor blazes. Show me life—and let me share it. Lock each realm the stars forsake. Give me strife, and strength to bear it, Star of Hope, my queen of merit! Grant my heart a higher stake, High enough to make or break. Soon athwart the sylph’s caprices Surly Fate her skein releases. Life’s a chess; you lose or take. The lead is mine—arrange the pieces. 1930 THE SHEPHERD’S ADVENTURE —E. Benediktsson— At dusk the sun with its deepest blushes Adorns the West. Whenever love is aroused it rushes And runs amuck to an unlike breast, Like a storm afield, or a flood that gushes From fell to the sea, and rest. Thus even the magnet in order places Each atom small, That, drawn to a certain centre, races, With swift delight in the ranks to fall— Where pole, enravished, its pole embraces, Impelled by its inmost call. He was the shade at the sunset hour And she the bright. Like flavors that mingle the sweet and sour, She took the darkness and he the light— A picture of melody’s mighty power, When meekness and strength unite. About the shepherd with soft oppression The sweet night played. Dark as his eye with its deep confession It draped in shadow the snowy maid. Though young and tender his powerful passion The pulse of his heart obeyed. Each steely mite with a motive burning The magnet sways, Till every secret desire is turning To serve the will of its focal blaze. But after the magnet gives out the yearning Is over—and Nature pays. They met in the grip of the magnet’s power A moment’s space, As night may blend with a cinder shower And sear the mind with a charm that stays —With her like a wraith from its hidden bower; With him like a starry blaze. 1931 A SUNDAY AT MOSSFELL —E. Benediktsson— At Mossfell parish, the people say, The pastor was known to have gone astray, A prey to his pound of weakness. He drank, but he sidled through Satan’s traps. His soul was clean, not his vesture wraps. He served his God—though he sinned perhaps— Sincere, with a heart of meekness. It came on a sunny Sabbath day, When some of the flock had come to pray And he on his bed lay bibbing. He was the leader, and lay unfit! He looked through the window and smiled a bit— His flagon of wine at his face, to-wit; His feet on the surplice-ribbing. “Sunshine! The call of the church is high. The cocks in the hayfield are turning dry,” He said, with a shammed elation. He spoke to the flask with its flashing wine, “O fountain of pleasure and curse divine!” Then turned on his pillow and took a stein —His tempter and consolation. He heard a rumble that rent the air, Of running horses that, pair on pair, Were coming, and coming faster. His helpmate stood with a whit’ning cheek. “The high and mighty from Reykjavik” She whispered, and ran like at hide and seek With the homespun togs of the pastor. “Brush up the cassock and bid them in.” He bit his lip, and he placed his chin In the cup of his hand, so hollowed. He sighed in his anguish, but said no word. A simple prayer in his bosom stirred. “High-noon” rose from the restless herd. A ring from the steeple followed. He grasped the hand of his worthy wife— The witness and proof of their bygone life— As she brought him his frock, so faded. They stood for a moment eye to eye. “My innate powers are just as high,” He said, “I will stand though the storm is nigh. The struggle is mine, unaided.” They came in their triumph, ten abreast, His temporal peers and the church’s best, The country’s pride and power. Sternly and brusquely the bishop spoke: “I’ll break this fraud with a single stroke; The name of the Crown and the Church invoke. Thy cloak shall be off in an hour.” Said the pastor: “Be welcome, ye mighty men.” His manner was proud as he faced the ten Firmly, yet free from rancor. And then to each separate soul said he: “I see no power to fear in thee; Nor shalt thou, bishop, embarrass me— Above is my fear, and anchor.” The bishop raged as he rose to his feet: “The rector is drunk and is full of conceit, A sinful and grave transgression. The service is faulty, the Synod defied, The sexton is waiting, a case to be tried.” “Stand back,” said the pastor and brushed them aside. “Here, bishop, I lead the procession.” With mangled faith, yet hope in her heart, The housewife looked for a seat apart, The end of it all surmising. His name was soiled with their kin and kith. Their costly gains were a trampled myth. —But his voice rang out with power and pith, And proudly her head was rising. “Ye would drive and harry the weak to the wall, The worn and tottering ones till they fall, And break the reed that is bending. Ye, men of honor and craft, accuse. Ye come to judge what the base traduce. But One is kind. He has called a truce. We come with an equal standing. “My church is a lowly and simple shrine; But souls that come in their pride to shine Still live in a pauper-prison. And worldly peers in their wild conceit, Who worship two, serve their own defeat. To God there is nothing in man so meet As meekness and deep contrition. “Who answers the prayers of the poor with scorn? Who places the blame on the weak and torn? Who stones, if the steadfast waver? And whose is the poisoned hand, so strong? Whose hopes are based on the deepest wrong? Yea, where is our court? On the hypocrite’s tongue, —The hound’s that the rabble favor. “I sip, it is true, and I break the ban. I beg for no mercy. Ye look at a man Who drank, to his shame and sorrow. But under its magic I often stole An echo that chimed with the people’s soul. They come in peace with their punch and bowl —And I pay to God what I borrow. “For then I know they are frank and free. They feel my weakness and bear with me. I find they are friends, if earthy. But thou hast the parvenu’s plain conceit; A painless rock where a heart should beat. Thy office is known to the oaf in the street —But art thou, that holds it, worthy? “The pathway of Error is often hard And each retreat of our duty barred On sin’s unholy highways. But surely the meek for their sins atone. For something was grief in pleasure sown. And so in the end will be overthrown The evils that lurk in the by-ways. “When summoned to pay for each pound I spent And I peacefully fold up my spirit’s tent, The lowest of all the lowly, I feel that whatever defence is read By friends, in pleading, it will be said For words and thoughts that were dumb and dead In the dens of the rich and holy.” They winced; for they knew that he told the truth. He talked his mind without stint or ruth. He faced them with force and candor. He spoke to all, but each numskull knew What knaves he meant, and imposters too, Who sully the courts and the church undo With cunning, to which they pander. He struck at vice in its stealthy nook. He stood, himself, like an open book. His sins in the sunlight glistened. Then he bowed his soul in a sinner’s prayer. They say that a tear glowed here and there. His sermon was not a formal affair, But it found each heart that listened. Here was a man in a beggarly byre, Who burned within with a godly fire, So far from a pawn to pity. His wondrous power had tamed the ten, Who turned their steeds to the road again —And it was a party of modest men That mosied back to the city. 1930 SNOWLA —E. Benediktsson— Among the pearls of maidenhood Quite many to my heart appealed. But Fate to me but once revealed A Venus made of flesh and blood. To praise her build, her beauty laud, Would be the height of arrogance. But I can view in one swift glance The wondrous miracle of God. Her voice is like a lullaby Of love that hugs the trembling strings. Her merry laugh with music rings. With metric art her feet go by. Beaming stars of frost and fire Flame beneath a brow serene. This girl of Nordic mind and mien Is modelled to your heart’s desire. Upon her lord she’d like to wait, And love to be his slave—and queen. But, reverent, in her eyes I’ve seen She also could have learned to hate. Many a secret flame I fed, That fanned my young credulity; But ever since, with ease, I see The errors that my youth mis-read. The gilded dross is gone, for me. To greater heights the aim I raise. And now, with poise, I can appraise A perfect diamond that I see. —And in thy hardy little hand My hopes and fortunes I would lay, And willing face the future way, A fond and happy contraband. 1930 THULE —E. Benediktsson— I For ages her name was known in rhyme, Was known wherever the seas were streaming. She came to the mind if men were dreaming Of midnight suns in the north, sublime. Her story, preserved in a southern clime, As served by the Rovers, at last was teeming With wonders imagined and most uncanny. Yet merely the name was left to the many To link her fate with a former time. But time goes on with its tireless flow And turns the minds in a new direction. The earth is discovered, section by section, And shoved in the forum for man to know. Each tittle of fact that the sagas show Will shine undimmed at the resurrection. Through empire travel and outlawed races The eye will learn, as the mind retraces, The tale of the land with the live-long glow. A quick-star on high in the heavenly blue, With hope in her eye sees the Nordics in motion; Commands them to sail to the edge of the ocean And open the way to a realm anew. That guiding eye to the uttermost clue The Irishmen followed, in search of goshen. Afar on the deep-sea’s foaming acres They fought their way through the deadly breakers, Depending on faith—and they found it true. There sits on the deep, with her diadem bright, Our dazzling queen, in her robes of glory. She holds in her arms the unborn story Her own true sons alone can write. Her breath with a fragrance fills the night. There’s a fountain of love in her bosom hoary. Though hardness of mien her hood may lend her, Her heaving breast is soft and tender. Her eyes are the glassy lakes, alight. The deep blue seas encircle her throne. The shimmering lights of the north are behind her. Fortune a place in the sun assigned her, Where the surf is roaring and billows moan. Currents of warmth from the west atone If withering floes to the north are unkinder. With a world in the offing either-whither, Her own is the choice, be it hither or thither. She sits at the crux of the seas alone. Our Boreal goddess belongs where she lies And listens in peace to Nature’s singing. For eons of time in her ears were ringing The odes of the billows that fall and rise. And ever the southerly sea-breeze tries To soften the blast that her cheek is stinging. —Thule, the bride of the sea, surrenders, With sorrow and fear in her heart, and tenders Her hand to the world as a worthy prize. The landscape clears as the breezes blow And belly the sails till the fleet is grounded. The brave adventurers stand astounded And stare at the virgin land aglow. Each sheltered cove in the southern bow In silence mirrors the land around it. No vandal hand had torn and tattered The trees and the grassy quilt, and shattered A stainless freehold and laid it low. With features bold, as the billows rise And break in foam on the crags of raven, She lives in each heart to the furthest haven Where human course of adventure lies. In Memory’s hall, as the heroes’ prize, Her hallowed image is deeply graven. And the Mountain-Isle in her maiden beauty, With meek devotion accepts her duty, And offers herself as a sacrifice. Still hidden deep in the dust veneer The dazzling story is yet abiding. But faithful Science with signs is guiding The seekers of light who will persevere. Footprints in number, though faint, appear And facts that speak in the caves are hiding. The truth of the pioneers’ twice-lost story And the tale of our Thule’s ancient glory Stand out from the rocks, where they carved them, clear. II Still the twilight of the ages Anchors to the haunted cave. Still the creepy sea of silence Swells about the architrave. Still within the heart are hidden Hoary fears of shades unbidden— Shades that here had sought a grave. Reason’s lightning rends the mountain. Reason makes the vaulting bright. As if distant swans were singing, Something echoes through the night. Dreams that seize my soul with wonder Seem to tear the dusk asunder. —To the past I turn a light. Peaceful still in stormy waters, Strife’s impassive battlefield; Ice-encrusted fount of fire, Fairest land the earth revealed; Land of sorrow, swathed in glory, Saga-land, thy wondrous story Early to my pride appealed. Hither nature’s magic many Monks inveigled to the fold; Magic that a little later Lured the warrior strong and bold. One subdued the will and feeling; One the heart itself was steeling. Both were honest “guinea-gold.” One in bold and living letters Left the imprint of his will, While the spirit of the other In the people caused a thrill. Heralds, both, of blood and fire, Both had deep and strong desire. Buried lies the story still. Spirit-shapes, meseems, are moving Somewhere in the stony crust. There a tearful shade in tatters To the fore, I see, is thrust. While its palsied hands it raises High in prayer, its noble face is Bowing deeply to the dust. Granite vaulting cold thou keepest Cryptic ruins of the past. Army of the soul, I see thee Sore and tattered in the blast; Ancient, hallowed hero-sages, Hidden in the dust of ages, Fearless leaders to the last. ’Twixt the walls so wide and clammy Vikings of the cross I see From the cup of duty drinking Death distilled them, on the knee— See them face a far more cruel Fate than any bloody duel, Questing for Eternity. Still thy souls in sunny regions Serve the Master in the fight. All thy hidden worth and wisdom Will be ravelled from the night. From thy graves infuse the nation; Fill us with determination, Squatters in the land of light! 1930 THE SWAN —E. Benediktsson— No grace transcends the image of a swan. His alban coat becharms, his singing thrills. His dirge each human heart with sorrow fills, And Heaven itself is then not far withdrawn. And though his notes a dream of death may bring, A deeper aim in life their tone imparts. If voices brave, yet blent with sadness, sing, The simple dust of listening Nature starts; And motionless the ambient air awaits The eager wing that naught intimidates. Then heaves the breast as white as driven snow, With haughty neck in many a living wave And sinuous curve, as silent as the grave, To soar above the valley-towns below. In tranquil, sleepy waves he wings alone The wide conservatory of the sky— The picture of a song whose silent tone Assuages like a gentle lullaby; As if from heaven’s open book would fall An ode whose cadence would thy soul enthral. The living soul is like an undertone That lends a string to chime, if Fate consents. A heart in tune can sing its sentiments In silent strains that far transcend the known. There are so many muted things that live While mobs their hollow noise with noise disarm. One little tone, both sweet and sensitive, Vouchsafes to earthly souls a lasting charm. A higher force than human thought exprest, It heals the many ills that life infest. Life’s utter maze the swan himself may dream; In songs his prowess and his hopes intwine. From Nature’s heart they ravel, line on line, With lilt of brooks or gush of fall and stream. He dresses up in daylight’s parting ray And drinks the rosy morning’s early breath. He nurses in his heart each happy day A hymn of praise to God for life and death, That echoes from the homes and hills prolong Till hearts forget to prize a lovely song. O music’s best, most blessed fount of life, Thou bringest to the heart a treasure grand. Thou fallest out of fabled Eden-land To fill with joy the hour of mortal strife. Through thee a lost and fallen soul may find The front-door of his sanctum still ajar, And see, when purged in heart, though halt and blind, That Heaven’s minstrel is the guiding star. As when a child with angel-glory gleams, So godlike art awakens holy dreams. How sweet to glide upon the skyey path To perfect, clear and lusty strains, or none— A minstrel poet, paling in the sun, With proud abandon singing best in death; To raise a voice that echoes loud and long, Though life, exhausted on the note, resigns. Is any aim in life’s allure so strong As looking past the circle that confines, Or leading, forcing human hearts along To higher vision with undying song? 1930 WAVE-LIFE —E. Benediktsson— He lives who created a lay that survives. He’s lost who rose dumb from the Muse’s table; Who knelt at its head with his heart in gyves, With a hapless mind and a tongue unable. The soul is akin to the seas we ply. Each swell resembles a midget ocean: Dead if it’s still; in the storm ’tis high, And streams along with a sounding motion. Billowing surge! Thou hast life; and thy lay, Though lost, from the core of thy heart was streaming. Thy force on the sands of the silent bay Subsided, but firstly thy crest was gleaming. Ocean’s songstress, thou drankest deep The drafts that rose from thy welling fountain. The land re-echoed thy sounding sweep, That sank apace, but aimed at the mountain. The Morning opens her golden gate. Her gleaming face at the sash is peering. The grassy liths for her gaze await. The gloomy brow of the peak is clearing. In the ocean’s shimmering surface-tide The Sun-steed with gory curb-rein glasses. The haunts, where of yore I yearned, abide. Beyond, in a vision, my dreamland passes. My heart is an ocean of deep desire For the day of light that has no ending; That gathered my song—as my soul afire Absorbs the force that the strand is bending. My shackled mind is impatient, pent, Impounded fast by the sea’s dominion. And what is the eagle’s high ascent To a human soul equipped with a pinion? I feel in the depths of my soul a surge That seeks away from this life, so hollow. The soundless tide of my inmost urge Is an ardent prayer that I long to follow. To send a strain through the starry zone, A stilly wave or a mute oration— To rise at the foot of the Father’s throne And face the hosts, is my aspiration. 1930 MOUNTAIN AIR —E. Benediktsson— A peaceful glow is glebe and croft caressing. Against the mountain’s breast the land is pressing, With herd and shepherd sunning near the byre, In sight of glaciers with their snowy tressing. It is in type a truly Nordic shire, With tundra fields about, imposing, dire. But thither every boor and burgher races, To buy retreat from stagnant seaside places. From desk and den the failing spirit flees, To find delight in nature’s open spaces. In contrast with a healthy highland breeze The hamlet’s breath resembles vapid lees. The landscape rises high above the heather. A hundred stairs with rugs of green lie nether, And rifts have cut a railing from the slate, Where rills, that falling by the score together, With din and clatter dance in wild estate Adown the rungs, to seek an open gate. There is a flood that comes from farther sources, And from the upland wastes in torrents courses. It quenches thirst and brushes leaf and limb, Whose lungs a-pant renew their waning forces. The eagles on its upper surface swim, And swallows frolic in its nether rim. To live apart, alone, yet never lonely, Delights the will eternal, pure and only. I know a comfort in the cleft’s abyss And court the friendly rocks so mute and thronely. In solitude one finds the fullest bliss. I feel there’s nothing in the world I miss. It looks as if the shade, itself, is gleaming. The silex in the vibrant air is beaming. Here speckled trout and drake, bedizened, spring And drink the wine of air and water streaming. The mountain’s knitted brows the nest enring That nurses well the land’s most airy wing. The hurtling current holds reverse mirages Where heaven’s blue in water-colors flashes. The lofty sweetness that my soul respires Beside me in the canyon river glasses. In every part I feel the godly fires That fill me with the peace my heart requires. O mountain shire, thy memory lives undying, Though many a flower beneath thy snows is lying. Thy spirit has refreshed my sodden soul. Thy subtle charm my muse is still supplying. O dumb retreat, the dreamer’s happy goal! O draft divine from life’s celestial bowl! 1930 THE THAMES —E. Benediktsson— With slackened ropes and rolling lightly The river boats are cradled in. There a wheeler, slipping slightly, Sleeps upon its lazy fin. One whose stack is hoarse and wheezy, Hurling cinders on the night, Down the river, dark and greasy, Dips and wriggles out of sight. Half the western wing of twilight Winds about the parting day, That behind the highest skylight Hesitates and moves away. Hidden deeply under ashes Embers turn a paler hue. O’er the threshold Evening passes Into night and bids adieu. On the murky, misty cover Move the spirits of the night. Baleful ’round the brink they hover, Blushing in the strands of light, That, like an angel-army gleaming, At the darkness slashing burst, While Stygian ogres stark and teeming Stand on guard with lights reversed. With its crowding knaves and noises Night demands her heritage, While the misfits’ mingled voices Mark the culture of the age. The air is thick and dark and dreary. Day-slaves, crowding, hurry by, Noisy, grimy, gaunt and weary. Ghostly breezes ’round them sigh. All nature seems a chained and churly Chattel slave to haughty peers, Like men who labor late and early, Listless-eyed throughout the years. Machines endowed with souls of fire Seem to think and work and breathe. Iron-throated spouts suspire, Like spirit monsters, underneath. As if steely tongues were telling Truths about the faith in might, Of war’s forgotten graves, and swelling Glories purchased in the fight; While Labor, stripped of freedom’s faking, On fame’s gigantic tower stare And bow before the column quaking, Conscious of its stony glare. A wreath this land of wealth is wearing, Woven by some conquered isle. Down the lighted streets are staring Stony sphinxes from the Nile. A prescient phase of faded glory, Fell of eye and mute they stand And tell the world a wonder story Visioned in a slaver’s land. Beside a statue, sunk in dreaming, Sits a cast-off, homeless, banned. Our shadowlands with such are teeming, Of such are fleet and army manned. Among the foundlings’ ragged regions— Ridings that the great abhor— They comb the grime and grope for legions, Guards for them in peace or war. Here the mundane heart is beating, The heart that pumps our blood and gold. Its core a worm is always eating, And the stream though black and cold, Yet ebbs and flows with fuller measure As Pharaoh’s shadow-finger picks The sinner who has seized our treasure: Shylock—with the crucifix. For deep sank Goshen’s early glory. Its god became a willing slave; Its holy rage a still-born story. Here stands the tablet from the grave. Our magic fairy—maid and lion— Mild of brow with clenched hands, Obedient keeps her blinded eye on Both the stone and its commands. —The river-murmurs sound like sorrow, Each silvery drop a burning tear. A bitter sigh precedes the morrow. Souls are torn with pain and fear. The friendly breeze afar, unheeding, Folds its wings behind the light, And Day, with face and body bleeding, Bids a restless world “goodnight.” 1930 STARKAD’S SOLILOQUY —E. Benediktsson— I’m dreaming about an all-immanent soul That even the stones into bread is turning. My laughter is grief. On talk and the bowl I squander the wealth that my heart is earning. The mead itself has a mouldy taste. O what have I said that the world enriches? My days in the land of the living I waste In search of the light that my heart bewitches. Thy peaceful heart was a holy shrine. My reverent soul at thy feet was lying. Footsore on Destiny’s sands that shine, I found an oasis of rest—while dying. O tender-eyed, wonderful light of my life, How sweet to rest at thy bosom, pleading! My soul is dumb—can thy lips contrive The word of cheer that my heart is needing? I wove thee a wreath from the songs of my soul; But my deepest rapture in bonds awaited. Together we drank life’s celestial bowl; Yet the thirst of my mind was still unsated. Like a child in its need at thy bosom I lay And dreamt in comfort of love and treasures. The unborn hope in my heart was fey. O where is the fruit of our short-lived pleasures? O snowy breast, was my bosom cold? And were my endearments a bit insipid? The deeps of my heart with its hopes untold Are hidden in doubts and conceits that grip it. Queen of my soul that presides at my board —In silence I drained each cup of pleasure— O is there on earth or in Heaven no word That the depth of my passionate soul can measure? II Is the heart empowered to sentence itself, Or the soul to belittle its own conviction? No. Life holds the key. One must look and delve, And light needs the shadow to make depiction. With doubts and suspicion our strife begins; And a passing faith is the victor’s haven. No life nor epoch can see its sins. On Eternity’s scroll the facts are graven. The cup is an oracle. Wine is the key That opens a world behind the curtains. The soul burns low or it flashes free, In due respect to the table’s burdens. The rich on a par with the poor must stay, For want at the heavenly source is groundless. —How mean is our life and how little our day; How tiny the earth—and the Heavens boundless! The prodigal loses the love he extends. With fear and reserve speak a guest or a brother. So shifty of mind are your fellows and friends, While finding one you have lost another. If your thoughts were high and your hand was kind And your tongue excelled, you offended Beauty. Envy and love fill the selfsame mind; And Fear is the father and mother of Duty. I courted but few and admired the men Who loathed the scene where the mobs attended. Bored with the laity’s long “amen,” I lauded the one who was least befriended. I scorned the parodist’s poor refrain, That picked and aped what his betters stated. —The grovelling spirit that follows fain The footprints the masses pursued—and hated. But the beaker is drained—hear the bird of fate! Faster and nearer the wings are plying. Love is a memory. Man and his mate In mouldy crypts by the road are lying. O guilty hand that could’st force to fame, Yet faded away in the haying season! To leave thy worthiest urge and aim To others—that is the mortal treason. III ’Twas dawn and the birds in the branches sang. From the bitter night to the street I wandered. A tattered swain from the sewer sprang. I saw he had slept on a stone, and pondered. I threw him a coin where he crept in the sand. He cringed; then smiled through his furtive lashes. As a gleam illumined the gold in his hand— Abundance in his; in mine but ashes. The bit looms large in the realm of grief, Where Mishap and Luck with the Fates are trading. For seldom may two hold the same belief, Though the selfsame mask they are both parading. And yet, though the world may be hard of heart, Though the haughty win and the Right must cower, Misfortune that here played a hapless part In Heaven amasses a princely dower. A smile may transmute the dusk into day, As a drop may change the wine in a beaker. A cross remark drives kindness away; So care should govern the tongue of the speaker. A hidden cord in the breast may break If bitter words, without cause, are spoken. You cannot erase the wrongs you make. No ruing can mend a heart that is broken. A word, just a move: in a moment’s space Immutable trends in our lives are grounded, Through an artless pun or a pointed phrase We pass—by listening walls surrounded. How wise are we children? A cheerful lay Or a cup may serve when the mead is waning. O what says the Master?— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — In mute array The morning sun his spears is training. IV Chaos is only an empty void And every stream to its gulf is tending. The quick are adown to its deeps decoyed, And Death in his nullity sits unbending. Each epoch and story go side by side The selfsame way, like a falling river. Eternity’s laws may alone abide. Our lapsing time is a mental quiver. In the halls of pleasure my heart was glum. The hovel, so lowly, was more inviting. For dangers lurk in a house a-hum. The homely virtues are more requiting. With mortal energy’s lees a-lip I lift the cup, though my hand is failing. I hear a lay—feel the life-line slip.— The lights grow brilliant beyond the paling! I waved the cup with its surface sheen, While Magic and Fate o’er my life contended. The first was weaving a garland green; The other a coal-black shroud extended. The beaker my decades in drafts will tell. When drained to the lees ’tis a life-time covered. A day passed out with each drop that fell. Death, with the sickle, around me hovered. In a vision I saw what the worldlings do: The will that halts if its star is shining; The joy that dies if its dreams come true; The deepest gaze to the husk inclining. O isn’t our story a tragic tale, Where time is speeding from morrow to morrow? And can there be hope in that heaven for sale Where hearts are torn between fear and sorrow? —The night stole in from the Styx afar, Like a star whose light with the morning blended. The doors of Heaven were held ajar And hosts of pages their arms extended. The nectar of life I gulped with greed. My guise fell off like a shell of plaster. My soul from its pagan sark was freed. In silent wonder I faced the Master. 1930 CALM SEAS —E. Benediktsson— Softly moving billow-breast, Bury all thy joy and sadness. Rest thyself so bright and blest; Breezes o’er thee play with gladness. ’Round thy cot they come and go, Quietly rock thee to and fro. To wake thee from thy willing sleep were madness. On thy placid ocean-brow I can see a hint of billows. ’Neath thy cheeks that glint and glow, Disguised, a restive monster pillows. O breast a-swell, thy breathing deep Is bated like a storm asleep! Thy playful nymphs are light and lithe as willows. Chilly, mighty, mystic sea, Many a dream thy charm presages. Forces ’neath thy limpid lea Lift the mind to higher stages. I can see thy surface spread Softly like a feather bed, While the tameless surf in shackles rages. Lend, O sea, thy soft embrace! Soothe my heart and ’round me crumble; Torn with grief, with tear-wet face, Take my hand with spirit humble. I can feel the fire beneath The flouncing of thy chilly sheath— A power that scorns to rant with rage or grumble. 1930 THE PAWNSHOP —E. Benediktsson— The usurer’s eyes from place to place Kept peering ’neath brow-thatch hoary. The runes cut deep in his fox-like face, Defying the mask of his sly grimace, Had written a rascal’s story. All through the line of his lengthy years He’d lived on the fruits of want and tears And carried the sum of his sins and fears To settle in purgatory. A coy young maiden with doubt and dread Through the door of the shop advances. At a harp whose strings are dumb and dead, In a dusty niche by the wall ahead, She looks with lingering glances. The shelves are trammeled with tinsel and gold To tempt the derelicts, young and old, That mill in streets, where souls are sold, And Sin with the tyro dances. The lights of the city, one by one, Awake when the daylight ceases. The glitter and shine of the show goes on And shadows flee to the slums anon, Where Sorrow her soul appeases. —Again in the steel-eyes, stern and keen, She stares, with a coin in her palm so lean. The harp was pawned that the heart be clean When hunger its pangs increases. 1942 REV. ODDUR’S DISAPPEARANCE —E. Benediktsson— Recklessly a rider Races o’er the ice. Under shoes resounding Sag the floes and rise. The charger sniffs, and snorting Snuggles to the rein. Briskly mountain breezes Brush the flowing mane. Hoofs are hard and steely. Hoarfrost rimes the lip. Like a glass-eye gleaming, To guide the midnight trip, Through the growing gristle Gloats a lonely star. Abed though boors are sleeping, A bog remains ajar! Visions fell and fearsome Fleck the icy lawn. Highlands, rent and riven, ’Round the valley yawn. Hummocks coldly crackle. Clefted mountain sides Echo dimly, deeply. Doomed is he who rides! —————— When the twilight fades it is dull and dark. Till daylight alarms will thicken. Shades from the bourne of the night embark And buried memories quicken. Though, stricken with panic, the rector rides To run from the noise that follows, He cannot escape the crowd that hides In clefts and the ghostly hollows. Each sleepless night with its spooky spell That spectral forms endower, A guilty mind itself will sell To sin’s avenging power. It follows thee so fell of eye And fiercely on thee glowers, A phantom picture painted by The pain of lonely hours. A pointed moon with pallor cold The plain with light is flooding, While on the sands thy silhouette bold Beside the road is scudding. It seems to grow and gain on thee, Though gamely thy mount is speeding. No memory-pang that man can flee Whose mind surcease is needing. —————— But this is no time for dreams, indeed. A demon faces the running steed, That falls, as if held by the halter; But jumps to its feet with a jerky bound, Then jams its toes in the frozen ground And stands like the stone of Gibraltar. None can escape till the day he dies The dying look in his victim’s eyes, That hardened with hatred glower. Torn with remorse that man is doomed To meet his sin in the road, exhumed, Who bowed to its baleful power. The moon throws a pall with its pearly glare On pallid brow, on the tousled hair And a face most fear-impelling. —Her eyes in the night have a nameless leer; The neck is slitted from ear to ear, And blood from the wound is welling. Clenched in hatred a hand is raised On high, to strike; the other is placed On a shining knife beside her. Abused by him, and a suicide, She shrieked—and the echoing night replied— This taunt to the trembling rider: “Thy vile deceit has ruined my rest. My role is that of an unclean guest, And thou art crime-encumbered. The threat that I swore is soon fulfilled. My sweet revenge is about distilled, For now thy days are numbered.” —But hope revives, for his home is near. The house stands out in its bright veneer, And thither his thoughts are fleeing. With horror he thinks of the bolts that bar— A baleful wraith in the night can mar The mind of a mortal being. The frantic rider, with fury seized, Flays into action the trembling beast. The clang of the ice comes after. The spectre shies with a ghastly grin. Her giggles mix with the horse’s din And make it a mocking laughter. —————— Fateful of mien and bleak of brow, About the thatch is creeping A shadowy form that holds, somehow, The house in its ghostly keeping. Under the sway of that shadow-wight The servants sleep unchidden. Their soughing blends with the sighs of night. All signs of life are hidden. But it was a haunted house that night. They heard the rafters creaking; And Solveig’s ghost beside each light With severed neck was sneaking. “Sleep until morning, ye men, content. Tomorrow I have my inning,” She said, and in through the open vent From ear to ear was grinning. “At Magnacroft so much occurs That men would hardly credit.” With manners bad and manners worse They meet the thing they dreaded. —For suddenly on the shutter pane It seems a weight is falling; While at the door with might and main A man in need is calling. Aroused, in a panic they peer in the dark. A prayer through the silence quivers. Each native figure, a statue stark, And stricken with terror, shivers. But out in the night to him they hear No hero forth is racing. The one outdoors, adaze with fear, His doom alone is facing. And when they open the door next day, At dawn, and look for a token, Their master’s gear and gauntlets lay In the grass, by the whip-stock broken. Nor horse nor parson has since been seen. They say, while the folks were sleeping An ogress down to her dark demesne Had dragged them—and both is keeping. 1930 THE OPAL —E. Benediktsson— The night has the earth in her grip again; Her groans in the treetops quiver. It is silent now where we sang amain. I sit alone till the candles wane, Abend o’er the bowl and shiver. I fondle and stare at a stone so bright, With its stealthy gleams through the clouds of white: A curious blending of color and light Recast by the dark’s light-giver. On the back of my finger it beams tonight, In bonds, like a doubtful token. They say that it augurs evil and plight; But I would call it a harp of light, With strings that are bruised and broken: A glimmer of hopes that have gone astray; Have gone to seed in a better day— A vision of things that I should not say, Or something I left unspoken. The jewel forth like a flambeau shines From fiery depths, beclouded. A fountain of ease, like the oldest wines, Its opal-charm—how it flares and declines, Transparent, yet so enshrouded! Its wiles enchant like a stolen kiss— A cross-tree of faith with its arms amiss!— And spectres wade in its weird abyss, Like virtue with secrets crowded. 1930 From “AN ESSAY IN RHYME” —E. Benediktsson— —And so, my land, my life shall be A leaf that in thy garden yearns. Each little ode I offered thee An earnest in thy garland burns. And every surge within my soul Shall seek amain, and find the goal —A swell that to its source returns. 1930 TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. There are 10 poets who either are not yet in the public domain, or for whom no life date information has yet been found, and therefore can not be included: Gisli Jonsson (1876-1974); Jakobina Johnson (1883-1977); F.H. Berg (????); Kr. (Kristjan) Jonsson (1871-??); Gudm. Magnusson (????); Armann Bjornson (????); Stgr. Arason (????); Sverrir Haraldsson (????); Jon Helgason (1899-1986); and Gudm. Stefansson (????). [The end of _Odes and Echoes_ by Paul Bjarnason]