Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LARS; A PASTORAL OF NORWAY: BOOK 1, by BAYARD TAYLOR


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LARS; A PASTORAL OF NORWAY: BOOK 1, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: On curtained eyes, and bosoms warm with rest
Last Line: Not shameful straw-death of the sick and old.
Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard
Subject(s): Bells; Death; Love; Norway; Dead, The


ON curtained eyes, and bosoms warm with rest,
On slackened fingers and unburdened feet,
On limbs securer slumber held from toil,
While nimble spirits of the busy blood
Renewed their suppleness, yet filled the trance
With something happy which was less than dream,
The sun of Sabbath rose. Two hours, afar,
Behind the wintry peaks of Justedal,
Unmarked, he climbed; then, pausing on the crest
Of Fille Fell, he gathered up his beams
Dissolved in warmer blue, and showered them down
Between the mountains, through the falling vale,
On Ulvik's cottages and orchard trees.
And one by one the chimneys breathed; the sail
That loitered lone along the misty fiord
Flashed like a star, and filled with fresher wind;
The pasturing steers, dispersed on grassy slopes,
Raised heads of wonder over hedge and wall
To call, unanswered, the belated cows;
And ears that would not hear, or heard in dreams,
The lark's alarum over idle fields,
And lids, still sweetly shut, that else unclosed
At touch of daybreak, yielded to the day.

Then, last of all, among the maidens, met
To dip fresh faces in the chilly fount,
And smoothen braids of sleep-entangled hair,
Came Brita, glossy as a mating bird.
No need had she to stoop and wash awake
Her drowsy senses: air and water kissed
A face as bright and breathing as their own,
In joy of life and conscious loveliness.
If still her mirror's picture stayed with her,
A memory, whispering how the downcast lid
Shaded the flushing fairness of her cheek,
And hinting how a straying lock relieved
The rigid fashion of her hair, or how
The curve of slightly parted lips became
Half-sad, half-smiling, either meaning much
Or naught, as wilful humor might decide, --
Yet thence was born the grace she could not lose:
Her beauty, guarded, kept her beautiful.

"Wilt soon be going, Brita?" Ragnil asked;
"And which the way, -- by fiord or over fell?"
"Why, both!" another laughed; "or else the rocks
Will split and slide beneath the feet of Lars,
Or Per will meet the Kraken!" Brita held
One dark-brown braid between her teeth, and wove
The silken twine and tassels through its fringe,
Before she spake; but first she seemed to sigh:
"I will not choose; you shall not spoil my day!
All paths are free that lead across the fell;
All wakes are free to keels upon the fiord,
And even so my will: come Lars or Per,
Come Erik, Anders, Harald, Olaf, Nils,
Come soeter-boys, or sailors from the sea,
No lass is bound to slight a decent lad,
Or walk behind him when the way is wide."

"No way is wide enough for three, I've heard,"
Said Ragnil, "save there be two men that prop
A third, when market's over."
"Go your ways!"
Then Brita cried: "if two or twelve should come,
I call them not, nor do I bid them go:
A friendly word is no betrothal ring."

Then tossed she back her braids, and with them tossed
Her wilful head. "Why, take you both, or all!"
She said, and left them, adding, "if you can!"
With silent lips, nor cared what prudent fears,
Old-fashioned wisdom, dropped in parrot-words,
Chattered behind her as she climbed the lane.
Along her path the unconverted bees
Set toil to music, and the elder-flowers
Bent o'er the gate a snowy entrance-arch,
Where, highest on the slope, her cottage sat.
Her bed of pinks there yielded to the sun
Its clove and cinnamon odors; sheltered there
Beneath the eaves, a rose-tree nursed its buds,
And through the door, across the dusk within,
She saw her grandam set the morning broth
And cut a sweeter loaf. All breathed of peace,
Of old, indulgent love, and simple needs,
Yet Brita sighed, -- then blushed because she sighed.

"Dear Lord!" the ancient dame began, "'t is just
The day, the sun, the breeze, the smell of flowers,
As fifty years ago, in Hallingdal,
When I, like thee, picked out my smartest things,
And put them on, half guessing what would hap,
And found my luck before I took them off.
See! thou shalt wear the brooch, my mother's then,
And thine when I am gone. Some luck, who knows?
May still be shining in the fair red stone."
So, from a box that breathed of musky herbs,
She took the boss of roughly fashioned gold,
With garnets studded: took, but gave not yet.
Some pleasure in the smooth, cool touch of gold,
Or wine-red sparkles, flickering o'er the stones,
Or dream of other fingers, other lips
That kissed them for the bed they rocked upon
That happy summer eve in Hallingdal,
Gave her slow heart its girlhood's pulse again,
Her cheek one last leaf of its virgin rose.

Oh, foolishness of age! She dared not say
What then she felt: Go, child, enjoy the bliss
Of innocent woman, ripe for need of man,
And needing him no less! Some natural art
Will guide thy guileless fancies, some pure voice
Will whisper truth, and lead thee to thy fate!
But, ruled by ancient habit, counselled thus:
"Be on thy guard, my Brita! men are light
Of tongue, and unto faces such as thine
Mean not the half they say: the girl is prized
Who understands their ways, and holds them off
Till he shall come, who, facing her, as she
And death were one, pleads for his life with her:
When such an one thou meetest, thou wilt know."

"Nay, grandam!" Brita said! "I will not hear
A voice so dreadful-earnest: I am young,
And I can give and take, not meaning much,
Nor over-anxious to seem death to men:
I like them all, and they are good to me.
I'll wear thy brooch, and may it bring me luck,
Not such as thine was, as I guess it was,
But, in the kirk, short sermon, cheerful hymn,
Good neighbors on the way, and for the dance
A light-foot partner!" With a rippling laugh
That brushed the surface of her heart, and hid
Whatever doubt its quiet had betrayed,
She kissed the withered cheek, and on her breast
Pinned the rough golden boss with wine-red stones.
"Come, Brita, come!" rang o'er the elder-flowers:
"I come!" she answered, threw her fleeting face
Upon the little mirror, took her bunch
Of feathered pinks, and joined the lively group
Of Sundayed lads and lasses in the lane.

They set themselves to climb the stubborn fell
By stony stairs that left the fields below,
And ceased, far up, against the nearer blue.
But lightly sprang the maids; and where the slides
Of ice ground smooth the slanting planes of rock,
Strong arms drew up and firm feet steadied theirs.
Here lent the juniper a prickly hand,
And there they grasped the heather's frowsy hair,
While jest and banter made the giddy verge
Secure as orchard-turf; and none but showed
The falcon's eye that guides the hunter's foot,
Till o'er their flushed and breathless faces struck
The colder ether; on the crest they stood,
And sheltered vale and ever-winding fiord
Sank into gulfs of shadow, while afar
To eastward many a gleaming tooth of snow
Cut the full round of sky.
"Why, look you, now!"
Cried one: "the fiord is bare as threshing-floor
When winter's over: what's become of Per?"
"And what of Lars?" asked Ragnil, with a glance
At Brita's careless face; "can he have climbed
The Evil Pass, and crossed the thundering foss,
His nearest way?" As clear as blast of horn
There came a cry, and on the comb beyond
They saw the sparkle of a scarlet vest.
Then, like the echo of a blast of horn,
A moment later, fainter and subdued,
A second cry; and far to left appeared
A form that climbed and leaped, and nearer strove.
And Harald, Anders Ericssen, and Nils
Set their three voices to accordant pitch
And shouted one wild call athwart the blue,
Until it seemed to quiver: as they ceased
The maids began, and, moving onward, gave
Strong music: all the barren summits rang.

So from the shouts and girlish voices grew
The wayward chorus of a soeter-song,
Such as around the base of Skagtolstind
The chant of summer-j"otun seems, when all
The herds are resting and the herdsmen meet;
And while it swept with swelling, sinking waves
The crags and ledges, Lars had joined the band,
And from the left came Per; and Brita walked
Between them where the path was broad, but when
It narrowed to such track as tread the sheep
Round slanting shoulder and o'er rocky spur
To reach the rare, sweet herbage, one went close
Before her, one behind, and unto both
With equal cheer and equal kindliness
Her speech was given: so both were glad of heart.

A herdsman, woodman, hunter, Lars was strong,
Yet silent from his life upon the hills.
Beneath dark lashes gleamed his darker eyes
Like mountain-tarns that take their changeless hue
From shadows of the pine: in all his ways
He showed that quiet of the upper world
A breath can turn to tempest, and the force
Of rooted firs that slowly split the stone.
But Per was gay with laughter of the seas
Which were his home: the billow breaking blue
On the Norwegian skerries flashed again
Within his sunbright eyes; and in his tongue,
Set to the louder, merrier key it learned
In hum of rigging, roar of wind and tide,
The rhythm of ocean and its wilful change
Allured all hearts as ocean lures the land.
Now which, this daybreak with his yellow locks,
Or yonder twilight, calm, mysterious, filled
With promise of its stars, shall turn the mind
Of the light maiden who is neither fain
To win nor lose, since, were the other not,
Then each were welcome? -- how should maid decide!
For that the passion of the twain was marked,
And haply envied, and a watch was set,
She would be strong: and, knowing, seem as though
She nothing knew, until occasion came
To bid her choose, or teach her how to choose.

On each and all the soberness of morn
Yet lay, the weight of hard reality
That even clogs the callow wings of love;
And now descending, where the broader vale
Showed farm on farm, and groves of birch and oak,
And fields that shifted gloss like shimmering silk,
The kirk-bells called them through the mellow air,
Slow-swinging, till, as from a censer's cup
The smoke diffused makes all the minster sweet,
The peace they chimed pervaded earth and sky.
As under foliage of the lower land
The pathway led, more harmless fell the jest,
The laugh less frequent: then the maidens drew
Apart, set smooth their braids, their kirtles shook,
And grave, decorous as a troop of nuns,
Entered the little town. Ragnil alone
And Anders Ericssen together walked,
For twice already had their banns been called.
Lars shot one glance at Brita, as to say:
"Were thou and I thus promised, side by side!"
Then looked away; but Per, who kept as near
As decent custom let, all softly sang:
"Forget me thou, I shall remember still!"
That she might hear him, and so not forget.
Thus onward to the gray old kirk they moved.

The bells had ceased to chime: the hush within
With holy shuddering from the organ-bass
Was filled, and when it died the prayer arose.
Then came another stillness, as the Lord
Were near, or bent to listen from afar,
And last the text; but Brita found it strange.
Thus read the pastor: "Set me as a seal
Upon thy heart, yea, set me as a seal
Upon thine arm; for love is strong as death,
And jealousy is cruel as the grave."
She felt the garnets burn upon her breast,
As if all fervor of the olden love
Still heated them, and fire of jealousy,
And to herself she thought: "Has any face
Looked on me with a love as strong as death?
But I am Life, and how am I to know?"
Then, straightway weary of the puzzle, she
Began to wander with her dancing thoughts
Out o'er the fell, and up and down the slopes
Of sunny grass, while ever and anon
The preacher's solemn voice struck through her dream,
Its sound a menace and its sense unknown.
Then she was sad, and vexed that she was sad
And vexed with them who only could have caused
Her sadness: "Grandam's luck, forsooth!" she thought:
"If one were luck, why, two by rights were more,
But two a plague, a lesser plague were one,
And not a fortune!" So, till service ceased,
And all arose when benediction came,
She mused with pettish thrust of under lip,
Nor met the yearning eyes of Lars and Per.

The day's grave duty done, forth issued all,
Foregathering with the Vossevangen youth,
The girls of Graven and the boys of Vik,
Where under elms before the guest-house front
Stood tables brown with age: already bore
The host his double-handed bunch of cans
Fresh-filled and foaming; and the cry of Skoal!
Mixed with the clashing kiss of glassy lips.
But when in gown of black the pastor came,
All rose, respectful, waiting for his words.
A pace in front stood Anders Ericssen,
Undignified in bridegroom dignity,
Because too conscious: Ragnil blushed with shame,
And all the maidens envied her the shame,
When reverend fingers tapped her cheek, and he,
That good man, said: "How fares my bonny bride?
She must not be the last this summer; look,
My merry lads, what harvest waits for you!"
And on the maidens turned his twinkling eyes,
That beamed a blessing with the playful words.

Then Lars slipped nearer Brita, where she stood
Withdrawn a little, underneath the trees.
"You heard the pastor," said he; "would you next
Put on the crown? not you the harvest, nay,
The reaper, rather; and the grain is ripe."
"A field," she answered, "may be ripe enough
When half the heads are empty, and the stalks
Are choked with cockle. I've no mind to reap.
Indeed, I know not what you mean: the speech
The pastor uses suits not you nor me."
She meant reproof, yet made reproof so sweet
By feigned impatience, which betrayed itself,
That Lars bent lower, murmured with quick breath;
"Oh, take my meaning, Brita! Give me one, --
But one small word to say that you are kind,
But one kind word to tell me you are free,
And I not wholly hateful!" "Lars!" she cried,
Her frank, sweet sympathy aroused, "not so!
As friendly-kind as I can be, I am,
But free of you, and all; and that's enough!
You men would walk across the growing grain,
And trample it because it is not ripe
Before the harvest." Thereupon she smiled,
Sent him one dewy glance that should have been
Defiant, but a promise seemed; then turned,
And hastening, almost brushed the breast of Per.
He caught her by the hands, that Viking's son,
Whose fathers wore the eagle-helm, and stood
With Frithiof at the court of Angantyr,
Or followed fair-haired Harald to the East,
Though fishing now but herring, cod, and bass,
Not men and merchant-galleys: he was red
With mead, no less than sun and briny air:
He caught her by the hands, and said, as one
Who gives command and means to be obeyed:
"You'll go to Ulvik, Brita, by the fiord!
Bjorn brings my boat; the wind is off the sea,
But light as from a Bergen lady's fan:
Say, then, you'll go!"
The will within his words
Struck Brita harshly. For a moment she
Pondered refusal, then, with brightening face
Turned suddenly, and cried to all the rest:
"How fine of Per! we need not climb the fell:
He'll bear us all to Ulvik by the fiord;
Bjorn brings his boat; the wind is off the sea!"
And all the rest, with roaring skoal to Per,
Struck hands upon the offer; only he
For plan so friendly showed a face too grim.
He set his teeth and muttered: "Caught this time,
But she shall pay it!" till his discontent
Passed, like a sudden squall that tears the sea,
Yet leaves a sun to smile the billows down.
His jovial nature, bred to change, was swayed
By the swift consequence of Brita's whim,
The grasp of hand, the clap of shoulder, clink
Of brimming glass, and whispers overheard
Of "Luck to Per, and Bjorn, and all the boys
That reap, but sow not, on the rolling fields!"
And Brita, too, no sooner punished him
Than she relented, and would fain appease;
Whence, fluttering to and fro, she kept the plan
Alive, yet made its kindness wholly Per's:
Only, when earnestly to Lars she said:
"You'll go with us?" he answered sullenly:
"I will not go: my way is o'er the fell."

He did not quit them till they reached the strand,
And on the stern-deck and the prow was piled
The bright, warm freight; then chose a dangerous path,
A rocky ladder slanting up the crags,
And far aloft upon a foreland took
His seat, with chin upon his clenching hands,
To watch and muse, in love and hate, alone.
But they slid off upon a wind that filled
The sail, yet scarcely heeled the boat a-lee:
They seemed to rest above a hanging sky
'Twixt shores that went and shores that slowly came
In silence, and the larger shadows fell
From heaven-high walls, a darker clearness in
The air above, the firmament below,
Crossed by the sparkling creases of the sea.
Bjorn at the helm and Per to watch the wind,
They scarcely sailed, but soared as eagle soars
O'er Gousta's lonely peak with moveless plumes,
That, level-set, cut the blue planes of air;
And out of stillness rose that sunset hymn
Of Sicily, the O sanctissima!
That swells and fluctuates like a sleepy wave.
Thus they swam on to where the fiord is curved
Around the cape, where through a southward cleft
Some wicked sprite sends down his elfish flaws.
So now it chanced: the vessel sprang, and leaned
Before the sudden strain; but Per and Bjorn
Held the hard bit upon their flying steed,
And laughing, sang: "Out on the billows blue
You needs must dance, and on the billows blue
You sleep, a babe, rocked by the billows blue!"
As suddenly the gust was over: then
Found Per a seat by Brita. "Did you fear?"
He said; and she: "Who fears that sails with Per?"
"Nay then," he whispered, "never fear me more,
As twice to-day: why give me all this freight,
When so much less were so much more to me?"
"Since when were maidens free as fishermen?
Not since the days of Brynhild, I believe";
She answered, sharply: "I was fain to sail,
And place for me meant place for more beside."
"Not in my heart," he said; "it holds and keeps
Thee only; thou canst not escape my love;"
And tried to take her hand: she bending o'er
The low, black bulwarks, saw a crimson spark
Drop on the surface of the pale-green wave,
And sink, surrounded by a golden gleam.
"Oh, grandam's brooch!" she cried, and started up,
Sat down again, and hid her face, and wept.
Some there lamented as the loss were theirs,
Some shook their heads in ominous dismay,
But all agreed that, save a fish should bring
The jewel in its maw (and tales declared
The thing once happened), none would see it more.
Said Guda Halstensdatter: "I should fear
An evil, had I lost it." Thorkil cried:
"Be silent, Guda! Loss is grief enough
For Brita: would you frighten her as well?
There's many think that jewels go and come,
Having some life or virtue of their own
That drives them from us or that brings them back.
'T was so with my great-grandam's wedding-ring."

"Now, how was that?" all asked; and Thorkil spake:
"Why, not a year had she been wedded, when
The ring was gone: how, where, a mystery.
It was a bitter grief, but nothing happed
Save losses, ups and downs, that come to all
Both took their lot in patience and in hope,
And worked the harder when the luck was least.
So from the moorland and the stony brake
They won fresh fields; and now, when came around
The thirteenth harvest, and the grain was ripe
On that new land, my grandsire, then a boy,
One morn came leaping, shouting, from the field.
High in his hand he held a stalk of wheat,
And round the ripened ear, between the beards,
Hung, like a miracle, the wedding-ring!
And father heard great-grandam say it shone
So wonderful, she dropped upon her knees;
She thought God's finger touched it, giving back.
Who knows what fish may pounce on Brita's brooch
Before it reach the bottom of the fiord,
And then, what fisher net the fish?" Some there
Began to smile at this, and Per's blue eyes
Danced with a cheerful light, as, in the cove
Of Ulvik entered, fell his sagging sail.
No more spake Brita; homeward up the hill
She walked alone, sobbing with grief and dread.

The world goes round: the sun sets on despair,
The morrow makes it hope. Each little life
Thinks the great axle of the universe
Turns on its fate, and finds impertinence
In joy or grief conflicting with its own.
Yet fate is woven from unnoted threads;
Each life is centred in the life of all,
And from the meanest root some fibre runs
Which chance or destiny may intertwine
With those that feed a force or guiding thought,
To rule the world: so goes the world around.

And Brita's loss, that made all things seem dark,
Was soon outgrieved: came Anders' wedding-day
And Ragnil's, and the overshining joy
Of these two hearts from others drove the shade.
Forth from her home the ruddy bride advanced,
Not fair, but made so by her bridal bliss,
The tall crown on her brow, and in her hand
The bursting nosegay: Anders, washed and sleeked,
With ribbons on his hat, from head to foot
Conscious of all he wore, each word he spake,
And every action for the day prescribed,
Stuck to her side. It was a trying time;
But when the strange truth was declared at last
That they were man and wife, so greeted with
The cries of flute and fiddle, crack of guns,
And tossing of the blossom-brightened hats,
They breathed more freely; and the guests were glad
That this was over, since the festival
Might now begin, and mirth be lord of all.
In Ragnil's father, Halfdan's home, the casks
Of mead were tapped, the Dantzig brandy served
In small old glasses, and the platters broad,
Heaped high with salmon, cheese, and caviar,
Tempted and soothed before the heavier meal.
No guest in duty failed; and Per began --
The liquor's sting, the day's infection warm
Upon his blood -- to fix his sweetheart's word,
Before some wind should blow it otherwhere.
"Your hand, my Brita," stretching his, -- "your hand
For all the dances: see, my heels are light!
I have a right to ask you for amends,
But ask it as a kindness." "Nay," she said,
"You have no right; but I will dance one dance
With you, as any other." "Will you then?"
He cried, and caught her sharply by the wrist:
"I'll not be 'any other,' do you hear?
I'll be the one, the only one, whose foot
Keeps time with yours, my heart the tune thereto!"
Then shouting comrades whirled him from her side,
And Ragnil called the maids, to show her stores
Of fine-spun linen, lavendered and cool
In nutwood chests, her bed and canopy
Painted with pictures of the King and Queen,
And texts from Scripture, o'er the pillows curled
Where she and Anders should that night repose.
They shut the door to keep the lads without,
Then shyly stole away; and Brita found
Alone, among the garden bushes, Lars.

His eyes enlarged and brightened as she came;
He said, in tones whose heartful sweetness made
Her pulses thrill: "I will not bind you yet:
Dance only first with me that soeter-dance
You learned on Graafell: Nils will play the air.
Then take your freedom, favor whom you will.
I shall not doubt you, now and evermore."
"But, Lars" -- she said, then paused; he would not wait
The mirthful guests drew near. "I'll keep you, then,"
He whispered; "till I needs must let you go.
This much will warm me on the windy fells,
Make sunshine of the mists, melt frost in dew,
And paint the rocks with roses." Could she turn
From that brave face, those calm, confiding eyes?
Could she, in others' sight, reject the hand
Now leading to the board? If so, too late
Decision came, for she had followed him,
And sat beside him when the horns of mead
Made their slow pilgrimage from mouth to mouth,
And while the stacks of bread sank low, the haunch
Of stall-fed ox diminished to the bone,
Till multeberries, Bergen gingerbread,
With wine of Spain, made daintier end of all.
Then, like a congress of the blackbirds, held
In ancient tree-tops on October eves,
The tables rang and clattered; but, erelong,
Brisk hands had stripped them bare, and, turning down
The leaves, made high-backed settles by the wall.

Through all the bustle and the din were heard
The fiddle-strings of Nils, as one by one
They chirped and squeaked in dolorous complaint,
Until the bent ear and the testing bow
Found them accordant: then a flourish came
That scampered up and down the scale, and lapsed
In one long note that hovered like a bird,
Uncertain where to light; but so not long:
It darted soon, a lark above the fells,
And spun in eddying measures. Here a pair,
And there another, took the vacant floor,
Then Lars and Brita, sweeping in the dance
That whirled and paused, as if a mountain gust
Blew them together, tossed, and tore apart.
And ever, when the wild refrain came round,
Lars flung himself and sidewards turned in air,
Yet missed no beat of music when he fell.
"By holy Olaf!" gray-haired Halfdan cried:
"There's not a trick we knew in good old days,
But he has caught it: so I danced myself."

Upon the sweeping circles entered Per,
Held back, at first, and partially controlled
By them who saw the current of his wrath,
And whitherward it set; but now, when slacked
The fiery pulses of the dance, he broke
Through all, and rudely thrust himself on Lars.
"Your place belongs to me," he hoarsely cried, --
"Your place and partner!" "Brita's free to choose,"
Said Lars, "and may be bidden; but this floor
Is not your deck, nor are you captain mine:
I think your throat has made your head forget."
Lars spake the truth that most exasperates:
His words were oil on flame, and Per resolved,
So swayed by reckless anger, to defy
Then, once, and wholly. "Deck or not," said he,
"You know what right I mean: you stand where I
Allow you not: I warn you off the field!"
Lars turned to Brita: "Does he speak for you?"
She shook her head, but what with shame and fear
Said nothing: "We have danced our soeter-dance,"
He further spake, "and now I go: when next
We meet at feast, I claim another such."
"Aye, claim it, claim!" Per shouted; "but you'll first
Try knives with me, for blood shall run between
Your words and will: where you go, I shall be."
"So be it: bid your mother bring your shroud!"
Lars answered; and he left the marriage house.
The folk of Ulvik knew, from many a tale
Of feud and fight, from still transmitted hates
And old Berserker madness in their blood,
What issue hung: but whoso came between
Marked that the mediation dwelt with her
Who stood between: if she would choose, why, then
The lover foiled forsooth must leave in peace
The lover favored, -- further strife were vain.
But Lars was far upon the windy heights,
And Per beyond the skerries on the sea,
And Ragnil bustling busy as a wife,
That might have helped; while those to Brita came,
More meddlesome than kind, who hurt each nerve
They touched for healing. What could she, but cry
In tears and anger: "Shall I seek them out,
Bestow myself on one, take pride for love,
And forfeit thus all later pride in me?
Rather refuse them both, and on myself
Turn hate of both: their knives, i' faith! were dull
Beside your cutting tongues!" She vowed, indeed,
In moonlit midnights, when she could not sleep,
And either window framed a rival face,
That seemed to wait, with set, reproachful eyes,
To smile on neither, hold apart and off
Their fatal kindness. She repel, that drew?
As if an open rose could will away
Its hue and scent, a lily arm its stem
With thorns, a daisy turn against the sun!

The fields were reaped; the longer shadows thrown
From high Hardanger and the eastern range
Began to chill the vales: it was the time
When on the meadow by the lonely lake
Of Graven, from the regions round about
The young men met to hold their wrestling-match,
As since the days of Olaf they had done.
There, too, the maids came and the older folk,
Delighting in the grip of strength and skill,
The strain of sinew, stubbornness of joint,
And urge of meeting muscles. All the place
Was thronged, and loud the cheers and laughter rang
When some old champion from a rival vale
Bent before fresher arms, and from his base
Wrenched ere he knew, fell heavily to earth.
Until the sun across the fir-trees laid
His lines of level gold, they watched the bouts;
Then strayed by twos and threes toward the sound
Of wassail in the houses and the booths.

And Brita with her Ulvik gossips went.
Once only, when a Laerdal giant brought
Sore grief upon the men of Vik, she saw
Or seemed to see, beyond the stormy ring,
The shape of Lars; but, scarce disquieted
If it were he, or if the twain were there,
(Since blood, she thought, must surely cool in time,)
She followed to the house upon the knoll
Where ever came and went, like bees about
Their hive's low doorway, groups of merry folk.
A mellow dusk already filled the room;
The chairs were pushed aside, and on the stove,
As on a throne of painted clay, sat Nils.
Behold! Lars waited there; and as she reached
The inner circle round the dancing-floor
He moved to meet her, and began to say
"Thanks for the last" -- when from the other side
Strode Per.
The two before her, face to face
Stared at each other: Brita looked at them.
All three were pale; and she, with faintest voice,
Remembering counsel of the tongues unkind,
Could only breathe: "I know not how to choose."
"No need!" said Lars: "I choose for you," said Per.
Then both drew off and threw aside their coats,
Their broidered waistcoats, and the silken scarves
About their necks; but Per growled "All!" and made
His body bare to where the leathern belt
Is clasped between the breast-bone and the hip.
Lars did the same; then, setting tight the belts,
Both turned a little: the low daylight clad
Their forms with awful fairness, beauty now
Of life, so warm and ripe and glorious, yet
So near the beauty terrible of Death.
All saw the mutual sign, and understood;
And two stepped forth, two men with grizzled hair
And earnest faces, grasped the hooks of steel
In either's belt, and drew them breast to breast,
And in the belts made fast each other's hooks.
An utter stillnes on the people fell
While this was done: each face was stern and strange,
And Brita, powerless to turn her eyes,
Heard herself cry, and started: "Per, O Per!"

When those two backward stepped, all saw the flash
Of knives, the lift of arms, the instant clench
Of hands that held and hands that strove to strike:
All heard the sound of quick and hard-drawn breath,
And naught beside; but sudden red appeared,
Splashed on the white of shoulders and of arms.
Then, thighs entwined, and all the body's force
Called to the mixed resistance and assault,
They reeled and swayed, let go the guarding clutch,
And struck out madly. Per drew back, and aimed
A deadly blow, but Lars embraced him close,
Reached o'er his shoulder and from underneath
Thrust upward, while upon his ribs the knife,
Glancing, transfixed the arm. A gasp was heard:
The struggling limbs relaxed; and both, still bound
Together, fell upon the bloody floor.

Some forward sprang, and loosed, and lifted them
A little; but the head of Per hung back,
With lips apart and dim blue eyes unshut,
And all the passion and the pain were gone
Forever. "Dead!" a voice exclaimed; then she,
Like one who stands in darkness, till a blaze
Of blinding lightning paints the whole broad world,
Saw, burst her stony trance, and with a cry
Of love and grief and horror, threw herself
Upon his breast, and kissed his passive mouth,
And loud lamented: "Oh, too late I know
I love thee best, my Per, my sweetheart Per!
Thy will was strong, thy ways were masterful;
I did not guess that love might so command!
Thou wert my ruler: I resisted thee,
But blindly: Oh, come back! -- I will obey."

Within the breast of Lars the heart beat on,
Yet faintly, as a wheel more slowly turns
When summer drouth has made the streamlet thin.
They staunched the gushing life; they raised him up,
And sense came back and cleared his clouded eye
At Brita's voice. He tried to stretch his hand:
"Where art thou, Brita? It is time to choose:
Take what is left of him or me!" He paused:
She did not answer. Stronger came his voice:
"I think that I shall live: forget all this!
'T was not my doing, shall not be again,
If only thou wilt love me as I love."

"I love thee?" Brita cried; "who murderest him
I loved indeed! Why should I wish thee life,
Except to show thee I can hate instead?"
A groan so deep, so desperate and sad
Came from his throat, that men might envy him
Who lay so silent; then they bore him forth,
While others smoothed the comely limbs of Per.
His mother, next, unrolled the decent shroud
She brought with her, as ancient custom bade,
To do him honor; for man's death he died,
Not shameful straw-death of the sick and old.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net