Thursday, 29 May 2025

Henrik Wergeland: 'Pigen paa Anatomikammeret'

 


Pigen paa Anatomikammeret

 

– – Jo det er Hende! O lys hid!

Og slip ei Kniven end paaglid

i denne Armes Hjerte!

O, der er rædsom Vittighed

i Lampens Blik, som stirrer ned

paa denne døde Smerte.

 

Saa kold, dengang den aanded, saae

den stolte Verden jo derpaa?

Og frække Øine skar

det Slør igjennem tidligt, som

den stakkels Piges Fattigdom

af gyldne Drømme bar.

 

Som Blomst i Isen frossen ind

jeg seer et Træk paa denne Kind,

som vel jeg bør at kjende.

Thi Fryden i min Barndomsleeg,

før altfor høit min Skulder steeg,

– o var den ikke Hende.

 

Tversover boed’ hun for os,

i Armod født, som i sit Mos

paa Taget Stedmorsblommen.

Fornemme Folk kun fatted’ svært,

at Blod saa fagert og saa skjært

af Fattigfolk var kommen.

 

Ak, mangt sligt Aasyn dog jeg saae

som Maanedsrosens Pragt forgaae,

som Sommerfuglestøvet!

Dem Skjebnens Haand for haardt vel tog,

og Syndens Spor dem overjog

som Sneglens Sliim paa Løvet.

 

 

The girl in the dissection room

 

– – Yes, it is her! Oh light here, quick!

Let not the knife yet even flick

across this poor girl’s heart!

Oh, what cruel irony does glow

in this lamp’s gaze that stares down so

on dead pain set apart.

 

So cold, yet when it breathed did not

the proud world gaze at it a lot?

And bold eyes soon sliced through

the veil of golden dreams that she

the poor girl against poverty

wore when as child she grew.

 

Like flower frozen in the ice

this cheek bears traits that in a trice

should be well-known to me.

For childhood games that brought me joy,

before I was no longer boy,

– Oh surely it was she.

 

She lived just opposite from us,

of humble birth, like in its moss

the roof’s heartsease could thrive.

Fine folk could hardly contemplate

that blood so fair and delicate

from paupers could derive.

 

Ah, many a face as this saw I

like monthly rose’s splendour die,

as butterfly-dust brief!

Fate’s hand too firmly must have grasped,

and sin’s trace to such lives have clasped

like snail’s slime on the leaf.



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