N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'Den signede Dag med Fryd vi ser'

THE BRIGHT BLESSED DAY WITH JOY WE SEE

 

The bright blessed day with joy we see

Rise out of the sea at dawning;

It lightens the sky unceasingly,

Our gain and delight adorning!

As children of light we sense that soon

Dark night will give way to morning!

 

Our Lord chose the blessed midnight hour

To come down without our knowing,

Then clear in the east in dawn’s pale bower

The sun’s hues in strength were growing:

Then light filled the sky, in which the earth

Shall shimmer with inner glowing!

 

Were each forest tree to come alive,

And each leaf a voice be granted,

The law of God’s mercy they’d contrive

In vain in words to have chanted;

Since Life’s Light now shines for ever more,

In old and young firmly planted!

 

Yea, though every blade of grass could speak,

In meadow or field or clearing,

A thanksgiving hymn they could not seek

To sing for our human hearing,

Befitting the day, for light and life,

While eons their course are steering.

 

In vain would the weak man try who chose

To conquer the mountain summit,

The eagle is wily, though, and knows

The wind will not let it plummet,

And even the small blithe lark can brave

The sky and yet overcome it.

 

The river so brash with thund’rous noise

From crag-face comes downwards crashing 

The streams down below have no such voice,

Though murmur with gentle plashing,

So gently they wind through grassy lea

Up under the lime trees splashing!

 

So thank we our God, our father good,

As larks in their dawn-time chorus,

For each day he gave, as so we should

For life he from death won for us,

For all that has nurtured human souls

For thousands of years before us!

 

As long as we see the golden day,

And woods are the Danes’ own bowers,

We’ll deck every pew with sprigs of may

And forefathers’ graves with flowers

A wonderful feast of life and joy,

A Whitsuntide gift that’s ours!

 

And then from our eyes will start to flow

Mild tears like a stream now thriving,

And streams join and to a river grow

That fain for Life’s Source is striving

It secretly gains, like some deep sigh,

So early yet late arriving!

 

And no day can have so long a growth

That evening cannot be sighted,

Its light and its setting sun are both

What God in his church has lighted;

But ever again it dawns anew

For hearts who in morn delighted!

 

Let day gently glide this Whitsuntide,

With haloing rays full-flashing!

The hours pleasing God as past they slide,

As meadowland stream soft-plashing,

So joyously now the last one winds,

Up under the lime trees splashing!

 

Like gold is the dawn just moments old,

When day from its death is rising,

Yet we too are kissed with lips of gold

By sunset so sweet-enticing,

Then every dull gaze will glint afresh,

Pale cheeks with new blush surprising!

 

We’ll journey then to our fatherland,

Where no day lies still thereafter,

Where stands a strong castle, proud and grand,

Whose halls all resound with laughter,

And there we will talk till time is done

In light with our friends hereafter!

 

N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'Nu falmer Skoven trindt om Land'

 

NOW EVERY WOOD GROWS PALE AND WAN

 

Now every wood grows pale and wan

and voice of bird soon parting,

the stork has crossed the shore and gone –

pursued by swallows darting.

 

Where fields but recently like gold

with ears of corn were swaying,

is only soil that’s black and cold

with stubble old and greying.

 

But threshing floor and barn are now

where we God’s gifts have treasured,

where active toil and wealth will grow

from stooks in bushels measured.

 

And he who out of earthly clay

let golden corn be scaling

is with us with his word alway,

the word that’s never-failing.

 

Him do we thank with songs of praise

for all that he’s been giving:

for summer cornfields all ablaze,

his word, and life for living!

 

Then over us throughout the year

he lets his peace shine gently,

and, winter over, spring is here

with summer, corn and plenty.

 

And when at last at his command

from earth we must be wending,

with God in paradise we’ll stand

in summer never-ending.

 

Then we shall reap as birds do now

though theirs was not the sowing,

then we shall ne’er remember how

earth’s toil and strife kept growing.

 

For harvest there and harvest here

to God all praise and glory,

who by our Lord, Christ Jesus dear

would be our Father surely.

 

May then his mighty spirit move

and us, in days fast waning,

raise up through faith and hope and love

till paradise attaining!

 

 

N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'De levendes land'

 

The land of the living

 

              I know of a land

Where hair does not grey, and where time’s rule is banned,

Where sun does not burn, and where wave does not ring,

Where autumn embraces the blossoming spring,

Where morning and evening unceasingly dance

              In noon’s brightest glance.

 

              Oh, wonderful land,

Where glass does not run full of tear-drops as sand,

Where nothing is wanting that’s worth holding dear,

Where that does not lack which so pained us back here!

With breast filled with longing we seek ever more

              Your sweet-smiling shore.

 

              Oh, long-promised land!

We greet you in morning hour’s mirror-clear strand,

When perfect your shadow the child may espy

And where woods are green dreams that there you must lie,

Where too it can share with the rushes and flowers

              Its smile and its hours.

 

              Oh, transient dream

Of island eternal in time’s rushing stream!

Of joy’s sacred temple in life’s vale of tears,

Of life half-divine in this hall’s mortal years!

The land of the living with you melts away

              From those made of clay.

 

              Oh, hope-dashing dream!

You glittering bubble on time’s rushing stream!

In vain would the poet, with voice and with pen,

From bright-gleaming shadows create you again;

Where shadow comes closest, the small will all weep

              Who on it gaze deep.

 

              Oh, spell-binding dream

Of pearl that’s eternal in time’s rushing stream!

You fool those poor persons who all seek in vain

In image and art what the heart would retain,

And make them call lasting what just disappears

              Like days, months and years.

 

              Oh, spirit of love!

Your hand let me kiss, reaching down from above

From heaven’s fair skies to this earth’s murky hold

And touching our eyes with its fingers of gold,

So blue-tinged there climbs behind surf-roaring strand

              The wonderful land!

 

              Oh, heavenly name,

Whose sacred embrace does our nature enflame,

So spirit can mingle with dust without grief

And bring back to life every dead withered leaf!

Oh, deep in my clay let me fall on my knee

              So God may see me!

 

              Oh, faith beyond bliss,

Whose high-vaulted bridge spans the gaping abyss

When drifting ice threatens in surf-roaring strand

From poor mortal dwelling to far promised land!

Come farther down to me, you high-honoured guest!

              That pleases you best.

 

              Oh, hope fleet of wing!

Oh, brother reborn through divine christening!

For all journeys made to the land o’er the sea,

Good tidings and comfort you’ve lavished on me,

May I ever thank you, so joy is in store

              When hope is no more!

 

              Oh, love perfect love!

Quiet source of fierce torrents that mightily move!

He calls you his father who ransoms our plight

Your spirit all soul’s vital force does ignite;

Your kingdom is there where man death does defy;

              May us it be nigh!

 

              Our father sublime!

You willingly reign in earth’s temple of grime,

Who builds up the spirit in Jesu’s sweet name,

In human embrace with an altar aflame,

With heaven-bright dwelling of faith dearly won,

              For you and your son.

 

              Oh, Christian faith sweet!

You grant every heart what the world cannot greet;

What barely we glimpse while our eye is still blue,

Is living within us, we know this is true;

Both heaven and earth are my land, life confides

              Where love e’er resides.

N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'Er lyset for de lærde blot'

 

Is light but for the learnèd few

 

Is light but for the learnèd few

to try and spell unstriven?

No, heav’n would bless all others too 

and light’s a gift from heaven,

the sun will with the farmer go

the learnèd few eschewing,

it best lights up from top to toe

the one who’s up and doing.

 

Is light the planets’ sole domain

no sight and speech possessing?

Is not the word our mouth can frame

a light where souls find blessing!

Thereby all spirits we behold,

as sun’s rays bodies brighten,

it strikes like lightning in the soul

and does from clouds enlighten.

 

Does light on certain terms alone

deserve our praise so poorly?

Is light not everywhere a boon!

For it is life’s eye surely!

Shall we because of errant ways

in spirit’s vault of heaven

on pitch-black darkness rather gaze

than on sun’s blazing beacon!

 

No, from the North was never heard

that light we would be dimming!

like northern lights in free-born word

’twas seen in heaven gleaming,

and shall at northern pole be seen

not only here ’mongst mortals;

midsummer’s valiant sun’s bright sheen

defies black midnight’s portals!

 

Enlightenment shall be our joy,

though reeds alone be brightened,

but first and last with common voice

may all life be enlightened;

it has its source in common deed

and grows as it is tended,

may it our common council feed

till evening star is ended!

 

Danish folk song: 'Der var en lørdag aften' (1849 version)

I waited for you only

 

//: I waited for you only

quite late one Saturday – ://

//: you promised you would visit me

but never came my way! ://

 

My head upon my pillow

such bitter tears I shed;

and every time I heard the door

I thought you to me sped.

 

I rose on Sunday morning

and plaited my long hair;

and as I hurried to the church

I spoke a silent prayer.

 

The church though you’d not entered

so you I did not find, –

another love you now have found,

and I am out of mind.

 

I walked back home so lonely

and frequently did sigh,

at every step along the path

a tear fell from my eye.

 

The lovely crimson ribbons

that you once gave to me

upon my dress I’ll wear no more,

my grave is all I see.

 

Where can one pick fair roses

where no such roses grow!

Where in a heart can one find love

where there is no such glow!

 

I wished to pick fair roses,

no more will I do so;

I loved you fervently, but love

henceforth I shall forgo!

Edvard Hoem: 'I vika langt mot vest'

 

IN THE FAR-WESTWARD BAY

 

In the far-westward bay, along dark shores

the autumn swans return, I now can see.

They rock in silence close to land once more

And at high tide are mirrored in the sea.

I have seen faces that contort with pain,

I have seen people part but with a frown,

heard doors that slam, cars drive off once again,

but now the swans return and settle down.

There was a world, a coast, far to the north,

one such clear autumn day, with winter near,

I sat and viewed the far end of a fjord

and swishing wings approaching I could hear.

Then all fell silent. Many years passed by.

Now I hear beating wings again on high.

 

Edvard Hoem: 'Stormvarsel'

 

GALE WARNING

 

We who live near the shoreline have learnt day by day

what the weather will be like from signs we find plain:

When frogs turn quite dark, and the sea becomes grey,

and cats and dogs start eating grass it means rain.

But when waves’ booming is heard in the sound it

means a gale.

 

It is quiet, and I get on with things as I choose,

but I feel somehow restless from omens I see.

If I turn on the wireless, or read the day’s news

Frightful weather in gusts I can sense close to me.

A storm’s brewing when gulls come and visit me:

A storm’s brewing when gulls come in flocks.

 

Evening mail has arrived from a nephew in Spain.

He has now disembarked with a gun in his hand.

In a cave near the Ebro where bombs fall like rain

there’s a sea dog from Utvik who now fights on land.

And when black-backed gulls make for the high ground it

means a gale.

 

When will they come back, those who take to the sea?

It’s a good thing they know every trace, every sign.

I have ears that can hear, and I see what I see:

I hook fast my windows, though it’s still as can be.

For when waves’ booming is heard in the sound it

means a gale.