Older men remember rather "New Year!" ringing o'er the Northland. How it power had to gather Leaders to a greater age Do you him remember leaping Forth, his horn so gladly winding, Back the mob on all sides sweeping From the progress of the great? Play of thought 'mid tears and laughter, Fauns and children were about him; Freedom's beacons high thereafter Kindled slowly of themselves. And his words soon found a hearing, Peace of heart flowed from his music; All the land thrilled to the nearing Of a great prophetic choir. *** In his manhood he defended All that greatness has and beauty; Later he the stars attended In their silent course to God. Northern flowers were his pleasure, As an aged genial gardener, From his nation's springtime treasure Culling seed for deathless growth. Now with humor, now sedately, He kept planting or uprooting, While the Danish beech-tree stately Gave his soul its evening peace. There the tree we saw him under, And the garden gate is open, While we cast a glance and wonder Whether some one sits there still. THE OCEAN (FROM ARNLJOT GELLINE) (See Note 8) ... Oceanward I am ever yearning, Where far it rolls in its calm and grandeur, The weight of mountain-like fogbanks bearing, Forever wandering and returning. The skies may lower, the land may call it, It knows no resting and knows no yielding. In nights of summer, in storms of winter, Its surges murmur the self-same longing. Yes, oceanward I am ever yearning, Where far is lifted its broad, cold forehead! Thereon the world throws its deepest shadow And mirrors whispering all its anguish. Though warm and blithesome the bright sun stroke it With joyous message, that life is gladness, Yet ice-cold, changelessly melancholy, It drowns the sorrow and drowns the solace. The full moon pulling, the tempest lifting, Must loose their hold on the flowing water. Down whirling lowlands and crumbling mountains It to eternity tireless washes. What forth it draws must the one way wander. What once is sunken arises never. No message comes thence, no cry is heard thence; Its voice, its silence, can none interpret. Yes, toward the ocean, far out toward ocean, That knows no hour of self-atonement! For all that suffer release it offers, But trails forever its own enigma. A strange alliance with Death unites it, That _all_ it give Him,--itself excepting! I feel, vast Ocean, thy solemn sadness, To thee abandon my weak devices, To thee let fly all my anxious longings: May thy cool breath to my heart bring healing! Let Death now follow, his booty seeking: The moves are many before the checkmate! Awhile I'll harass thy love of plunder, As on I scud 'neath thy angry eyebrows; Thou only fillest my swelling mainsail, Though Death ride fast on thy howling tempest; Thy billows raging shall bear the faster My little vessel to quiet waters.