And she was part of this! The first full tone Thrilled her breast too and woke a thousand mem'ries Of something that she ne'er before had known! On that first evening, when the curtain rose, With timid step one clad in white came forth And begged for Norway's art, for our young drama A home in Norway,--but with so great fear, The gentle voice was trembling, dim the eyes; Yet from the voice, the eyes, the form, the bearing Was heard a promise in sweet modesty; For she who spoke those first words on this Stage, That maiden dark with eyes so deep and true, Lo, it was she! And soon her art shone clear And softly radiant through the evening hours.-- With fairy lightness fell its magic gleams On hidden longings, sorrows half-concealed,-- But gently, tenderly. If joy she touched, 'T was always softly. But we all could feel A stream of power so full, that if she had In an unguarded hour let it flow free With all its deep and swelling tide sincere, It would have borne herself from earth away. In truth, the calmness of her course through life Was never weakness, but was strength controlled; Was never fear, but veneration deep For those whose souls are great: a model she For noble women as for forceful men,-- This wreath we weave for her pure memory. But what she thus had early taught herself, She taught to others. When upon the stage She stood, depicting woman's painful conflict With rudeness, violence, and wild desire, Then,--though she wielded but a woman's weapons, Her silent dignity, her subtle smile, Her light derision, all-subduing laughter,-- A spirit-dawn gleamed from their flashing play, To usher in a day of victory. She barriers raised around the woman weak (Down-trodden in a half-built social order), She stood forth here so many an evening-hour And talked to thousands of a woman's worth. though her call was not fully to free All that a woman's heart may hope and dream, She shielded it secure in all its beauty. This conflict made her reticent, severe;-- But sometimes in a song her spirit could Send forth glad tidings, messages of freedom, Her large free soul revealing. _Then_ we heard Such longing after full, unbroken peace, Our thoughts were captive held by sad foreboding.-- 'T is now come true!--The crape of mourning droops About her name, the tolling bell is still. Her final summons gather us once more Before her stage, and here our thanks we utter For what she gave us. So as _she_ had given, Has no one given. She gave of her sorrow, With bleeding heart beneath her winsome smile. She shared with us the tears her conflict brought, The radiant glory of her victory. Thanks, prayer-borne thanks, you noble soul, From all your brothers, from your sisters all! From Norway's youthful art enduring thanks! From women to their pure interpreter Farewell and thanks!--From all those whom you lifted On pinions of the spirit high to beauty Once more a wreath is brought,--it is the last.