His "grammar" was not printed! And he passed from mortal ken To where the laws of thought are not written with a pen. His "grammar" was not printed! But the life that it had, In ink's prolonging power did not need to be clad. It lived in his soul, so mighty, so warm, That a thousand books' life seems but poor empty form. It lives in a host of independent men, To whose thought he gave life and who give it again In the school, at the bar, in the church, and Storting's hall, In poetry and art,--whose deeds and lifework all Have proved to be the freer and the broader in their might, Because Heltberg had given their youth higher flight. FOR THE WOUNDED (1871) (See Note 51) A still procession goes Amid the battle's booming, Its arm the red cross shows; It prays in many forms of speech, And, bending o'er the fallen, Brings peace and home to each. Not only is it found Where bleed the wounds of battle, But all the world around. It is the love the whole world feels In noble hearts and tender, While gentle pity kneels;-- It is all labor's dread Of war's mad waste and murder, Praying that peace may spread; It is all sufferers who heed The sighing of a brother, And know his sorrow's need;-- It is each groan of pain Heard from the sick and wounded, 'T is Christian prayer humane; It is their cry who lonely grope, 'T is the oppressed man's moaning, The dying breath of hope;-- This rainbow-bridge of prayers Up through the world's wild tempest In light of Christ's faith bears: That love and loving deeds May conquer strife and passion; For thus His promise reads. LANDFALL (See Note 52) And that was Olaf Trygvason, Going o'er the North Sea grim, Straight for his home and kingdom steering, Where none awaited him. Now the first mountains tower; Are they walls, on the ocean that lower? And that was Olaf Trygvason, Fast the land seemed locked at first, All of his youthful, kingly longings Doomed on the cliffs to burst,-- Until a skald discovered Shining domes in the cloud-mists, that hovered. And that was Olaf Trygvason, Seemed to see before his eyes Mottled and gray some timeless temple Lifting white domes to the skies. Sorely he longed to win it, Stand and hallow his young faith within it. TO HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (AT A SUMMER-FÊTE FOR HIM IN CHRISTIANIA, 1871) (See Note 53) We welcome you this wondrous summer-day, When childhood's dreams on earth are streaming, To bloom and sing, to brighten and to pale; A fairy-tale, A fairy-tale, our Northland all is seeming, And holds you in its arms a festal space With grateful glee and whisperings face to face. Th' angelic noise, Sweet strains of children's joys, Bears you a moment to that home Whence all our dreams, whence all our dreams have come.