Kleven - Jorgen Ingebrektsem Moe

Tread near the brink of the mountain here,
And let my home’s fair, blooming valley
With friendly greeting round us rally
The sons of countries far and near.
The lofty peaks with brows of snow,
The darksome woods and plains below,
The shining lakes,—all chime and sing
The glory of our Norway’s spring.

But through this open rocky gate
Not Nature’s voice alone doth reach thee;
The legends of the great past teach thee
Its tales of deeds both bold and great,
For yonder quivering birches keep
Their vigils o’er the heroes’ sleep.
Once walked St. Olaf on this height,
And here he gained his kingly sight.

And still on his ancestral farm
The peasant dwells and proudly glances
Out o’er the valley’s wide expanses.
Still keen, large-sighted, strong of arm,
Amid large memories grew his youth.

Thou ’lt find him yet the same, forsooth.
Go there thyself, this summer eve,
And test him, judge him, and believe.

Hark, brother, from the far-famed land
With lakes broad-breasted, pine-clad highlands,
Hark, brother, from the milder islands,
E’en here on homelike soil ye stand.
O North, thou art fore’er the same,
By rocks embraced, in ocean’s frame.
When ye have felt it, come, we ’ll hail
The sturdy dweller of the vale.

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Jorgen Ingebrektsem Moe (1813 - 1882) Norway
Translated by Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen