5© James Clirisiian Lindbcrg 



In Norway's soil. Through every rift among 



Her rocks, e'en as the native fir, its roots 



Shall creep ; and it shall blossom forth and bear 



Its fruit, yea, sevenfold refreshing fruit. 



With tears of yearning and repentence shall 



Its roots be watered ; peaceful sighs shall come 



Like gentle breaths of wind, to mellow, sweeten 



The juice that overfills the cup. As birds 



Send up to heaven their song, the church's voice 



Shall fill the air with praise, and as an oak, 



A hundred winters old, this tree shall spread 



Abroad its branches over all the land. 



Within its shelter, friendship, gentleness 



And love shall dwell, and from its shielding trunk, 



Shall gaze devoutly toward the setting sun. 



And in its pure and holy bark the Kings 



Of Norway's realm shall proudly carve their names. 



And round about, the flowers of innocence 



Shall stand on guard, sweet angels sent from heaven, 



And keep away the spectres of the night. 



Then one-eyed Odin, driven from place to place, 



Shall seek the deserts, and the naked rocks 



And there shall vainly strive to repossess 



His former power. There he will howl as doth 



A wounded wolf ; the tree shall gently stir 



Its leaves like angel wings and waft away 



Those piercing sounds, lest they shoitld terrify 



The tender babes, so newly born to Christ. 



The Ciiorus. Amen ! 



0/(7/. Thanks brothers, thanks, for strengthening thus my 

 words. 

 Do ye recall the island Stord which late 

 We passed ? There Hakon Athelstein, the Good,^^ 

 My great forerunner, dwelt, when he was called 

 To leave the banquet for the battle field. 

 And there to die the hero's death. O Hakon ! 

 My noble, gentle Hakon, best of kin ! 



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