[The following selections are given in translations of my own, excepting ‘The Princess,’ which was made by Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole, and the last two, for which I am indebted to the edition of Bjoernson’s novels translated by Professor Rasmus B. Anderson, and published by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.  The extracts from ‘Sigurd Slembe’ are taken from my translation of that work published by the same firm.—­W.M.P.]

[Illustration:  signature of William M. Payne]

OVER THE LOFTY MOUNTAINS

(From ‘Arne’)

Often I wonder what there may be
Over the lofty mountains. 
Here the snow is all I see,
Spread at the foot of the dark green tree;
Sadly I often ponder,
Would I were over yonder.

Strong of wing soars the eagle high
Over the lofty mountains;
Glad of the new day, soars to the sky,
Wild in pursuit of his prey doth fly;
Pauses, and, fearless of danger,
Scans the far coasts of the stranger.

     The apple-tree, whose thoughts ne’er fly
        Over the lofty mountains,
     Leaves when the summer days draw nigh,
     Patiently waits for the time when high
        The birds in its bough shall be swinging,
        Yet will know not what they are singing.

     He who has yearned so long to go
        Over the lofty mountains—­
     He whose visions and fond hopes grow
     Dim, with the years that so restless flow—­
        Knows what the birds are singing,
        Glad in the tree-tops swinging.

     Why, O bird, dost thou hither fare
        Over the lofty mountains? 
     Surely it must be better there,
     Broader the view and freer the air;
        Com’st thou these longings to bring me—­
     These only, and nothing to wing me?

     Oh, shall I never, never go
        Over the lofty mountains? 
     Must all my thoughts and wishes so
     Held in these walls of ice and snow
        Here be imprisoned forever? 
        Till death shall escape be never?

     Hence!  I will hence!  Oh, so far from here,
       Over the lofty mountains! 
     Here ’tis so dull, so unspeakably drear;
     Young is my heart and free from fear—­
       Better the walls to be scaling
       Than here in my prison lie wailing.

     One day, I know, shall my free soul roam
       Over the lofty mountains. 
     O my God, fair is thy home,
     Ajar is the door for all who come;
       Guard it for me yet longer,
       Till my soul through striving grows stronger.

THE CLOISTER IN THE SOUTH

From ‘Arnljot Gelline’

“Who would enter so late the cloister in?”
“A maid forlorn from the land of snow.” 
“What sorrow is thine, and what thy sin?”
“The deepest sorrow the heart can know. 
I have nothing done,
Yet must still endeavor,
Though my strength is none,
To wander ever. 
Let me in, to seek for my pain surcease;—­
I can find no peace.”