When Fame Falters

The following text is Ísland, an 1835 poem written by the Icelandic poet Jónas Hallgrímsson in an effort to rouse the hearts of his compatriots in the centuries-long struggle preceding Icelandic independence. Just beneath the poem is my own cold response to it, in reply to the prompt: Consider how the significance of memory of the past has been reflected and developed in a literary text. Discuss the idea(s) developed by the author about the significance of our memory of the past. 

 

Iceland, fortunate isle! Our beautiful, bountiful mother!
Where are your fortune and fame, freedom and virtue of old?
All things on earth are transient: the days of your greatness and glory
flicker like flames in the night, far in the depths of the past.
Comely and fair was the country, crested with snow-covered glaciers,
azure and empty the sky, ocean resplendently bright.
Here came our famous forebears, the freedom-worshipping heroes,
over the sea from the east, eager to settle the land.
Raising their families on farms in the flowering laps of the valleys,
hearty and happy they lived, hugely content with their lot.
Up on the outcrops of lava where Axe River plummets forever
into the Almanna Gorge, Althing convened every year.
There lay old Þorgeir, thoughtfully charting our change of religion.
There strode Gissur and Geir, Gunnar and Héðinn and Njáll.
Heroes rode through the regions, and under the crags on the coastline
floated their fabulous ships, ferrying wealth from abroad.
O it is bitter to stand here stalled and penned in the present!
Men full of sloth and asleep simply drop out of the race!
How have we treated our treasure during these six hundred summers?
Have we trod promising paths, progress and virtue our goal?
Comely and fair is the country, crested with snow-covered glaciers,
azure and empty the sky, ocean resplendently bright.
Ah! but up on the lava where Axe River plummets forever
into the Almanna Gorge, Althing is vanished and gone.
Snorri’s old site is a sheep-pen; the Law Rock is hidden in heather,
blue with the berries that make boys — and the ravens — a feast.
Oh you children of Iceland, old and young men together!
See how your forefathers’ fame faltered — and passed from the earth!

Patriots. That was what my grandfather called the men of his generation. I remember when I would sit there at his feet, with my eyes, brown and wide, looking up at his noble face complaining about the cowardice so prevalent in American society. I can still remember hearing stories of the freedom-worshipping heroes who came over the sea from the east, eager to settle the land. He used to enthrall me with tales of the early pioneers and the brave fur traders and the devout pilgrims who came to the New World seeking a chance to pursue their dream born of guts and the willingness to shed blood and tears, if it ever came to that. I remember my grandfather talking about his brave comrades during the World Wars, and he wondered where the courage ran off to after peace began. Every time I look in the mirror and put my helmet on, I stare into my own eyes, still brown and still wide, and hear my grandfather’s whispers, haunting me still, saying, “See how your forefathers’ fame faltered, and passed from the earth!”

 

This is from the Icelandic Culture Seminar I had the honour of presenting with Shyla, Ibukun, and Tim. Our presentation can be found here: https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1ksQLIvMf0kNxYI7ePU0ZlBZl1sc7sbAVsI-J541wOJ0/edit#slide=id.g2916b0c6be_0_7

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