aried and bountiful in the expression he gives to life in its sensuous
phases as in its highest ascetic transports.

Do not imagine, then, that I am apologizing for Tegner, I am merely
trying to account for him. From his Homer, whom he loved above all other
poets, he had in a measure derived that artistic paganism which
perceptibly colored his personality. There was nothing of the scholarly
prig or pedant about him. In his lectures he gave himself, his own view
of life, and his own interpretation of his authors. And it was because
of the greatness of the man, the unhackneyed vigor of his speech, and
the power of his intellect that the students flocked to his lecture-hall
and listened with enthusiasm to his teaching.

I am not by any means sure, however, that much of his popularity was
also due to what, at this stage of his career, may without disrespect
be called his immaturity. That wholesome robustness in his acceptance
of life which finds utterance in his early songs must have established a
quick bond of sympathy between him and his youthful hearers. The
instincts of the predatory man were yet strong in him. The tribal
feeling which we call patriotism, the juvenile defiance which carries a
chip on its shoulder as a challenge to the world, the boastful
self-assertion which is always ridiculous in every nation but our
own--impart a splendid martial resonance to his first notable poem,
"War-Song for the Scanian Reserves" (1808). There was a charming, frank
ferocity in this patriotic bugle-blast which found an echo in every
Swedish heart. The rapid dactylic metres, with the captivating rhymes,
alternating with the more contemplative trochees, were admirably adapted
for conveying the ebullient indignation and wrath which hurls its
gauntlet into the face of fate itself,[28] checked, as it were, and
cooled by soberer reflection and retrospective regret. It is the sorrow
for the yet recent loss of Finland which inspires the elegiac tones in
Tegner's war-song; and it is his own ardent, youthful spirit, his own
deep and sincere love of country, which awakes the martial melody with
the throbbing of the drum and the rousing alarum of trumpets. What can
be more delightfully--shall I say juvenile--than this reference to the
numerical superiority of the Muscovites:

"Many, are they? Well, then, of the many
Sweden shall drink the red blood and be free!
Many? We count not the warriors' numbers
Only the fallen