“When one heart another heart has mated,
Paltry then grows what before was mighty, —
Earth and heaven, homeland, father, mother.
More than earth in one embrace is gathered;
More than heaven is from an eye reflected;
More than mother’s counsel, father’s pleasure,
Murmurs in a sigh the ear scarce reaches!
O, what power can so enchant as loving,
And what fetters can enchain the lover?
O’er the ocean swims he like a spirit,
And with eagle wings he scales the mountains;
Long before the midday could return he,
Though unlooked for ere the night has fallen.”
Scare the aged man had caught her murmurs,
When, to dread foreboding now awakened,
Sped he forth to seek the one departed.
Mute he left the cot, mute took the pathway
Through the waste land winding dim and hidden;
Near the tree-tops had the sum descended
Ere the nearest farm he readied o’erwearied.
Void and lone as on the heath a pine-tree,
Where a forest fire has left its ravage,
Now appeared the one-time thrifty homestead;
But alone within the house, the hostess
Low above her cradled child was bending.
Not unlike a bird that without warning
Hears the sound of shot and whizzing bullet,
Starts in terror, flapping wild its pinions, —
From her chair thus sprang the youthful woman,
When she heard the grating door; but gladness
Filled her when she saw the old man’s features.
Up she sprang, his hand in her hands grasping,
While great tears her cheeks were overflowing:
“Welcome,” cried she, “hail thee, aged father,
Coming, dear in sorrow, to our dwelling!
Three times hail the glorious one thou’st fostered,
To protect the oppressed and shield the wretched!
Sit awhile, and rest thy limbs now weary,
And with gladness hear what I would tell thee:
Fierce has raged the war since earliest autumn,
And the land by friend and foe is wasted;
Yet were spared the lives of those defenseless.
But a single day has scarce departed
Since a band of men from nearest parish
Joined our army to attack the foemen.
Fought the battle was; we lost the triumph;
Few of all our numbers death evaded,
And like leaves in tempest these were scattered.
Now swept terror boundless, like a spring-flood,
O’er the country. Whether armed or helpless,
Man or woman, none was granted mercy!
Here the blood-stream swept at dawn of morning,
When for worship rang the earliest church bell,
And upon us broke a wave of ravage!
Bid me not prolong the tale of horror!
Bound upon the floor, my husband languished;
Blood was flowing, violence was reigning,
Need was sorest, and no help forthcoming.
I myself by eight fierce arms was taken
Like the victim of wild beasts contending!
Then a savior came, at hand was succor;
Storm-like to the cottage the Cloud’s Brother
Rushed; oppression ceased, and fell th’oppressors!
Here I sit within my rifled dwelling,
Poorer than the sparrow ‘neath the cornice;
Yet more glad than in my days of fortune
Shall I greet that hero and my husband,
If but safe return they from the village,
Whither they pursued the fleeing foemen!”
When the old man heard this final utterance,
He arose, as if too long delaying;
And his eye was dark with woe, and anxious.
Bid in vain to stay, he took the highway
Which should lead him to the prospered village.
Veiled was now the sun by distant forest,
When between alarm and hope, the old man
Reached the house where dwelt the temple’s pastor.
Here the whole domain seemed devastated,
Void and barren as a wasted island
Seen from frozen marsh on winter evening;
But within the cot, alone was sitting,
Tired of years, the aged soldier Klinga.
When the soldier heard the portal’s creaking,
Saw his friend of old-time days approaching,
Sprang he up, though sore of wounds and labors.
“Yet the day has light for us”, exclaimed he,
“When the young men follow in our footsteps,
Strength nor manhood in our land forgotten!
Here was held this day such holy service
That the child who heard it in his cradle,
Will relate it to his children’s children. —
Then, behold, like pack of wolves rapacious,
Came our country’s foe all triumph-drunken,
Blood and ravage bringing! — Lesser evils
All untold may rest, though unforgotten;
When at last the troop with blood was sated,
Yet remained with us the foes most brutal;
Then our misery all bounds transcended.
Now between two fiery steeds was fettered,
Hereto spared to us, our noble pastor,
Doomed on foot to follow the wild rider.
Short the doom were; for, ere many moments
Must his hand grow numb, his feet must fail him,
And his snow-white locks the dust be sweeping.
Stood alone the old man; then toward heaven
Turned his eyes, as eyes are heavenward turning
When on earth remain but night and darkness.
Praise and glory! Now at hand was rescue!
He whose birth was that of meadow-breezes,
Brother of the Cloud, lo! changed to lightning,
Swift struck down, and crushed there lay the foemen!
Here I’ve lived, supported by my comrades,
Like uprooted fir ‘gainst others fallen,
Weighty, and a burden for my neighbor;
But the gift of life I yet will treasure,
If from battle, near the temple raging,
Comes victorious home our noble hero!”
When the old man heard this last disclosure,
Sped he out, as one from fire would hasten;
Pale already was the glow of evening
Ere his feet had reached the old church hamlet.
Seemed the village, veiled in smoke and ashes,
Like a starry vault of heaven cloud-ravaged;
Stood the church beyond the hill-set village
Like a lonely star by clouds surrounded;
Over all the waste the silence brooded
Like the moonlight over barren autumn.
Midst the fallen warriors, friend and foeman,
Like a shadow over field of harvest,
Passed the old man. Everywhere death hovered,
And of life not e’en a sigh gave token.
At the ending of a winding footpath
Beaten through the devastated farm-lands,
Sat a youth, death-bleeding, by the wayside.
O’er his pallid cheek a flush was darting,
Transient as the tinge on skies of evening;
And his dimming eyes again were lighted,
When, aroused, he saw the old man nearing;
“Hail!” he cried, “Now is it easy bleeding, —
One midst many who are early granted
Death with triumph for their native country!
Hail thou, who hast reared our nation’s savior!
Three times hail the hero who has led us,
Mightie
r alone than we united!
Lo! With broken strength remained our forces,
Like a flock dispersed, without a shepherd,
Hopelessly now left to death’s dishonor.
None was here to call our men together,
No one counsel gave, nor counsel followed,
Till came he, till from the wilds deserted
Sprang the beggar’s son with brow so royal,
And his voice was heard, that called to combat.
Then each heart was filled with fire heroic,
Doubt and fear were fled; all knew the hero,
And with him we charged the hostile sword-blades,
As a storm-wind through the reeds is crashing.
Toward the church now look! Where’er the path leads,
Strewn behold our foes like straws in meadow,
Side by side laid low by scythe of reaper!
There the way lies which the hero traveled,
Which, since failed my feet, my glance has followed, —
Which my thoughts in death now likewise follow.”
Spoke he, and his dying eyes closed slowly.
So in silence was the day, too, closing;
Night-tide’s sun, the moon, alone and pallid,
To the churchyard lit the wanderer’s pathway.
When within the walls had stepped the old man,
Stood a human throng among the crosses,
Mute and spectral as the forms thereunder.
There was none who moved a step to meet him,
None who had a welcome word to utter,
None who spoke him even with an eye-glance.
When the aged man the circle entered,
At his very feet a youth lay prostrate, —
Though immersed in blood, yet full familiar,
Like a fir amid the pine-trees fallen;
Though in dust laid low, yet all unequaled,
Here, mid vanquished foemen, lay the hero.
But with hands together clasped, and voiceless,
As of lightning stricken, stood the old man;
And his cheek was white, his lips a-quiver,
Till his woe found words, and broke in anguish:
“Now my dwelling’s roof is rent asunder,
And my harvest-field by hail is ravaged;
Now the grave is worth far more than homestead!
Woe, that I again should thus behold thee, —
Thee, mine old-age stay, my life’s great glory,
Sent of heaven, and late so strong and glorious,
Now but as the sand where thou dost slumber!”
Scarce the old man’s mournful words were uttered,
When a voice was heard; it was his daughter’s.
She but late had entered, and she murmured:
“Dear was he, when to my heart pressed fondly, —
More than all things else that earth possesses;
Yet now doubly dear to me, the hero,
Cold upon the earth’s cold breast enfolded.
More than living, I have learned, was loving,
More than loving is like him to perish.”
She had spoken without tear or sobbing,
To the slain youth’s side then moved in silence,
Kneeling, took her handkerchief, and covered
Gently, silently, his transfixed forehead.
Mute and mournful stood the throng of warriors,
Like a grove where breath of air doth stir not;
Silent likewise stood the village women
Who had hither come to gaze in sorrow.
But again the noble maiden spoke them:
“If some one of you would bring me water,
That his forehead I might wash of blood-stains,
Stroking with my hand once more his tresses,
Looking on his eyes in death yet lovely,
Then “The Brother of the Cloud” so gladly
I would show to all, — the hapless beggar,
Who arose to be our country’s savior.”
When the old man heard the words she uttered,
Saw her at his side bereaved, forsaken,
He again took voice in accents broken:
“Woe to thee, ah woe! Afflicted daughter!
Joy of joys, thy sole relief in sorrow,
Shield in trials, father, brother, husband, —
All with him hath now from thee departed,
All is lost now, all is gone forever!”
At these words the throng made loud lamenting,
Nor was one who stood with eyelids tearless;
But the noble maiden’s tear-drops glistened,
As she took the dead youth’s hand and murmured:
“Not with grief shall be thy memory honored,
As of one who goes and is forgotten;
But thy fatherland shall o’er thee sorrow,
As the evening weeps its dew in summer,
Full of joy, and light, and calm and music,
And with arms outstretched to dawn of morning.”
CANTO FOURTH. THE VETERAN.
A type, rather than the story, of a poor and aged warrior who had fought in the war of 1788-90, and, like many of the veterans of this war, now wandered homeless from house to house, living on the charity of those who entertained him.
This typical veteran dwelt entirely in the past; but to-day he dons his festal garb, and comes to watch the great battle of Alavo. He is aroused to enthusiasm at the sight of martial scenes again, riveting his gaze where hottest raged the strife, while some apparently tutelary power rendered him immune from the bullets that whizzed everywhere around him.
The battle of Alavo, in Vasa province, was fought August 17, 1808, and after the bravest fighting on both sides, was signally won by the numerically superior Finnish forces under Karl Johan Adlercreutz.
This general (1757-1815) was one of the most illustrious commanders in the Finnish war, being leader in the majority of its great actions, — at Lappo, Alavo, Ruona, Salmi, Oravais and Siikajoki. And he was not only a skilled warrior, but a man beloved by those whom he commanded. In 1813 he fought against Napoleon, and in 1814 was in the war against Norway.
He died in Stockholm, and was buried with great state in Riddarholm Church.
His greatness has been sung by Geijer, Jornegren, and by Runeberg in eight of the Cantos of this cycle.
IV. THE VETERAN.
He raised himself majestic
Within his dusky cot;
By weight of years though bended,
Tall seemed the patriot.
A mighty change came o’er him,
That self-same instant shown;
A lofty martial bearing
In every move had grown.
Most needy was he elsewise
When active life had waned;
From former valiant combats
Naught else than scars remained.
He long had homeless wandered
Through years that now were past;
At Rojko farm found shelter
In Alavo at last.
And now arose he sudden,
As if from slumber torn,
Beginning to divest him
Of daily garb so worn; —
Put on his festal costume
For many years his care,
On both sides brushed his tresses
Of long and silvery hair.
He stood like soldier ready
Some journey to pursue,
His aspect reverence-waking,
His vestments gold and blue.
A massive brass-bound helmet
His forehead lofty spanned, —
A death-calm held his features,
A wanderer’s staff his hand.
The sun, for long days hidden,
Now shed his brilliant light;
The seventeenth of August
Was summer-warm and bright;
O’er field and sea the breezes
Breathed gently in their play.
Where
would this aged warrior
Upon this beauteous day?
Ah, whither would he wander?
And where his footsteps fall?
Had home become too lonely,
His cottage-nook too small?
This uniform so festal
Why donned the patriot?
Was it the sacred Temple
The aged warrior sought?
The bells within this temple
Sent out no ringing sound;
Closed was the wall’s great portal,
The church in silence bound.
This day within God’s dwelling
Why should one seek to stray?
The seventeenth of August
Was not a festal day.
Yet, to the old man’s thinking,
God’s service hour was here, —
If not inside the temple,
The service should be near.
For round it, on the hillocks,
From heath to in-sea’s strand,
Were fighting Finland’s soldiers
Just now for king and land.
The seventeenth of August
Was summer-warm and clear,
And for the old-time warrior
A holiday was here.
Straight marched he to the summit
Where Finland’s flags did play; —
He would behold God worshiped
By Adlercreutz to-day.
He longed to hear the clashing
Of sword-blades yet once more,
The full familiar echo
Of great field-cannons’ roar; —
Would call to recollection
His young life’s valiant mood,
See this new race of fighters, —
The courage of its blood.
So you could sense his purpose,
Perchance could know it well;
Though you his thoughts beheld not,
His steps the tale would tell.
He took his way in calmness,
As one had well discerned,
And reached the Temple’s court-yard,
Where war the hottest burned.
There sat he by the wayside,
With battle-field in view,
Gazed o’er the Finnish army
And o’er the Russian too.
Where raged the battle keenest
Was fixed his eager glance,
And oft, as if transfigured,
Beamed bright his countenance.
The bullets past him straying
Sped on in whizzing flight,
And death’s most noble harvest
Was reaped before his sight.
But from the spot he moved not,
Both calm and glad his face;
Immune from every bullet,
The old man held his place.
And mid the ceaseless changes
Which battle-fortunes mete,
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 5