Such was he till life was ended,
Though with age more venerated;
Now his beard had grown more hoary,
‘Chance he briefer told his story, —
But when fire, smoke, death, were reigning,
Dauntless Munter was remaining.
“When last spring was near completed,
To the bivouac came his mother;
As the dragon old he greeted,
Then to tears was moved our brother;
There the night-hours mute he measured,
Sat and smiled on her he treasured;
These the last words by them spoken, —
Now her old heart may be broken.
“Never “No,” whate’er she uttered;
To each notion she expounded
Only “ay” and “ay” he muttered,
Till her song at last resounded:
“Son, be not too rash or willful,
Better fly than fight unskillful;
Do not be a danger-hunter!”
“Ay — your pardon!” answered Munter.
“But his bullet had been molded, —
This the goal, and Death the master;
Now his valiant arms are folded,
Both in fortune and disaster.
’Twas but yesterday he fourished,
And his mouth tobacco nourished; —
He, as watch, the general warded,
And the hall’s war-council guarded.
“Late we read the record given, —
How, as if for mandate able,
Smoking, a grenade was driven
Midst the warriors round the table!
Munter, quick in fire and danger,
Wet his stiff hands, seized the stranger,
Shouldered it while it was burning,
Swiftly toward the exit turning;
“Reached the door, then dashed unsteady
O’er the porch, the heaven under, —
lo the steps had moved already,
When the bomb was rent asunder!
This was Munter’s deed immortal;
Now he languished at death’s portal;
Yet in fortitude he framed it,
His sole speech, “The devil aimed it!”
“Yet today, when morn had broken,
Did a spark of life still glimmer;
Calm was he, no murmur spoken,
As the veteran’s eye grew dimmer.
Poor old man! One arm was riven,
And through all the breast were driven
Remnants of the bomb-shell’s revel!
Munter said, “He burst, — the devil!”
“Thus he died, to fears a stranger, —
Man when life began and ended,
Slow in word, but quick in danger,
From his honor never bended;
Trained to deeds, but not to splendor,
Schooled all pleasures to surrender,
He would bear, in high or humble,
Every fault but one, — to grumble.
“If the world could bring requital
For our days and nights of sorrow, —
If the words for such recital
Finland’s gory fields could borrow, —
If our flags could fell their story
Of a Munter’s worth and glory,
Many a one in gold braid shining
Low before him were inclining!
“Yea, the memory moves me thorough,
Of his power to combat lended;
When ’twas bid to plough death’s furrow,
Friends, a noble steed attended;
Not disturbed nor disconcerted,
Never from his zeal diverted,
Moved he with the drum’s resounding,
Forward into battle bounding.
“Ah, what worth the birth expresses
Of this true and silent yoeman!
Child-like, though with whitened tresses,
He would scarce wish ill to foeman.
As his hands the host have battered,
So his teeth tobacco shattered;
Both by him were pressed and perished,
But they both were plants he cherished.
“Praise to him! Wave glory’s banner
O’er the tomb where he is hidden!
Manly mood, and manly manner,
Ye to lift his name are bidden.
Let no slave the hill encumber
Where the valiant one shall slumber!
No! By race through time respected
Ever be his grave protected!”
When had ceased the corporal hoary
And the hallowed sand forsaken,
Then the general, famed in story,
In his hand a spade had taken.
It was he who last had followed,
Strowing soft, o’er grave new-hollowed,
Dust of land our fathers cherish;
Let his spoken words ne’er perish!
And his speech was thoughtful treasured,
And each ear was fain to hear it, —
Though not grand or lofty-measured,
Yet set forth in Munter’s spirit;
Twas enough to witness ever
That our faithful homage never
For this warrior shall diminish; —
And the words were:— “He was Finnish!”
CANTO TWENTY NINTH. VON ESSEN.
General Adert Reinhold Von Essen, born 1755, was Lieutenant and Chief for the Savolaks regiment’s chasseurs, and took part in many battles, — Ypperi, Siikajoki and Oravais.
In the first thirty stanzas General Von Essen is portrayed as in his latter years. Presumably the circumstance described had taken place in 1820. In the last six stanzas of the poem is recounted an anecdote of Von Essen from the Battle of Ypperi Bridge, April 16th, 1808. It is uncertain if he fought at all at Savolaks. Even in his earlier years the General was ponderous of body, and the costume Runeberg places on him must needs increase his size and weight. After the war he became Major General, and died in 1837 at Borgá.
But in this story it seems that Matts, the General’s driver, is the real hero. His intrepidity, declared his master, had not been of one-night growth, but had long inhered “in the blood.” And its registration on his very features at the moment when he must defend himself against an imperious master, the latter had often seen carved on valiant faces at the moment of death, — even frozen into the lineaments of dead warriors in tents congealed with ice, — still maintained in death, as a mighty river yet maintains its current far out into the ocean. When a vassal burdened by the yoke of a selfish master, rises to his own just defense, even in a life-and-death battle if need be, that slave often suddenly becomes a man — even a hero.
The master of Matts desired a speedy peace, — and secured it on the only possible terms.
And then Von Essen’s forced philosophy (stanzas 23-29) grew at once very beautiful.
XXIX. VON ESSEN.
He stood on his porch-step glaring,
A riveted cap he wore,
His spurs and dragoon’s cloak wearing, —
To ride in a moment more.
A seventy-year defender,
A warrior in glance and mien,
Tall, silvery-haired and slender; —
His fashion you now have seen.
But why should his wrath be swelling?
He stamps in a raging storm.
In peace profound we are dwelling;
Why makes he such an alarm?
But hold! Let your calm not lessen, —
No danger do you survey;
You see the aged Von Essen,
You see his accustomed way.
Now clamors he. Hear his croaking,
As wrath pours out with his breath:
“Matts, driver, my scourge most provoking,
By rights I should strike you to death!
“How long must my calm be biding,
And all because of your sleep?
You w
ell know my hour of riding,
You know when my time you must keep!”
The driver came from the stable
With stallion so proud to see;
But the sleep, it was all a fable,
Or ‘chance did too quickly flee.
The steed with head high extended
Then forth he in silence led.
Thunder! Lightning! The charger splendid
Stood trembling, with foam o’erspread!
On his porch the general sprightly
Stepped out in his finest mold,
With spurs and in mantle knightly; —
Then his eye to the charger rolled.
He stood as of lightning stricken,
His eyes must have run astray:
“Say, knave, do my senses thicken?
Can this be your work? — Say nay!
“But if with deceit you labor,
And lies upon me bestrew,
Then quick will I take my saber,
And sunder your head in two!”
Now Matts was soldier and rider,
Nor easily was he abashed;
So o’er his own deed presider,
Defense for his exploit he flashed:
“What? Lies?” Thus in pride he parried,
“’Tis shame to be disbelieved.
Though heavier guilt I have carried,
Yet sir, I’ve never deceived.
“A mounted Cossack rode hither,
And bragged of his wondrous steed.
What? Should I before him wither? —
I wagered, and showed him speed!”
Von Essen, the old defender,
His bosom inflamed with fire,
Tall, silvery-haired and slender,
Then vaulted aloft with ire.
“Go,” shrieked he, “you vile rascallion!
Go back to the barn; and mind
You fetch to me, not the stallion,
But the heaviest whip you can find!”
Now Matts, in war unshaken,
Once target for death and lead,
His food of the state had taken; —
Now ate he Von Essen’s bread.
He went, in silence burning,
With his eye flashing fire around;
He went, and quickly returning,
Brought the heaviest whip to be found.
He reached it out to his master:
“In the line I was man, as you;
If ’twas shooting, shot I yet faster,
If bayonets, pierced I as two.
“If now like a horse I’m battered
And lashed, when I’ve done my best,
Then my foeman with kicks will be shattered,
The kicks of a horse oppressed!”
Von Essen this threat attended,
Stepped quickly backward, half dazed;
His fury seemed to be ended,
And mute on his man he gazed.
While gazing, he elevated
His body already tall,
And while mute he stood, and waited,
His features grew clearer all.
“Now hear you,” he shrieking started,
“Where get you such daring mood?
That comes from the days departed, —
Has been nourished long in the blood!
“Not first to-day I behold if;
That mood, — I have known it before; —
I have seen many faces unfold it
When opened death’s very door.
“I’ve seen it when Finland’s standard
Waved glad over victory’s plain; —
Again when in want we wandered, —
In ice-clad tents of the slain.
“And if, when your mood enhances
Your manhood as now, my son, —
If I, when I see your glances,
A stroke of the lash lay on, —
“By the God and Father of heaven,
Too little of worth I’d scored
To name the intrepid men even
With whom I have lifted my sword!
Go! Find you a friend to your thinking —
A pal brusque and mighty as you;
A glass for our honor be drinking; —
Here, fake a bright ducat, too.
My thanks for the fair recollection
You woke in my heart, I avow;
And thanks for your savage complexion; —
Now go, — to hell with you now!”
His eyebrow then stroked he tender,
A tear might have been discerned;
And conquered, the stern defender
Again to his room returned.
This bouncer’s fire did not lessen
Which I knew in his old attacks;
He still was the same Von Essen
That battled in Savolaks.
He was brisk, not drowsy in bearing. —
The mountains must now be tried;
And to bar out the cold he was wearing
High boots and a wolf’s warm hide.
When thus into dangers driven,
As common in lines foe-faced,
He sank in the snow-crust riven
Wherever his foot he placed; —
Then sweat from his brow was dropping,
Then his duties he felt too great;
And betimes, he must be stopping
Beneath his enormous weight.
But “Forward!” ordered he fiery
His men, with the same old glow;
“And carry me, soldiers, carry,
When marching I cannot go!”
Three marks, in pain and in pleasure,
Possessed he, valiant and good:
Proud spirit, a heart of full measure,
And animate, ardent blood.
CANTO THIRTIETH. THE BAGGAGE DRIVER.
The circumstance narrated in this canto happened about ten days after the victory at Siikajoki.
“Blume, or rather Blum (Mikael Adolf), was born 1785 in Tofsala, and took part as Lieutenant in the war of 1808-9, where he evinced great valor in the battles of Siikajoki, Lappo, Juutas and others. He died in Sweden 1864. If is possible that Runeberg referred to this one’s brother, Magnus Fredrick Blume, born I779 in the province of Bjorneborg, who likewise took part in the war, and fell at Lappo. — A third brother, Johan Berndt, born I770, distinguished himself at Siikajoki.” — Ernst Lagus.
Old man Spelt, the driver of the baggage-wagon, is supposed to be a character invented by Runeberg. But that the old man was a philosopher is revealed in the final five stanzas of the Canto.
XXX. THE BAGGAGE DRIVER.
Old man Spelt, shall he be all forgotten? Not
He was baggage driver, greater did not grow;
Would, like all his class, have reached oblivion hazy,
Had he not been called of drivers the most lazy.
It was worth a penny this old man to see, —
And that sorry horse he drove so lazily.
If the one with two legs could his steps so treasure,
Then the one with four legs money scarce could measure,
Such the speed and grooming that they each could claim;
Snarled the old man’s hair and horse’s tail the same.
Grolle from the stable dust was outward bearing,
Soot from his own fire-place Spelt’s old nose was wearing.
When they came, as always, hindmost in the track,
Surely then of laughter there was never lack;
Walked the horse in slumber, Spelt -on cart was sleeping,
And the Lord knows how the man his seat was keeping.
By degrees the outfit forward seemed to go;
Higher up the Northern tracts the truck moved slow;
Half of Osterbotten he had crossed, however,
And since leaving Nyland he had varied never.
And in this same manner was the journey made,
With the same loud laughing, if he moved or staid;
At each la
ugh, his whip cracked, and it had the feature
Of recoiling on him, or upon the creature.
Sloth, or dust, or speed, changed never on this train,
Spelt he was beyond redeeming, that was plain;
On his driver-clothes a whip were like a feather,
And through service too bore Grolle well-tanned leather.
So at last they came to Siikajoki’s strand, —
Now but frozen remnant of our father’s land.
Even this must soon be left, as booty fated, —
Yet the strong may break, the weak be vindicated.
Toward the eve was won the army’s first affray,
And the day of flight became a triumph day;
Backward soon should surge again the driven billow;
Altered be the current, and the followed follow.
Likewise ran the order soon from group to group:
“All must be by morning ready to break up!
Get the troops and baggage all at night in order,
And with joy at dawning seek the Southern border!”
All was ready; night came down; in peace all slept,
Only o’er young Ensign Blume sleep ne’er crept;
Jealous fire was burning in his soul each minute,
Grew his hut too hot; he found no resting in it.
To the step emerged he; all was dim and still,
And the silent stars of heaven shone clear and chill;
But within the east, mid forest tree-tops tinted,
Spread a pale-red line, of waking day that hinted.
Not a man, but wagons loaded, there he viewed,
Horseless, headed Northward, just as they had stood;
All things as before remained, in rest unshaken,
And the same march now seemed ready to be taken.
Did I say the same? No! Something new was found,
Not at first glance noted in the shadows round:
For the cart that hindmost lagged, when North departing,
Now stood turned about, with horse hitched up for starting.
By it stood a man who proud the reins now held;
Blumé scarce believed his senses, — it was Spelt!
Old man Spelt, who’d crossed the land with body bended,
By a whole head now his former height transcended!
Like one blithe and youthful he his years did bear,
Low upon his shoulders fell his silver hair;
Face now shaved, and nose washed, in the shadows nightly
Shone he brighter far than when the day shone brightly.
Scarcely could young Blumé then himself compose:
“Whence the stunning change, old man, your nature shows?
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 16