Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg

by Johan Ludvig Runeberg

So spake he, and, arising from the throne,

  Took by the hand his son, and forth he strode,

  As ever stately, from the warriors’ circle,

  And left sepulchral silence in the hall.

  LVIII

  Years came and fled again; King Fialar’s fame

  Was carried by report from land to land;

  But of the fate that had befallen his daughter

  None on the wide earth heard a word, a sound.

  KING FILIAR. SONG II

  Whose, then, is she to be, the Maid of Selma,

  And who shall cull thee, rosebud of the groves?

  Thou, wafting breeze about the banks of rivers,

  Whose fate shall be thy fragrance cool to breathe?

  I

  STATELY the heroes’ city Selma mirrors

  In Crona’s waves her lofty, gleaming towers,

  And from the east the sun arisen poureth

  O’er Morven’s realm a flood of radiant light.

  II

  Bright is the hall where Fingal throned aforetime,

  And yet within it there are wandering now,

  In dismal mood, the three sons of Morannal,

  The aged ruler of the land of song.

  III

  Gall of the Bow betrays a gloomy presence,

  And Rurmar of the Harp is wan with grief;

  Lately returned from distant fields of battle,

  In silence broods defiant Clesamor.

  IV

  Stealthy their glances each on each are bending,

  Threats are enkindled in the princes’ looks;

  And thunders, in their bosoms deeply hidden,

  Await the hour to flash in lightning forth.

  V

  Why may no gladness thrive within the palace,

  Nor concord in the glowing morning’s calm?

  And wherefore must a brother frown, whenever

  His brothers chance to meet his gazing eye?

  VI

  Such, in the days of Ossian and of Fingal,

  Was in the king’s hall not the way of life;

  The harp resounded only tones of gladness,

  The song enchanted, praising deeds of fame.

  VII

  Strong men they were, the men of by-gone ages;

  And like the flames that waste a tottering wood,

  Bursting the ranked array of thronging foemen,

  They swept on headlong in the hour of fight,

  But when the strangers’ insolence was broken,

  And when in Selma they were seen once more,

  They soon again were of a temper sweeter

  Than sunny rays upon a summer day.

  IX

  Why are the sons of great men so forgetful

  Of ways their fathers trod? Why nourish hate

  Which, if it swell into a full-blown fury,

  May one day break the peace of Morven’s realm?

  X

  Behold, within the burg there blooms a maiden;

  Through her has Gall forgot to use his bow;

  To her his love-songs Rurmar has devoted;

  For her has Clesamor engaged in fight.

  XI

  Whose, then, is she to be, the Maid of Selma,

  And who shall cull thee, rose-bud of the groves?

  Thou, wafting breeze about the banks of rivers,

  Whose fate shall be thy fragrance cool to breathe?

  XII

  At last the silence in the hall is broken;

  Gall of the Bow, the eldest one in years,

  Lifts up his voice in presence of the princes,

  And thus, with jealous ire repressed, he speaks —

  XIII

  “We are the sons of Morven’s king, Morannal,

  To him the selfsame mother bore us all;

  High from the courses of the clouds in heaven

  Great ancestors cast down on us their looks.

  XIV

  “There gazes Fingal, threatening, from the welkin

  To spy, if still an enemy may shrink

  From risking an approach unto those highlands

  Where he was wont in happy youth to fight.

  XV

  “What is to be the fate of memory’s Morven,

  The country of the loud-resounding strings,

  If with a malice poison-fraught its princes

  Seek every one to lay his fellow low?

  XVI

  “Forsooth, but one can win for bride Oihonna,

  For wife the sister of the morning sky.

  The boundless width of earth is flowered all over

  With maidens for the other two to choose.

  XVII

  “Up, let us go, and meet in peaceful parley

  The aged lord who whiles away his days

  Within the tower; the sightless king, our father,

  Must now decide our contest once for all.”

  XVIII

  Unto the old king then their way they wended.

  “O father, long has hidden spite been rife

  Within thy burg, and malice been instilling

  Into our bosoms its insidious breath.

  XIX

  “Brother has shunned the company of brother,

  And followed stealthily his steps aloof.

  But now we yearn for reconciliation,

  Lest into mourning we should plunge thy realm.

  XX

  “We burn, each one, with passion for Oihonna,

  Our feud was kindled for her sake alone;

  But strife and hope shall be at end together,

  If she be given to one of us for bride.

  XXI

  “With equal love thou ever hast embraced us;

  Howe’er thou choose, by that choice we abide.

  Declare on whom thou wilt bestow the maiden

  From the wide ocean’s azure-distant bound.”

  XXII

  The aged king remained awhile in silence,

  And weighed his sons’ appeal within his soul.

  Awhile he seemed distraught with hesitation,

  But in the end delivered his reply —

  XXIII

  “Free did the Ocean render me Oihonna,

  She saw but freedom on the waves’ expanse,

  And unrestrained she has been left to mirror

  Her childhood freely in our tranquil streams.

  XXIV

  “She, like a breeze, has strayed about the billows,

  Like fragrant air around our smiling shores;

  And she has been to me a very sunbeam

  Amidst the dark night of my waning life.

  XXV

  “Free must the Breeze be left to wings uplifted,

  The Fragrance, in the arms of space to soar,

  The Beam, to choose itself the path it follows.

  By me Oihonna shall not be compelled.

  XXVI

  “Gall, with thy bow she is in love, may happen,

  Or even, Rurmar of the Songs, with thee;

  She has, perchance, set in her heart to follow

  Thy ways among the swords, O Clesamor.

  XXVII

  “Yourselves must venture; such is my decision;

  Age gives the first, the last, his proper place.

  The favoured, the rejected are forbidden

  Thenceforth to harbour spite for evermore.”

  XXVIII

  There sat by Crona, in the cooling hollow,

  The lock-befluttered maiden of the sea.

  And there stood Gall, in all his stately presence,

  Before the young girl’s coyly startled gaze.

  XXIX

  “Wilt thou, Oihonna, be my life’s companion?

  The hunter loves thee, rosy-tinted cloud!

  The prince of lofty mountain heights entreats thee.

  To be a sharer in his paths’ delights.

  XXX

  “Saw’st thou the joyful sights of airy regions

  High from the mountains in
the morning hour?

  Saw’st thou the sunbeams ever re-awakened

  Imbibe the dew-drops of the quivering mists?

  XXXI

  “Rememb’rest thou the woodland sounds, when breezes

  Touch, passing, with their wings the trembling leaves,

  When birds are jubilant, and wild with gladness

  The brooklet bounds along between the rocks?

  XXXII

  “Or know’st thou how the heart-beat throbs and quickens

  When, at the mingled cry of horns and hounds,

  The bushes crack, and, in his spring arrested,

  The stag before our eyes is brought to bay?

  XXXIII

  “O maiden, if thou love the dusky evening,

  The twinkling lustre of the pallid stars,

  Then come with me, and from the top of Mallmor

  We’ll watch together how the night is born.

  XXXIV

  “Oh, often have I sat upon the mountain,

  When in the west his glittering gate the Sun

  Had shut, and slowly had the glow of evening

  Faded away upon the sombre cloud;

  XXXV

  “Have drunk the coolness of the evening’s breathing,

  Beheld the shadows straying through the vales,

  And round the ocean of the nightly silence

  Have left my thoughts at liberty to roam.

  XXXVI

  “On cloud-high summits life is life of beauty,

  And breathing easy in the fragrant wood.

  Be thou my plighted troth, and I shall open

  Unto thine heart a world of high delight.”

  XXXVII

  Spake then the chilly maiden of the billows —

  “O Gall, I cling to thine alluring realm.

  The wind is fresh that blows upon the mountains,

  Sweet is the calm within the depths of groves.

  XXXVIII

  “But more delight me still the songs of minstrels,

  And heroes’ memories from by-gone days.

  Whene’er I listen to the tones of Ossian,

  The locks will quiver ‘gainst my glowing cheek.

  XXXIX

  “The hill-side grass hath drunken times a many

  Blood of the stag my winged dart had caught,

  Smitten in the midmost of his wild careering.

  Know, Gall, my bow may clang as well as thine.

  XL

  “Go; on the moors of Morven was my wandering

  Most joyous when directed by myself.

  When she possesses arrows, bow and quiver,

  What more should maiden huntress then desire?”

  XLI

  With gloom-enclouded brow the youth departed,

  And next in turn was Rurmar, prince of song;

  Long time his lips refrained from breaking silence,

  His eye upon Oihonna fixed its gaze.

  XLII

  “O maiden,” he was heard at length to utter,

  “When I behold thee, vanishes my soul

  As aimlessly into thy gazing aspect

  As does a mist into the day dispersed.

  XLIII

  “I own not to a name that memory ever

  With pride will keep in store for coming years;

  My cheek is pale, my youth is fated early

  To wither in the atmosphere of grief.

  XLIV

  “Yet love of strength I knew; to me was given

  A voice for glorifying deeds of fame.

  And when I smote the harp, all Morven listened

  In wonder to the tempest of its tones.

  XLV

  “But now I’m cold to heroes’ valiant fighting,

  And fame is radiant in my sight no more;

  A fog of dust has gathered round the harp-strings

  That my delight it was to touch before.

  XLVI

  “’Tis only by the waves of lonely Crona

  That I, outsounded by the torrent’s roar,

  Attempt, in softly tempered tones, to utter

  Unto the night the anguish of my heart.

  XLVII

  “But be thou mine, and then my song shall loudly

  Ring out as in the joyful days it rang,

  Shall be again endowed with wings and carry

  The name of Rurmar down the tide of time.

  XLVIII

  “O maiden, if the voice of memory charm thee,

  Then let it say unto the years to come:

  Thus was he pleased to sing, the prince of Selma,

  When on Oihonna’s glance he fixed his gaze.”

  XLIX

  “Rurmar,” she spake, the maiden of the ocean,

  “The flower stands tender by the water’s edge,

  Is bent aside beneath the evening’s breezes

  And rocked to slumber by their soft caress.

  L

  “To such an one sing thou thy heart’s distresses,

  Thou minstrel of the sentimental dreams,

  Until her eye, as on the evening weareth,

  In stillness moistens with the dew of tears.

  LI

  “’Tis only then the song delights Oihonna

  When, with the clang and clash of striking swords,

  The harp resounds, and victories come rushing

  In stormy riot o’er the minstrel’s lips.

  LII

  “Her heart could only flame for valiant heroes,’

  Love glances of defiant courage. Go,

  Thou minstrel of the sighs; no consolation

  For sorrow such as thine has she to spare.”

  LIII

  Wrath at her word in Rurmar’s eye was kindled,

  A ruddy hue o’erspread his pallid cheek;

  He turned his face away and from the cavern

  In silence soon he quietly withdrew.

  LIV

  Stepped forward then the haughty prince of battles,

  And stormily before the girl he strode —

  “Thou hast already spurned both Gall and Rurmar,

  Well then, the third in turn is Clesamor.

  LV

  “He never learnt with words to win his triumphs;

  Among the shielded hosts, on bloody fields,

  His tongue was silent, and to speak the language

  Of death was left unto the sword alone.

  LVI

  “O maiden, surely thou adorest valour,

  Wars ever were thy flaming soul’s delight;

  And wars are now awaiting me, so hasten,

  For I would first embrace thee as my bride.”

  LVII

  And at the youthful prince’s words Oihonna

  Rose from her seat upon the mossy rock;

  She took his hand in hers, into the lustre

  Of his inquiring eye she straightly looked.

  LVIII

  And thus she spake: “To me, of all you brothers,

  Thou early wast the foremost, Clesamor,

  Thou who, alone among the men of Morven,

  Delightest in the gleam of flaming swords.

  LIX

  “When Selma thou didst leave in search of glory,

  For deeds of prowess wrought in foreign lands,

  My thoughts would often o’er the ocean wander,

  To follow thee upon thy chosen path.

  LX

  “Breath of the spirit of thy mighty fathers,

  Go whitherso the wars may call thee forth;

  Give unto foemen reason still to tremble

  Before a scion sprung from Fingal’s race.

  LXI

  “Should then a minstrel from afar come hither,

  I’ll take my seat within the shield-decked hall,

  And at his knees, the while he sings the story,

  In silence listen if I hear thy name.

  LXII

  “And should it chance that early thou be fated

  To reach the drifting sphere of som
bre clouds,

  Look then adown, and in the land of Morven

  One cheek thou shalt discover tear-bedewed.

  LXIII

  “Oft from my lonely walks about the moorland

  My gaze shall wander towards the evening cloud,

  And often shall thy brow serenely vaulted

  And raven locks be to my mind recalled.

  LXIV

  “And yet a bride’s is not the love I give thee,

  It is a sister’s only, Clesamor;

  We’ve both been fostered by the selfsame father,

  The aged king who dwells in Selma’s tower.”

  LXV

  “O maiden of the waves,” the prince responded,

  “Not to Morannal dost thou owe thy life;

  No longer, therefore, name thyself my sister;

  Who, thou afar-begotten, saw thy birth?

  LXVI

  “Far, far away from Morven didst thou, waking,

  Ope thy blue eye to greet the light of day.

  ’Twas not a woman, but the very ocean,

  That gave his daughter to Morannal king.

  LXVII

  Perhaps by winds in spring a happy billow

  Was lifted up towards the morning sun,

  Which, sinking back, gave birth unto thy being

  Out of the shimmering light of briny foam.”

  LXVIII

  Unto the youthful prince’s forehead gently

  The ocean maiden moved her smiling lips —

  “To me, however, thou art but a brother;

  How can I ever be a brother’s bride?

  LXIX

  “From far away shall come my well-beloved one.

  Most like a cloud from the horizon’s bound,

  Or like a stormy blast down from the mountains,

  Without a warning thought he will appear.”

  KING FILIAR. SONG III

  Oh, I was born to be no blast, no wave,

  Though my delight is kindled not as others’.

  There beats a maiden’s warm and throbbing heart,

  Beneath my snow here also, with desire.

  I

  WHO is it hunts the deer in Lora’s dale?

  From quivering doors of thousand echoes lately

  This eventide came back the bugle’s sound,

  Which, tired, now slumbers on the twilight’s bed.

  II

  Where Crona’s dusk-reflecting eddies wind

  Round oak-encircled rocks with mosses covered,

  Behold the huntress of the swan-white arms,

  Oihonna, maiden of the chilly waves.

  III

  On heathery bed she sits, and gaily pets

  The pure-bred, slim brown deerhound, standing weary

  And licking, while the stag is growing cold,

  Around the arrow-shaft his gory breast.

  IV

  But not alone she hunted Crona’s banks,

  By song-skilled Gylnandyne she was attended.

  And wan of look the girl draws slowly near,