Girl, once again, for thou
Mindest the trees here,
Once green and sweet? But how
Are they appearing now?”
Then she, in going,
Would say to me again:
“Fairer was glowing,
Fair youth, thy cheek too, when
That was! Ah, that was then!”
THE SAILOR’S GIRL.
NOW the wind is freshening fast,
Sails are filling, yard and mast,
Forth the craft to far lands steereth;
God knows, when it reappeareth.
Thou, who sailest there, canst thou
Spare a look for me, e’en now?
Thee I might in sight be keeping
Still, could I but stanch my weeping.
Oh, if like the bird I were,
Winged, as is the sea-mew there!
I would follow o’er the waters,
To the wide world’s unknown quarters.
Always come, where thou should’st come,
Turn, when thou returnedst home,
With my light wing play before thee,
Catch thy glance in hovering o’er thee.
All that a poor maid can do,
Is to wave thee an adieu,
Tear-filled kerchief in her hand here,
Wingless left upon the strand here.
With no chance to follow so,
I again must homeward go,
Ere the evening twilight neareth,
Ere the sail e’en disappeareth.
From my breast must chase the grief,
Though it be my sole relief,
On my cheek the tears must smother,
Lest their trace be seen by Mother.
GREETING.
SKIES are clearing up, dull showers are leaving
Room for evening’s sunshine now to peep;
On the firth, upon a sea-swell heaving,
Day-time’s storm is rocked and lulled to sleep.
She who for me long her watch was keeping,
Sees not yet my wherry thither steer,
Stands she, may be, on the sea-shore weeping,
Gazing hither, may be, with a tear.
Not a gust to fill my sail there cometh,
Though I row, she’ll make but little way;
And far o’er the glassy inlet loometh
Yonder cape where my beloved doth stay.
Swallow, thou so fond of flight and flutter,
With a message fly my love to cheer,
On her shoulder, seen by no one, utter
These my words and slip them in her ear.
“Darling girl, if for thy love thou’rt yearning,
Hear his faithful greeting now through me;
When the wind but wakes with morn returning,
Will he loose his boat and come to thee.
Far away, he needs himself, thy lover,
Help from wind o’er firth and sound to scour;
But, however calm, like me, thereover
Lightly swoops his Thought to thee each hour.
Song-bird’s notes within the woods awaking,
Rills among the strand-fells murm’ring, but
Only midge-swarms’ airy pinions quaking,
Waft it, quick as light’ning, to thy hut.”
MIND — FOR THEN THE GOD APPEARETH.
PRETTY maiden, sportive fairy,
Wait a few more summers barely,
And thou shalt not look so airy,
And shalt be so gleeful rarely!
Only gladness fourteen reareth,
Fifteen goes and sixteen fleetly,
With his flame the god appeareth,
And the thing is changed completely.
One spark of his fire a-glowing
Saddened thoughts by thousands breedeth;
From his bow one flutter bloweth —
And the freshest heart e’en bleedeth.
Calm is broken, joy infected,
Choice no pleasures follow after,
And within the eye reflected
Pain is seen ‘twixt hope and laughter.
Maiden ‘gainst his painful darts then
Anxious watch as yet is needless;
For the God comes nigh no hearts when
Still their instinct slumbers heedless.
But when peace to yearning turneth,
Yearning to desire that teareth,
Mind, — his sleep the sleeper spurneth;
Mind — for then the God appeareth.
SERENADE.
WITHIN my maiden’s bower no lamp there flareth,
But pale-red moonlight on the window glareth,
I see now, — through the curtain drawn thereo’er, —
The fair one’s form no more.
Soon to her couch’s refuge safe retreating
Watch her, oh, bashful Cynthia, then, repeating,
In kindly guise, what thou didst chance to see,
But to the Night and me.
If with a look, whence heaven’s lustre peepeth,
She folds her hands together then and weepeth,
And words, but heard by Angels, she betrays,
’Tis evening prayer she says.
But should her breast heave throbbing ‘neath its
About her rosy lips should laughter hover, cover,
And should her cheek’s flame gently kindled be —
Then dreameth she of me.
DISSIMULATION.
ALL know pleasures and distresses,
Though not all may talk about it;
Every maid a heart possesses,
Though she feigns to be without it.
Joys, that gods to men are giving,
May, they know not when, surprise them
Kisses loves each maiden living,
Though she feigneth to despise them.
Love, oh, youth, with ardour burn, and
Then with cold thou’ It be requited;
Strike a path of unconcern, and
With thy pain thy Belle is freighted.
And the vainly hid distresses
Say through looks and voice about it:
Every maid a heart possesses,
Though she feigns to be without it.”
Claim a thousand kisses, — all she
Grants, while she compulsion feigneth;
Claim thou none, — though cold withal, she
Not from even one abstaineth
Through her tears in looks oft giveth
Forth the words, and softly sighs them:
“Kisses loves each maid that liveth,
Though she feigneth to despise them!”
BUTTERFLY AND ROSE.
PALE of cheek the rose is stooping,
And her time is past;
And the butterfly is drooping
‘Neath the showery blast.
When shall butterfly recover
Her amusements and her lover?
When shall wane the
Trance again, the
Rose’s languid eyes unlock?
Babes of summer, both were living
Like it, happily;.
Neither shifts nor dangers giving
Trouble to their glee.
With each other’s kiss elated,
With no debts unexpiated,
Unmolested
Both had rested,
Yet must feel vexation’s shock.
How they tarry, how they bide now,
Waking never more!
Not e’en Love with Spring beside now
Can their life restore.
Yet the knoll, where each reposes,
Showeth fresh and lovely roses.
To the balm there
O’er dust’s calm there
Fresh-born butterflies now flock.
THE BIRD-CATCHER.
I WALK along the woodland ways,
And up in fir and pine I gaze,
And oft enough the birds I see,
But none fly near to me.
> They all appear to fly away
Where’er my trap I chance to lay,
And empty-handed, as I come,
I have to wend towards home.
I ought to see with grief and dread
How badly has my fowling sped.
But let it fail me as it will,
I am contented still.
One snare, I still have left behind,
I never yet did empty find,
As glad the bird for it will make,
As I the same shall take.
And when, to-night, my home is made,
For that bird shall my trap be laid,
That bird’s name is my girl — my lap
Is that bird’s very trap.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
STAR, the evening’s daughter, thou,
Say, what thou beholdest now!
Seest thou from thy stronghold there
More of gladness or despair?
Sailors on a stormy sea
From the billows’ grave, may be,
Now with fear and now with hope,
Eyes towards thy guidance ope.
And in some forgotten dale,
Lonely left there with its bale,
Now a broken heart may seek
Comfort in thine eye so meek.
May be, that to thee, e’en now
Lifts some faithful maid her brow,
With a steadfast gaze and prayer,
To detect her lover there.
If thou seest a sail astray,
Set it right upon its way,
Seest thou grief suppressed, forgot,
Grudge thy beaming comfort not.
But shouldst thou my girl survey,
Send her down a friendly ray,
And then write its sheen among:
That I’ve waited here so long.
THE DYING MAN.
THE weary night will very soon be passed;
Is not the heaven bright and clear at last?
Does not the marsh-snow brighter still appear?
Is’t not the black-cock’s cry that now I hear?
When, very soon, the morning sun shall glow,
And on the roof begins to melt the snow,
And when drop after drop I shall descry
Fall past the open window by and by,
And when the cricket grows still, and I hear
The merry sparrow outside twittering near,
Then, let me pray you, make me a fresh bed:
A wisp of straw, upon the hall-steps spread.
For I would there be led, would rest me there,
To see how glad is nature and how fair;
And joyous cast o’er land and sea my eye,
And then in spring-time, where I lived, would die.
THE YOUTH.
WIND that caressest and veerest,
Say, whither is it thou steerest,
Shiftily swift fleeting there,
Say, where thou harbourest, — where?
Billow, that rockest my prore now,
Followed I thee with my oar now
On with thy drift, in thy wake,
Answer, what port should I make?
Thoughts, without number, oh, say ye,
Where drop you anchor? — The way ye,
Children of nobler worlds, wend,
Unto a goal does it tend?
TO A ROSE.
SLUMBERER, in the pent-up bud repressed,
Waken soon, thy foster-dale to charm!
Kissed by butterflies, by drops caressed,
Which from heaven are falling cool and calm.
Hasten, hasten, all the moment giveth,
Only for the moment’s reign can last:
Hasten, hasten, joy like life but liveth,
Life is spring again but fleeting fast.
Love, enjoy thyself, and glow fair flower,
Open out thy beauty more and more!
May an angel come, ere autumn lower,
Break thee off, and to thy heaven restore.
THE BELLE.
ALL is good that I endeavour,
Easy that for which I care;
All they whisper to me ever
Is, that I am fair.
Now they praise my glances’ fire,
Now my growth, or colors bright, —
Could I not my glass inquire,
Or believe my sight?
Noting what the glass discovers,
I myself can see of me
More than all the crowd of lovers
In one evening see.
Sweet to be with praise regarded,
Although praise is nought but air;
Should my heart be disregarded
For my cheek though fair?
Yet the cheek alone is noted,
But by that is passion led;
And by none a word devoted
To my heart is said.
BY A FOUNTAIN.
OH, fountain, on thy bank I stand,
And watch the cloud-troops’ drift,
How, led on by an unseen hand,
Within thy wave they shift.
There came a cloud, it laughed as red
As rosebuds laugh and burn. —
Farewell, how soon farewell it said,
To nevermore return.
Another, brighter still, adrift,
Of still more beaming hue!
Ah, just as fleeting, just as swift
Does that one vanish, too!
And now another,— ‘twill not fly,
It sails on heavily;
But fountain, it bedims the sky,
And it has darkened thee.
My thoughts, when I behold thee so,
On my own soul must dwell;
How many a golden cloud also
Has bidden it farewell!
How many a dark and dull one spread
Its night thereon, and then,
Though coming quickly, ah! it sped
So slowly off again.
But how they came, and how they fled,
I knew them well: — the whole
Were merely clouds, that overspread
The mirror of my soul.
And yet the mirror’s light and shade
Must on these clouds depend! —
Oh, fount, when is this game out-played,
Thy wave’s unrest at end?
THE MAID OF SEVENTEEN.
I KNOW not what I hope for,
Yet hope I none the less;
My heart it feels so empty,
Yet fills to such excess.
Where tendeth this disquiet,
That ne’er its goal hath won?
What wish I for, what will I,
What do I think upon?
Like any drudge at sewing
I sit the livelong day;
I seem to work in earnest,
Yet time wears not away.
My head sinks on my hand, with
My needle-work ’tis done;
What wish I for, what will I,
What do I think upon?
I thought, when only spring comes
With nature freshly dight,
Then will my mind be altered,
My troubles take their flight.
But spring-time came, and summer,
While I the same kept on.
What wish I for, what will I,
What do I think upon?
The lovely country’s charms now
I love not as before.
The more the days are brightening
My gloom grows all the more;
What will disperse my unrest,
When will my grief be gone?
What wish I for, what will I,
What do I think upon?
Oh, he, who may repose in
Death’s tranquil home, is blest!
May be ’tis but the grave, where
The heart doth find its rest.
And yet, how sad, already
To leave both friends and sun.
&nb
sp; What wish I for, what will I,
What do I think upon?
THE REVENGE.
BRIGHT and fair the brook is leaping,
Now in silver, now in gold;
Through the sultry hedge are peeping
Languid roses manifold.
By the brook’s cool wave invited
Come the maidens from the lea;
‘Mid the hedge-leaves close united
Lies a youth hid purposely.
No one’s eye sees aught the matter,
No one’s wanton tongue is bound;
But to mirth the damsels scatter
Thousand giddy gifts around.
“Fancy but, if some one hears now
All our fun and merry shout!”
“Fancy, if the hedge had ears now!”
Cries the youth, and boundeth out.
Him to chase and catch we hasten!
He is soon no longer free.
Him we bind and him we chasten,
Bound and chastened hard is he.
Guess, what were his fetters wrought of?
All of roses linked and wound.
Guess, what punishment they thought of?
’Twas to kiss the girls all round.
THE FLOWER’S LOT.
‘MONG summer’s babes I saw a rose one day
In the beginning of its flowery lease,
With purple cheek lapped in the bud it lay,
And dreamt but of its innocence and peace.
“Thou pretty floweret, wake, thine eye lift up,
With life’s sweet lot thyself to satisfy,”
Said, fluttering over leaf and flower-cup,
The wanton gold-besprinkled butterfly.
“See, dark and poor appears thy dwelling slight,
And reft of joy thy heart is beating there;
Here gladness liveth, gloweth day’s broad light,
And here await thee love and kisses fair.”
Upon the floweret’s soul the speech did tell,
Soon to the flatterer she her mouth lay bare,
The butterfly then kissed her; — bade farewell!
And to fresh rose-buds swiftly did repair.
WHO HITHER STEERED THY WAY?
FAR o’er the firth away,
Far off across the fell,
Alone thou sawest day,
Grewst up alone as well.
For thee I never yearned,
Thy way I never sought,
No path I ever learned,
That might have thither brought.
Thy father knew I not,
Did not thy mother know,
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 32