J.L. RUNEBERG
Maid at his side, the lad
leaned to the fence’s rail,
gazed o’er the stubblefield:
‘Summertime’s over now,
flowers all withering;
yet still thy cheek’s abloom,
roses and lilies there
never more beautiful.’
Spring came once more; the lad
stood by the fence alone.
Gone was the maiden – lay
withered in earth’s embrace.
Green was the field again,
radiant, flower-thick.
The single moment
Alone was I,
he came alone;
past my way
his own way led. He did not stop,
but thought of stopping,
he did not speak
but his eyes were speaking.
O thou, unknown –
O thou, well-known!
A day is vanished,
a year elapses,
the one memory
hunts the other;
that little moment
has aye been with me,
that bitter moment,
that luscious moment.
Our Land
Our land, our land, our Fatherland!
Ring out, dear word, oh sound!
No rising hill, or mountain grand,
No sloping dale, no northern strand,
There is, more loved, to be found,
Than this — our fathers’ ground.
Our land is poor, and so shall be
To him who gold will crave.
The strangers proudly pass, but we
Shall ever love this land, we see,
In moor, and fell, and isle and wave,
A golden land, so brave.
We love our rippling brooks, so bright,
Our gushing streams, so strong,
The whisper of dark woods, at night,
Our starry skies, our summer light,
All, all that we, in sight and song,
Have felt and lived among.
Here fought our fathers, without fear,
With sword, and plough, and thought.
And here, in clouded times, and clear,
With fortune in their front or rear,
Their Finnish hearts have beat, and wrought
And borne what bear they ought.
Who tells, of all the fights, the tale,
In which this folk withstood,
When war did rage from dale to dale,
When frost set in, with hunger’s wail?
Who measured all their pouring blood,
And all their patience good?
And it was here their blood was shed,
For us, here, on this shore;
And it was here their joys were bred,
Here, that their sighs were heaved and fled,
That people’s who our burdens bore
Before us, long before.
Here it is sweet and good, we wot,
All, too, is giv’n us here;
However fate may cast our lot,
A land, a fatherland, we’ve got.
Will there a thing on earth appear
More worthy, to hold dear?
And here’s, and here’s this fatherland,
Here every eye it sees;
And we can stretch a pointing hand,
To show, with joy, its sea and strand,
And say, “Behold this country, this,
Our Fatherland it is.”
And if we once were made to rise
To gold clouds, from below,
And if we moved in starry skies,
Where no one weeps, where no one sighs,
To this poor lonely country, though,
Our longing hearts would go.
Oh land, the thousand lakes’ own land,
Of faith, and lay, and glee,
Where life’s main sea gave us a strand,
Our fore-time’s land, our future’s land,
Shy of thy poorness, never be,
Be calm, be glad, be free!
Thy blossom, hidden now from sight,
Shall burst its bud ere long.
Lo! from our love, shall rise aright,
Thy sun, thy hope, thy joy, thy light,
And higher, once, more full and strong,
Shall ring Our Country’s song.
Birds of passage
Ye fleet little guests of a foreign domain,
When seek ye the land of your fathers again?
When hid in your valley
The windflowers waken,
And water flows freely
The alders to quicken,
Then soaring and tossing
They wing their way through;
None shows them the crossing
Through measureless blue,
Yet find it they do.
Unerring they find it: the Northland renewed,
Where springtime awaits them with shelter and food,
Where freshet-melt quenches
The thirst of their flying,
And pines’ rocking branches
Of pleasures are sighing,
Where dreaming is fitting
While night is like day,
And love means forgetting
At song and at play
That long was the way.
In peace do the happy things build where they please
Their nests of repose in the moss-covered trees;
And tempests, complaining,
Dissention and malice
Find no way of gaining
The unguarded palace,
Where dawn’s flaming embers,
And nightfall, that sends
The young to their slumbers
With rosy-hued hands,
Are all Joy demands.
Thou small, fleeting soul in a foreign domain,
When seek’st thou the land of thy fathers again?
When palm trees within it
Are come to fruition,
Then, faithful, begin it –
The joyous migration:
Wing up and soar onward
As little birds do;
None points the way sunward
Through measureless blue,
Yet thou’lt find it too.
Vain wish
Uncountable breakers billow
Upon the shimmering sea.
O would that I were their fellow,
A wave in the ocean, free,
As blank in all my affections,
As blithely chilly and clear,
As empty of recollections
Of joys from a bygone year.
Yet, billow or wave or comber,
I’d follow the same way still.
I live here now with a number
Of waves as thoroughly chill.
They jest at delight and at torment,
Their tears and smiles are for play,
But I have my hot heart’s ferment –
And O, to be heartless as they!
Farmer Paavo
High ´mid Saarijärvi´moors resided
Peasant Paavo on a frost-bound homestead,
And the soil with earnest arm was tilling;
But awaited from the Lord the increase.
And he dwelt there with his wife and children,
By his sweat his scant bread with them eating,
Digging ditches, ploughing up, and sowing.
Spring came on, the drift from cornfields melted,
And with it away flowed half the young blades;
Summer came, burst forth with hail the shower,
And with the ears were half down beaten;
Autumn came, and frost took the remainder.
Paavo´s wife then tore her hair, and spake thus:
"Paavo, old man, born to evil fortune,
Let us beg, for God hath us forsaken;
Hard is begging, but far worse is starving."
Paavo took the good-wife´s hand and spake thus:
"Nay, the Lord but trieth, not forsaketh,
Mix thou in the bread a half of bark now,
I shall dig out twice as many ditches,
And await then from the Lord the increase.
Half bark in the bread the good-wife mixed then,
Twice as many ditches dug the old man,
Sold the sheep, and bought some rye, and sowed it.
Spring came on, the drift from cornfields melted,
And with it away flowed half the young blades;
Summer came, burst forth with hail the shower,
And with the ears were half down beaten;
Autumn came, and frost took the remainder.
Paavo´s wife then smote her breast, and spake thus:
"Paavo, old man, born to evil fortune,
Let us perish, God has us forsaken,
Hard is dying, but much worse is living."
Paavo took the good-wife´s hand and spake thus:
"Nay, the Lord but trieth, not forsaketh,
Mix thou in the bread of bark the double,
I will dig of double size the ditches,
But await then from the Lord the increase."
She mixed in the bread of bark the double,
He dug then of double size the ditches,
Sold the cows, and bought some rye and sowed it.
Spring came on, the drift from cornfields melted,
But with it away there flowed no young blades.
Summer came, burst forth with hail the shower,
But with te ears were not down beaten,
Autumn came, and frost, the cornfields shunning,
Let them stand in gold to bide the reaper.
Then fell Paavo on his knees and spake thus:
"Aye, the Lord but trieth, not forsaketh."
And his mate fell on her knees, and spake thus:
"Aye, the Lord but trieth, not forsaketh."
But with gladness spoke she to the old man:
"Paavo, joyful to the scythe betake thee!
Now ´tis time for happy days and merry.
Now ´tis time to cast the bark away, and
Bake our bread henceforth of the rye entirely."
Paavo took the good-wife´s hand and spake thus:
"Woman, he endureth trials only,
Who a needy neighbour ne´er forsaketh;
Mix thou in the bread a half of bark still,
For all frost-nipped stands our neighbour´s cornfield."
Sven Duva
Sven Duva’s sire a sergeant was, had served his country long,
Saw action back in ’88, and then was far from young.
Now poor and gray, he farmed his croft and got his living in,
And had about him children nine, and last of these came Sven.
Now if the old man did, himself, have wits enough to share
With such a large and lively swarm – to this I cannot swear;
But plainly no attempt was made to stint the elder ones,
For scarce a crumb remained to give this lastborn of his sons.
Sven Duva, all the same, grew up broad-shouldered, strong, and sound,
He slaved and sweated in the fields, he cleared and broke the ground,
Was faithful, cheerful, willing – more than many a quicker lad,
And did whatever he was told, but bungled all he did.
‘In Heaven’s name, tha hapless boy, what’s to be done wi’ ‘ee?’
Thus oft and oft the father cried, so at a loss was he.
But when the tune had played too long, Sven’s patience snapped in two,
And he himself, as best he might, set out to think things through.
So when the sergeant, one fine day, came cooing yet again
This selfsame weary old refrain: ‘What shalta be, O Sven?’
Unused to getting answered back, it like to knocked him flat
When Sven let down his jaw and said: ‘A soldier!’ quick as that.
The elder Duva smiled in scorn when Sven’s bold answer came:
‘Tha blockhead, get a musket tha, play soldier? Fie, for shame!’
‘Well,’ said the younger, ‘here, seems like I can’t do nowt aright.
To die for king and country, see, that’s sommat that I might.’
Old Duva was amazed and moved, a moisture dimmed his eye,
And Sven strapped on his pack and went to join a corps nearby.
He was in health, and tall enough, that’s all he had to be,
And so the new recruit was sworn in Duncker’s company.
Now Duva must be taught his trade, to drill and march in file;
This practice was a sight to see; he had a special style.
The corporal might shout and laugh, and laugh and shout away,
But his recruit remained himself, in earnest as at play.
The man was tireless, certainly, if e’er a man was that,
He stomped so hard the ground would shake, and ran till drenched in sweat;
But every time he’d hear the cry to change direction sung
He’d firmly pivot right or left, whichever way was wrong.
They showed him how to ‘Shoulder arms,’ to ‘Order arms’ as well,
‘Present arms’ too, ‘Charge bayonets’- he’d seem to know the drill –
But if ‘Present’ was called, he’d charge, with blade thrust out ahead,
And if the cry was ‘Order arms,’ he’d shoulder arms instead.
Ere long, Sven Duva’s drilling grew notorious far and wide,
And officers and men alike would smile to see it tried;
But he pursued his even course, as patient as before,
And waited for a better day- and then we were at war.
The troop would now decamp, and so the point must be addressed:
Should Sven be rated sound of mind, and marched out with the rest?
He let them talk, stood calmly by, then said when they had done:
‘If ye won’t let me come wi’ you, I’ll just come on me own.’
He got to keep his musket, Sven, and heavy pack to hump,
Was soldier while the battle raged, and serving man in camp
But, fight or serve, his even course was all it e’er had been,
And never was he called ‘afraid,’ just ‘simple’ now and then.
Now Sandels’ troops were in retreat before a Russian force;
Slow step by step the men fell back, beside a watercourse.
Ahead, along the army’s route, a footbridge spanned the flow
Where stood a little outpost now, some twenty men or so.
As they were only sent to mend the roadway to this spot,
They lay at ease when that was done, secure from blade and shot;
They foraged in a farmstead there and took what fell to hand,
And let Sven Duva serve it up, for he was in their band.
Then of a sudden down the slope pell-mell in mad descent,
Upon a spent and foaming horse, came Sandels’ adjutant.
‘The footbridge, lads!’ he called at once, ‘To arms, for God’s sake – quick!
They say a Russian troop is there, and means to cross the creek.’
‘And sir,’ to him who’d rushed to move the detail out forthwith,
‘Destroy that bridge – but if you can’t, defend it to the death!
We’re done for if the enemy should slip behind our rear.
The General is on his way, he’ll reinforce you there.’
He dashed back. But no sooner had the detail gained its goal
Than on the farther bank appeared an enemy patrol.
It widened, tightened up, took aim, there came a burst of sound;
By that first Russian salvo fired, eight sturdy Finns were downed.
It made no sense to stand and fight, each man’s resolve gave way.
A second volley left but five still upright in the day.
None failed to follow orders then: ‘Port arms, retreat, retreat!’
– Except Sven Duva got it wrong, and charged-with-bayonet.
What’s more, the order’s second part went equally awry,
For down upon the bridge he leapt, when told to turn and fly.
Broad-shouldered, solid, there he stood, quite calm and easy still,
Prepared to teach the world and all how well he knew his drill.
Nor was it long before he’d got his opportunity;
That instant all the bridge was filled with charging enemy.
Man after man ran at him, but, as each would join the fray,
Sven did ‘Right turn’ and ‘Left’ as well, and dropped them either way.
To cast that giant down was more than human arm could do;
Against their fire he had a shield in all the men close-to;
The fiercer aye his foe’s attack, the more it came to naught;
Then Sandels with his flock arrived, and saw how Duva fought.
‘Well done, well done!’ he cried, ‘hold out, brave fellow- that’s the style!
Don’t let a single devil cross, hold out there yet awhile!
That’s what I call a soldier, there, that’s how a Finn should fight.
Quick, lads, and to his aid at once. That man has kept us right.’
Ere long this force had turned and crushed the enemy attack;
The Russian troops turned tail themselves, and slowly all drew back.
Then Sandels might at last dismount, approach the water’s edge,
And ask them where the soldier was who’d fought upon the bridge.
They pointed out Sven Duva then. He’d battled like a man,
He’d fought till he was all fought out, and now the strife was done.
He looked like one who after play has laid him down to rest,
No calmer than he’d been before, but so much paler-faced.
And Sandels bent him down and gazed upon the fallen one:
This was no stranger, no indeed, this was a famous man;
But where he lay the trampled grass was painted red beneath.
His breast had stopped a musket ball; he’d swiftly bled to death.
‘It knew precisely where to strike, that little ball of lead,’
Said Sandels then, ‘and more by half than some of us,’ he said.
‘It knew to let his head alone, which was the poorer part,
And aimed for what was worthier, his noble, valiant heart.’
And this was through the army spread, and everywhere discussed,
And far and wide the men agreed that Sandels’ words were just.
‘For, right enough,’ they’d say, ‘that brain knew less than all it should,
His head was bad, was Duva’s, but his heart, now – that was good.