J.L. RUNEBERG


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."