Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg

by Johan Ludvig Runeberg

  By throngs was he surrounded

  In onset or retreat.

  Hoe’wer the conflict wavered,

  He undisturbed sat nigh,

  While friend alike and foeman

  In deference passed him by.

  But day declined, while lingered

  At western gates the sun;

  And now at last the triumph

  By Finland’s might was won.

  He saw each barrier broken,

  Each foeman swift in flight;

  All round the aged warrior

  Again grew calm and bright.

  But when the last division

  Down from the hillock’s top

  Came marching past the soldier,

  To full height rose he up:

  “Ye sons of our own country,

  So youthful and so bold,

  Is there one here who values

  The words of warrior old?

  “Great thanks to you he renders

  For this illustrious day;

  For no more glorious combat

  Did e’er his eye survey.

  To God be praise and glory,

  We triumph yet again;

  Still lives our fathers’ spirit,

  And still our land has men!”

  CANTO FIFTH. LIEUTENANT ZIDEN.

  A portrayal, in the first nine stanzas, of the personality of Lieutenant Ziden; in the succeeding thirteen stanzas, of the part he played in the famous battle of Virta Bridge.

  The Lieutenant was born in 1785, became a student in Abo at the age of thirteen; obtained the silver medal for bravery, later the gold medal; was Ensign for the Vasa regiment, with which he took a glorious part at the battle of Savolaks.

  That he was a young man of unusual valor, of joyous disposition, and loved by all his men, is revealed by the description here given of his valiant death at Virta Bridge, where he was mortally wounded by a bullet and several bayonet thrusts, October 27, 1808.

  In Sandels, Canto Eleventh, Runeberg has painted a striking scene from this battle, in which many heroic leaders were engaged.

  But in Sven Dufva, Canto Seventh, another most wonderful recital is given, that has contributed much to immortalize Runeberg among all readers of Swedish literature.

  Gustaf Fahlander (1764-1825), who took part in the war of 1788-90, was promoted to first Lieutenant for his heroism on the field of Pulkkila on May 2, 1808.

  Karl Vilhelm Malm (1772-1826), one of the Finnish army’s most capable officers, was also promoted to First Lieutenant’s rank for his bravery at Savolaks.

  Nikolai Alexejevitsch Tutschkoff (1761-1812), a Russian General Lieutenant was, during March and April 1808, commander of the main Russian army under the direction of Buxhovden.

  V. LIEUTENANT ZIDEN.

  It was the brave Lieutenant Zidén,

  Who had a custom his own:

  Alone the front he would always gain: —

  “Advance, my boys of Vasa!

  No lagging must now be shown!”

  He foremost would march in peril’s pursuit,

  His men must follow his track.

  God pity him that was slow on foot,

  When once the commander shouted,

  “Hurrah! men of mine, attack!”

  And thus he led, in his wonted wise,

  His little valiant band,

  Spurned needless trouble and exercise;

  “Close follow my pathway, warriors!”

  These words were his great command.

  And a-front looked he, nor glanced he around,

  When drawn to dangers so dread.

  How near his men to his steps were bound,

  He scarcely a thought had given,

  Till deep into battle he’d sped.

  But not before he had met the foe,

  Begun to strike and to slay,

  Looked he behind him, their speed to know,

  His treasured boys of Vasa, —

  How close they had followed his way.

  If they to a unit around their guide

  Had battled loyally,

  Then all was splendid, and loud he cried,

  “Huzza. ’Twas a brave maneuver!

  And now we are masters, we!”

  But if they walked, while he running came

  To battle before his men,

  “May God have pity for such a shame!

  Like turtles they’ve moved to battle;

  Now lag they behind again!”

  Ziden had led, when the war arose,

  A troop of full fifty men;

  But they had crumbled until the close;

  With twenty boys of Vasa

  He stood in the army then.

  But if with fewer, or if with more,

  He gave but a passing glance;

  He followed his mode of long before;

  “Press close on my footsteps, comrades,

  Now swift on the march, — advance!”

  At Virta Bridge did he last contend, —

  The battle where brave he led;

  Upon one instant did all depend;

  Fahlander, Malm and Duncker

  Swift down to the strand had sped.

  There Tutschkoff stood with his thousand strong,

  Six hundred only had we;

  “In columns three we shall march along!”

  Commanded Colonel Fahlander,

  “Who comes the first of the three?”

  This question heard Lieutenant Zidén;

  By Heaven! It had instant heed.

  “Advance”, he ordered, “ye dexterous men,

  Hurrah now, my boys of Vasa!

  Tis men who to-day proceed!”

  Nor was this battle indeed the first

  He shrieked to his warriors so;

  But ne’er before with such battle-thirst,

  Such heedlees haste, had he hurried

  As now, to engage the foe.

  Before his men to the charge could bound,

  Three wounds he had won, deep-wrought;

  Then failed his strength, and he looked around,

  Looked backward to see what succor,

  What valor his fellows brought.

  He sank to earth, but he searched keen-eyed;

  Was if some illusion? Nay!

  His corporal aged lay by his side,

  His only man of Vasa;

  The others had quit the fray.

  The column came, it came right near,

  Upon it he fixed his look;

  “My men, will they there in the ranks appear?”

  In vain; not a man beheld he!

  Then patience him forsook.

  “The others now march to triumphant fame,

  But nowhere are seen my men!

  God pity us all! It is such a shame!

  Like turtles they’ve moved to battle;

  Now lag they behind again!”

  This murmur his aged corporal heard,

  And lifted his dying head;

  “Restrain, Lieutenant, your hasty word!

  No charge of shame must be spoken;

  The bravest of troops you’ve led!

  “Alas! Had the others like us marched forth,

  Then had we not perished entire;

  Now we to our last man bite the earth,

  For in front moved the troops of Vasa,

  And on us gave the enemy fire!

  “You looked not back, O Lieutenant, again,

  When ‘forward’ had been your call;

  But your order we heard, and we followed then,

  Not a man behind was lagging, —

  Till on glory’s path came his fall!”

  Then raised the Lieutenant his arm with zest,

  From the blood-red sand where he sat;

  His features glowed, and his wounded breast

  At the moment of death rose proudly,

  As he swung his riven hat:

  “Ah! If they of glorious wounds all fell,

  Ere the others had passed them by,

/>   And followed the steps of their leader well, —

  Hurrah. ’Twas a brave maneuver!

  And now we as heroes die!”

  CANTO SIXTH. THE COTTAGE MAIDEN.

  This Canto is usually regarded as fictitious, — a creation of the poet’s own fancy.

  It embodies no element that might not pertain to any land, time, or condition of life. Its universality appeals to all readers.

  The simplicity and guilelessness of the maiden’s heart had prevented her apprehension of the possibility of cowardice as inhering in her lover’s nature. No mental telegraphy, with its mystical powers, had been potent in his presence or his absence to make her perceive his innate unworthiness; and this quality must have been extreme, since not even the contagious inspiration of battle could restrain him from cowardly desertion of the army.

  The contrast between this lover and the one in The Cloud’s Brother is paralleled by the contrast between the base ideal of the mother, who encouraged the departing soldier’s delinquency, and the lofty honor-sense of her daughter, who preferred his death to his disgrace.

  Runeberg seems to have been particularly happy in this smooth and graceful lyric.

  To this poem, extraordinarily beautiful melodies have been set by K. Collan, G. Linsen, F. V. Schantz and A. F. Lindblad.

  VI. THE COTTAGE MAIDEN.

  The sun had sunk, the evening came, the summer evening tender;

  O’er huts and meadows now reposed a sheen of purple splendor;

  And from their day’s work, glad yet worn, a throng of landsmen came;

  Their work was done, and they had turned, the peace of home to claim.

  Their task was o’er, their harvest reaped, this time a harvest treasured,

  For to a fierce and hostile band was death or capture measured;

  Unto the combat they had marched in morning’s early light,

  And when the scene in triumph closed, it grew fast toward the night.

  Anear the field where long and fierce their might had been exerted,

  A little cottage by the way was standing, half deserted;

  There sat upon its lowly step a maiden mute, who scanned

  The soldiers as they marched along, a calm returning band.

  She watched as one expectant would; but who her thoughts detected?

  A deeper hue glowed on her cheek than evenings glow reflected.

  She sat so silent, so intent, yet with an eye so clear,

  That if she listened as she gazed, her heart-beats she could hear.

  The troops move on; the maiden scans the throng as it advances;

  To every file, to every man, her eye a question glances, —

  A question timid, faltering, a query unexpressed,

  More silent than the sigh itself that flutters from her breast.

  When all the troops, from first to last, their homeward way have wended,

  The poor girl’s calm now vanishes, and seems her spirit rended;

  Not loud she weeps, but bows her head upon her opened hand,

  And on her fresh and crimson cheeks the copious teardrops stand.

  “Why are you weeping? Courage take! New hope we yet may borrow;

  O daughter, hear your mother’s voice, — for idle is your sorrow;

  He whom your eyes have sought in vain, though naught could tidings give,

  He’s yet alive, he thought of you, and so for you will live.

  “He thought of you, my counsel took ‘gainst seeking dangers madly;

  It was my whispered farewell word when he departed sadly;

  The troops he followed by constraint, ’twas not his wish to fight;

  I know he would not choose to die from us and life’s delight.”

  The maiden raised her trembling eyes, from sorrow’s dreaming shaken,

  As if some dark, foreboding thought disturbed her heart forsaken;

  She lingered not, she turned one glance where fierce had raged the fight,

  Then stole away, in silence fled, and vanished from the sight.

  A while passed by, and yet a while, on stole the evening’s glimmer,

  A silver cloud swam in the sky, below lay twilight’s shimmer.

  “She tarries yet! O daughter, come! Your fears are all in vain;

  To-morrow, ere the sun appears, your bridegroom’s here again!”

  The daughter comes; with silent step to mother she advances;

  But floods of tears no longer now obscure her gentle glances;

  The maiden’s hand, for greeting given, is chill as wind of night,

  And paler than the skies of heaven her cheek so cold and white.

  “Prepare my grave, O mother dear, my day of life is over;

  With shame deserted he the fight, who’d won my faith as lover.

  He thought of me, he thought of self, your counsel well obeyed,

  And cheating all his brothers’ hope, his father’s land betrayed!

  “When they returned, and he came not, his fate I mourned, true-hearted,

  Believed he lay upon the field, a man, with those departed;

  I sorrowed; but my grief was sweet, — it held no piercing thorn;

  I would have lived a thousand years his valiant death to mourn.

  “O mother, till the day’s last gleam I’ve searched among the perished,

  But not one face of all the slain revealed his features cherished;

  And now on this deceiving isle no longer will I sigh;

  He was not there among the dead, and therefore will I die!”

  CANTO SEVENTH. SVEN DUFVA.

  A soldier Bång, who belonged to the Vasa regiment, and who offered a formidable resistance to the Russians at the battle of Virta Bridge when they made their mighty effort to storm across if, — as narrated in the poem Dufva, — seems to be regarded as the model for the brave but weak-minded soldier whose name constitutes the title to this Canto. “Just a little crazy” is the description given him.

  Perhaps the efficient soldier, like the inspired poet, must be a madman; and nothing short of this frenzy can fully equip the successful warrior. Does not insanity begin the moment we begin to magnify out of all proportion to other things the importance of any one thing? Was not the defence of that bridge the sole thought that obsessed our ardent hero? Had his reasoning mind not been misguided, he would have abandoned the hopelessly unequal combat. But his subjective mind, that felt, not reasoned, — that furnished the madness, not the logic, — that gave the fire and inspiration, not the cold calculation, — transformed him into a berserk of unparalleled strength and insatiable fury!

  It was the logical climax of his frenzy. It was the deification of madness. Such divine manifestations arouse the admiration and reverence of all who worship heroism.

  This Canto has always been a favorite one with Swedish dramatic readers.

  Johan August Sandels was one of the most able of Finnish leaders.

  The battle of Virta Bridge, October 27, 1808, one of the greatest of the war, was the death-scene of Lieutenant Zidén (Canto Fifth), and is more fullg described in Sandels, Canto Eleventh.

  VII. SVEN DUFVA.

  Sven Dufva’s sire a sergeant was, retired, and poor and gray,

  Fought in the year of eighty-eight, then old for many a day;

  Now on his little land he strove a living to obtain,

  And had around him children nine, and called the youngest Sven.

  But if the old man had himself sufficient wit to share

  In parceled lots with such a swarm, — of this was none aware.

  But to the elder ones he gave what seemed an unfair sum,

  Since for the boy that last was born there scarce remained a crumb.

  Sven Dufva up to manhood grew, broad-shouldered, strong and sound,

  And in the field worked like a slave, cleared woods, and broke the ground,

  Was far more willing, glad and kind than scores whose minds were strong,

  And could be made to do all things, but always di
d them wrong.

  “In Jusus’ name, thou wretched son, what will become of you?”

  Exclaimed the old man many times, now puzzled through and through.

  But wearied of this endless strain, Sven lost his patient mood,

  And for himself began to think as best he understood.

  When therefore Sergeant Dufva came one pleasant day again,

  And twittered in his old-time tone, “What will you be, O Sven?”

  The old man, to retort unused, stood blank at the reply,

  When Sven unclosed his ample beak and said, “A soldier, I!”

  At last with a contemptous laugh did Sergeant Dufva shout:

  “You clown! To get a musket, and a soldier be, — get out!”

  “Well,” said the boy, “here everything goes badly in my hand;

  Perhaps ’twould be the easiest way to die for king and land.”

  The aged Dufva was amazed; a tear his eye came o’er,

  While on his back Sven took his pack, and reached the nearest corps.

  Of standard stature, hale and strong, all else excused could be,

  And promptly he was made recruit in Duncker’s company.

  And now must Dufva get his drill, his exercise must learn;

  It was fine sport to look upon, unique at every turn.

  The corporal he raged and laughed, and laughed and raged again,

  But his recruit, through frown or smile, remained the selfsame Sven.

  And he indeed was tireless, if one e’er was tireless yet;

  He stamped, and shook the very earth, and marched till ran the sweat!

  If ordered to one hand to turn, the mark he always missed;

  If “right about” or “left about,” he caught the words a twist.

  To “shoulder arms,” to “order arms,” soon learned he the command;

  “Present,” and “drop the bayonet,” he seemed to understand;

  But if “to shoulder” was the word, his bayonet down he drew,

  And if “to ground” the order came, his gun to shoulder flew.

  So grew Sven Dufva’s exercise right famous all around,

  Both officers and privates laughed at wonders so renowned!

  But calm he trod his even way, as patient as before,

  And waited yet for better times; and then broke out the war.

  Now when the troops were called to march, the question rose in haste