But his boyish eye is smiling, —
From its depths the rogue appears.”
CANTO TWENTY FOURTH. THE STRANGER’S VISION.
Over the scene hovers a tomb-like stillness. The atmosphere is spectral, — yet deeply peaceful.
The first five stanzas embody the question which “the stranger” (Runeberg), who represents himself to have just passed the palace where mystified he saw the “Vision,” asks of the aged ensign Stål; the last five stanzas constitute the Ensign’s answer to the poet’s inquiry.
The palace herein described is the distinguished building of Esbogárd in Nyland, and belonged to the noble Baroness Sofia Lovisa Ramsay (1754-1806), a widow since’806, and the mother of the two brave boys whose portraits hung upon her palace wall. Both had fallen in the war of 1808. Their deaths were separated by an interval of only 24 days. Dearly she loved them, and deeply she mourned them; and she had a medal struck in commemoration of their valor. Until her death in 1816 the aged baroness at the evening hour never failed to express her devotion to her loved ones in the touching manner here portrayed. What quietude, what solemnity, what desolation, breathe in the atmosphere of her murmured good-night! What depth of sepulchral silence! What repose of voiceless sorrow!
Anders Wilhelm Ramsay, the elder brother, a staff-adjutant, who distinguished himself at Siikajoki and= Revolaks, to whom Runeberg gave homage in his poem “Fard fran Abo,” fell at the famous battle of Lemo (southeast of Abo, and near the ocean strand), where General von Vegesack led the Finns against the Russians, June 19, 1808.
Karl Gustaf Ramsay, adjutant with the first brigade, had also fought at Siikajoki, and was mortally wounded on the field of Lappo in Osterbotten, where Adlercreutz and Dobeln achieved their celebrated victory July 14, 1808. History gives the Ramsay brothers’ ages at 31 and 25, — not 21 and 19.
The poet Geijer wrote a “Dodsfall af Broderna Ramsay,” to which the Swedish composer Berwald has set music.
XXIV. THE STRANGERS VISION.
Whose is the palace I in passing spied
Just now in evening’s gloom? Who there abide?
So tomb-like in my memory it has tarried!
It rose mid others, proud upon its height,
But darkness, desolation, death, it carried,
And from one room — one only — shone a light.
I stood awhile and gazed. I saw, anear,
It was the palace hall that gleamed so clear.
It lay as opened for my keenest glances;
I sought for human life within its walls,
Yet little met my waiting or my fancies,
And but two figures moved about its halls.
A dark-clad woman, tall though bent, was there,
With tresses bountiful of silvered hair
That reached her shoulders, — she the one who sorrowed.
A dark-clad man, the other of the two,
Held silently a light, and o’er his forehead,
Yet upright borne, lay also locks of snow.
Mine eye now followed them. There in the hall
A portrait hung upon the palace wall;
Then to another soon my gaze was shifted;
When these the woman reached, upon her way,
Serene her sunken brow she upward lifted,
And on them gazed awhile, as if to pray.
Who was she? In a moment all was o’er;
She had departed; in an instant more
No castle-light appeared, but darkness only.
Who was she? Speak! A ghost, a restless wraith?
Or chance an image-worshiper, and lonely,
From foreign lands, and of another faith?
No, stranger, not a spirit hast beheld;
The real, the peaceful, here have ever dwelled.
But if to morrow, at the same hour’s shimmer,
The pathway hither thou shalt follow, then
Thou’lt see, as lately seen, the same light glimmer,
And note the aged woman there again.
Since long ago, through many a passing year,
With this same servant, in these footsteps drear,
She wanders hither when the twilight closes, —
A moment lingers, sadly to depart;
A little later, weary she reposes,
And now the sleep of peace steals o’er her heart.
The portraits two which thou hast noted there,
The young and noble Ramsay brothers were,
Who grew up in this dwelling with each other;
The one had fallen upon Lemo’s strand,
Soon on the plain of Lappo fell the brother,
And both for a beloved fatherland.
Of them reciteth Story many a lay
Which Finland’s skalds are singing e’en to day, —
How glad they gave their hearts’ young blood, and perished;
But spring-time triumph crowned their brief careers,
Who fell devoted to the land they cherished,
One twenty-one, the other nineteen years.
The woman, noble stranger, whom thine eye
Beheld in wonder dark, when passing by,
As slow she moved from brother unto brother, —
She now but lives in memory’s delight;
Of both brave boys she is the aged mother;
Not art she worshiped, — she but bade good night
CANTO TWENTY FIFTH. THE ENSIGN’S GREETING.
A highly poetic tribute to a great hero.
In the year 1858 were held many feasts in honor of the surviving veterans of this war. At the Commemoration Festival of this year, one man was especially the object of many tokens of homage; and the most beautiful tribute to him was Runeberg’s poem, The Ensign’s Greeting. He was Gregori Fredrik Tigerstedt, who just fifty years before had distinguished himself at the battle of Revolaks. Here he took part as Ensign for the Savolaks Infantry Regiment, and made himself famous at the storming of the enemy’s battery near the rectory.
This poem recalls how he re-inspired a hopeless troop, and led them on to victory — a twin victory with that of Siikajoki, — and saved the fatherland. Revolaks was a parish in Osterboften, by the Siikajoki River. Cronstedt and Adlercreutz were the commanders at this great battle. Here Tigerstedt was so severely wounded by a bayonet thrust that he could no longer take part in the war.
After its close he entered the military service of Finland again, obtaining his discharge in 1831 with the title of Lieutenant-Colonel.
He was born in Jorois, and died 1863 in Helsingfors.
The first fifteen stanzas quote Ensign Stal’s words to Runeberg when the latter one evening, as usual, sat upon the straw couch and listened to the old man relate his interesting stories. In the last three stanzas the poet gives greeting to Gregori Tigerstedt, and thanks him and the other war-veterans for their manly valor and for their unshaken faith in the fatherland’s future glory.
Major-General Bulatoff, the brave and noble Russian leader at Revolaks, was here wounded and taken prisoner.
XXV. THE ENSIGN’S GREETING
TO GREGORI TIGERSTEDT, ON THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE BATTLE OF REVOLAKS.
Hast thou upon life’s pathway marked anon,
Among the thousands of thy wandering brothers,
How by an unknown power one’s soul is drawn,
Or by some inner force, unto another’s?
One sees a countenance, a voice one hears,
Is captured, gladdened, but no cause appears.
With Cronstedt’s troop was once a man, in truth,
Who dear to me is ever recollected;
I was a warrior old, he but a youth,
Yet in us kindred spirits were reflected.
Though much by me is readily forgot,
Gregori Tigerstedt forget I not.
His glance, his walk, his wonted bearing, all,
Showed him not born for labor, but for lances;
With noblest warrior-figure, slim and tall,
T
he boy on martial pathway made advances.
From day to day he was mine eye’s delight;
He knew not me, but him knew I aright.
His voice recall I. Fostered in the north,
To his platoon it clearer rang and louder;
Each word like bullet to the mark sped forth,
And keenly pierced, — for in its tone was powder;
His every accent did the proof impart
That it was spoken from a loyal heart.
Where’er Fate led, whatever dangers near,
In hopeless round of anguish and mischances,
The same fire burned within his eye sincere,
The same repose lay in the self-same glances;
It was as if one read in bronze thereon:
“Yet comes a day; all hope is not yet gone.”
Sometimes when northward march became too sore,
And many a warrior wept, by pain o’erridden,
Then he together bit his teeth and swore, —
But deep within his heart a tear lay hidden;
While from his lips we only heard anon:
“Yet comes a day; all hope is not yet gone.”
The day did come — his feast-day; and unbound
With glory was our standard high uplifted;
At Revolaks “To arms!” did keen resound,
And, late pursued, his course the warrior shifted.
A lightning-flash of joy did all empower;
It was an hour, — an unforgotten hour.
O, what a scene! A troop with perished hope
Now forward sped with flames of battle burning!
A prisoned stream from broken dam leaped up,
Against each obstacle its billows turning!
Our troops late crushed, and with despair unmanned,
Now roused themselves to save their father’s land!
O’er eastern mountains changed the red to blue,
And floods of daylight by degrees swept nearer;
Then round us took the snow a purple hue,
Then grew the morning of our glory clearer;
And deeper, as the sun the higher stood,
The morning-red was glowing — it was blood!
But scarce the earliest watch of day had waned
When battle’s final flame had ceased to smother;
And here had Siikajoki’s triumph gained
A new twin-brother, fair as was the other.
From line to line a chant exulting rang, —
A greeting that to victory we sang.
Upon the battle-height I stood. There reigned
Repose; where wrath had raged did peace now hover;
Men strove no more; in slumber deep enchained,
They slept the sleep that ne’er on earth is over.
Were one awake, then it was but a friend
Who o’er a friend that slumbered yet would bend.
I had been seeking, and had also found;
A surety, hard as doubt, had me o’ertaken;
I had sought Tigerstedt the ranks around,
But found him here, and not with them that waken.
In triumph’s hour, and warm with battle’s zest,
He slumbered here, with wound that pierced his breast.
The hero! I had seen him in the fight,
So young, so brave, so mighty in his daring,
Late marching forward in resistless might
‘Gainst lifted sword and deadly fire-mouths glaring;
Now stiff he lay on that same field of snow,
Where he had caused Bulatoff’s overthrow.
Untinged with hue of life, yet from his face
The stamp of his calm spirit had not vanished,
And on his pallid features I could trace
The deep tranquillity that naught had banished.
His words were with me as I gazed thereon:
“Yet comes a day, all hope is not yet gone!”
Behold! Not all was gone, indeed; for now
He lives, yet spared to guard the homeland’s banner.
I saw him ne’er again. It may be, thou
In life may meet him on his path of honor;
Then greet him from the days that are no more,
From Stål, from Revolaks, from deeds of yore!”
Thus one time spoke the aged Stål of thee,
Thou champion of our golden time of glory;
His greeting, I, a student, kept with me
Till, silver-haired, I now unfold the story, —
Now when a century has been half spanned
Since thou didst battle for thy fatherland.
Take thou this greeting kind; in it again
Greets thee the land where thou wert born and cherished.
It keeps account of all the ranks of men
Who for its faith, its hope, its memory, perished.
As they grow few, the greater is the gain
Of nation’s love for those who yet remain.
It gives them thanks for their devoted mood,
Which e’en mid polar ice was ever burning;
It gives them thanks for all the noble blood
That dearly was its future welfare earning;
It thanks them for this pledge that stands anon:
“Yet comes a day, — all hope is not yet gone!”
CANTO TWENTY SIXTH. VON TORNE.
Johan Reinhold von Torne (1752-1810) was at the beginning of the war Major and Chief for the second battalion of Savolaks Infantry-Regiment, and was later promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel. He took part in the war of 1788-90; and in the war of 1808-9 he distinguished himself in many battles, — as at Alavo and Oravais.
Von Tome was tall of stature, somewhat flesh-encumbered, and usually went clad in a long home-made overcoat. He was known for his extreme parsimoniousness. He especially did not like to lose what he had paid good money for. Upon the battlefield he was brave and cold-blooded; he possessed great obstinacy, originality, and fidelity to the homeland.
Von Tome diet at Borga in 1810. St. Mickel, his home, was a town and province in the heart of Finland.
The circumstance here related of the perforated coat-tail is said to have really happened at Oravais. Von Tome was large; the coat contained much cloth; it cost money; and now it was ruined by the foeman’s shot! His religion was seriously endangered. The cause of fighting had now become decidedly personal. His battle-power was, therefore, greatly enhanced.
How vigorously we fight when our individual cause inspires us to the combat!
XXVI. VON TORNE.
I scarce recall if in my Story-journey,
I yet have spoken of the old Von Torne,
St. Mickel’s man, with gray-clad warriors named,
Who chief of Savolaks’ reserves was famed.
Von Torne, know you, was a Finn all sterling,
An old and scraggy birch, with heart-wood curling;
To triumph o’er him was no matter light,
But would require a stroke that fell with might.
This knew he well himself, and felt uplifted
When men declared that he was marrow-gifted, —
That aged Torne had a haughty mien,
As major or lieutenant-colonel seen.
I knew the old man ere our peace was broken;
His bulk and ease did present stamp foretoken;
A stranger could in him a tree-trunk note, —
A man-clad tree, with spurs and warrior’s coat.
But in this tree was found a heart unaltered,
A heart immaculate, that never faltered,
With mighty pulses and with ardent blood, —
A core-sound, manly heart, of fearless mood.
This heart was to the fatherland directed,
’Twas virtue now to see that land protected.
And why? Then from his lips the answer fell,
That it was his, and his reserves’ as well.
How oft recall I how if was his pleasure
‘Mid frien
ds to laud and honor without measure
This land, “the best of all dominions known,”
This people, too, “such people as his own.”
It was his way to stand amid the many
With feet astride, in haughty pose; nor any
In all the world so wide, the low, the high,
That he was Finnish major dare deny!
No other honor high as this he rated;
Thus thinking, proud his brow he elevated,
And was prepared to march against a world,
Full-powered, with sword, with cohorts battle-hurled.
Yet he sometimes, when mood and humor suited,
Described the Finns’ simplicity reputed, —
How honest many were, but stupid too;
Then laughed each time a giant laugh anew.
But if another sought the Finns to censure,
Look out! The old man only thus must venture;
And ere the mocker to an end could draw,
He got this answer back: “Sir, hold your jaw!
“I ask of you who in your words so glory,
Where have you found a people, heard its story,
Or read of one whose history books unfold,
More noble than the Finns, more wise and bold?
“Stand by your land, her service ne’er disdaining,
Where bullets whistle and where blood is raining,
And answer, after you have proved and seen,
If Finnish men lack fire and wisdom keen!”
Alike he was in peace and strife’s disaster.
I with the old man’s troop was quartermaster,
And many another scene could I portray,
But now will only speak of Lappo’s day:
We had been sent to cleanse the forest speedy;
We forth would haste, each man was fully ready,
But to a halt the old man brought the scene,
So that the Finns could shoot more cool and keen.
“Halt! Stay your guns on trees! Fire on the devils,
Mow down the crowd as grain the farmer levels!
Sharp sight, cold aiming! Here the crow finds meat;
A damnably fine game from this retreat!”
He knew each man in his battalion fully,
By name not only, but in person, truly, —
And, far as he could see, marked great and small,
And like a father had a word for all.
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 14
