Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg
Page 15
“Well aimed, Karl Hurtig, Ah! How well you shot it!
Now puffs the fellow nevermore who got it!
Good, corporal Flink! You fight with last year’s soul!
Ah look, by jingo! There fell Per Pistol!
“Ah, ’tis a shame, with such a valiant brother!
For Per now goes my farm to his old father!”
Thus did he speak, and his commands impart, —
A Finnish major from his deepest heart.
A courier came from Adlercreutz: “Proceed ye!
Press on with your battalion, move more speedy!”
Von Torne to the word gave neutral heed,
Retained his place, and but replied:— “Indeed!”
What jolly sight! The old man by the banner
Stood proud and stout, astride, in wonted manner,
As though forever he would stand the same,
Commanding every bullet, “Stop, for shame!”
Where might not word to such man be diverted?
The youthful ensign stood all disconcerted;
He had dashed hither over stone and stock,
Yet did the old man but his order mock.
“Advance, Sir Major!”— “Silent, little master!
You see there is no risk here of disaster!” —
“The general commands!”— “Yea, live he long!
Karl Adlercreutz is famed in honor’s song!”
Scarce said, when from the nearest pine-tree riven,
A mass of bark ‘gainst Tome’s head was driven.
“Aha! I might have well expected this;
That is a man with aim too sure to miss!
“If came so near, my skull if might have broken;
Now may I say, as by Hans Klinga spoken,
When once a bullet passed his eye-brow by:
“That devil just as soon knock out one’s eye!”
This speech had always given Von Torne pleasure,
And now he laughed a laugh of fullest measure,
And placed himself as just before, in pride,
With hand upon his side, and feet astride.
God knows how long he would have stayed the battle,
But as he stood there, busy with his prattle,
Paff! Came another bullet with a wheeze
Right through the portal ‘twixt the old man’s knees!
And now he saw his top-coat sudden waver, —
Looked down, — saw it was pierced, — then grew he graver;
He raised one skirt, the second upward drew, —
And damned if holes were not shot through the two!
Enraged was he, his ear now pulling spiteful;
“Here falls to tailor Matts a job delightful!
But hurry, boy, my Janne dear, be kind, —
See if the garment better fares behind!”
And Jan, his servant old, stepped forth: “O master,
It’s gone to hell! The hole is seven-fold vaster!
In front, of one whole coat-flap you may brag!
But here there only hangs a hemless rag!”
Then grew Von Torne wrathful: “Thunderation!
He’s shot the coat to tatters and damnation
The second day I’ve had it on my back!
The devil take that devil! Boys, attack!”
CANTO TWENTY SEVENTH. THE FIFTH OF JULY.
This poem is a tribute to the memory of Captain Joakim Zacris Duncker; it is also a hymn to the fatherland.
Duncker was the son of a major, born in 1774, took a prominent part in Gustaf Third’s Finnish war; and in 1808 was Captain of the Savolaks light infantry, first under Cronstedt, and later under Sandels.
He fought at Pulkkila, Pankarlaks, and Virta Bridge, and finally on Swedish ground at Hornefors, near Umea, on July 5, 1809, where he died a hero’s death. He led on this occasion the rear-guard, and not obeying Sandels’ order to retreat, was surrounded by the enemy and shot down.
The Russians buried him with military orders in Umea church-yard, with the Cossack chief Aerekoff who fell in the same fight. Shortly before his death he had been promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel.
He was an efficient warrior, a man of noble personality, and one of the most mighty and popular Finnish-born heroes of the war.
Virdois is a parish in a tract of great beauty in the southern part of the Vasa province.
Suomi is the Finnish name for Finland.
This ode-like lyric, so highly polished and poetic, bears a strange similitude in thought and word to Vart Land, Canto I.
The poem, it must be remembered, is put into the mouth of old Ensign Stål, who laying aside his net, and taking the hand of the poet (Runeberg), leads him to a spot from which can be seen the homeland’s highlands and islands, its mountains and fountains, its thousand seas; and from its leafy strand of warm and vernal waters to its Boreal plains of long and darkened winter, he paints its beauties as none could paint but a true poet and a native poet, imbued with imperishable devotion.
XXVII. THE FIFTH OF JULY.
“July’s warm sun is gleaming clear;
My soul is tuned so wondrous here,
As morning’s life it seizes!
Come, youth, if thou with me wilt stray,
Come, let us to the grove away,
And breathe the summer breezes;
To-day it is a festal day!”
The warrior old had spoken so.
Laid by his net, and rose to go,
My hand in silence gaining;
The village then we wandered through,
O’er flowery fields our path we drew,
The blue lake’s strand attaining
That now was clad in tears of dew.
O what a heaven, O what an earth!
No word the aged man sent forth,
But pondered thoughts unspoken;
A falling tear anon I scanned;
At last he smiling pressed my hand,
With question softly spoken:
“Could one not die for such a land?”
I mused. One heart-glance gave mine eye, —
My sole, well-understood reply,
Nor sought he for another;
When calm had reigned a moment more,
He gazed from hillock as before
Whereon we stood together,
And soon his voice emotion bore:
“Yea, youth,” he spoke, “From this same strand
Thou seest a portion of the land
Called ‘Fatherland,’ our dwelling;
Scenes fair as Virdois’ waters here
Round Saimen’s thousand rocks appear,
Where Vuoxen’s waves are swelling,
And Imatra in foam falls near.
“And stood’st thou in the highest North,
Wouldst see as glorious an earth,
From mountains looking inland;
And if the coast thou shouldst explore,
Which Baltic tides are sweeping o’er,
Would lie before thee Finland,
To fire thy soul with love the more.
“But gainest thou my meaning clear?
Canst comprehend the silent tear
That in mine eye-lid glitters?
And on this day canst tell me why
Sweet thoughts my spirit gratify,
While equal woe embitters?
It is the fifth day of July!
“The days are born and die apace;
How many leave a single trace
When once their light has perished?
This day that could not traceless glide
From memory, doth yet abide, —
For seventeen years now cherished;
It was the day when Duncker died.
“Here held a race Suomi’s land,
And holds it yet; neath sorrow’s hand
It grew to fate more pliant;
No sacrifice too great is known,
Its mood and calm are fixed as stone,
Its faith is death-defiant;
“Thou seest it now in deep repose;
Though crash nor ravage now it knows,
For it thou would’st not falter;
I saw it in its trial hour,
When frost, strife, hunger, storm, did lower,
But naught its mood could alter;
How, think’st thou, did I feel their power?
“I saw it bleed from day to day,
Saw triumph blossom and decay,
Yet wavered no defender;
In regions where no sun comes up,
With ice-clad bodies stood the troop,
Refusing to surrender, —
Though without home and without hope.
“What patience and what manly mood,
What force in mind, what fire in blood,
What calm when fates were shifted!
What exploits must he not have framed,
Whom all these folk have ‘hero’ named,
And high his praises lifted,
Revering him when Death has claimed?
“But if thou shouldst a veteran meet
Of Finland’s war, with question greet
This one of heroes royal; —
Ask if he can a man recall
Who won the prize above them all; —
He’ll answer true and loyal:
“Yea, sir, and Duncker him we call!”
“And with ancestral titles none,
This man appeared, a cottage-son
From unfamiliar regions,
And won renown before unthought, —
Became our nation’s pride — and fought,
The bravest in our legions,
By Finland ne’er to be forgot.
“This glory-luster, clearly shown,
His love then fashioned for his own,
With ardent heart-flames burning.
To Fatherland his faith he swore,
For mother, bride, he could no more,
All perils bravely spurning, —
And through this love he laurels bore.
“He fell; and yet what glorious lot,
To die a hallowed patriot,
Loved by all sons and daughters!
This is oblivion to defy,
To rise like green-clad island high
From out its deepest waters;
This is to die, yet not to die!
“Now shine thou, flower-adorned, O land!
Lift everywhere a leafy strand
From billows warm and vernal;
In crimson let thy mountains gleam,
Let shimmer every wandering stream,
And on the bow supernal
Thy Saima-eye resplendent beam!
“So memory and I the same,
When on this day sounds Duncker’s name,
May proud to thee be turning,
And say: “Behold, here smiled with pride
The land his love has glorified,
For which our hearts are burning;
Twas for this bride that Duncker died!”
CANTO TWENTY EIGHTH. MUNTER.
In this canto the skald portrays a typical Finnish soldier, — calm earnest, severe of feature, brave, angular in form, stiff in manner, loyal to his ancestors, laconic in his speeches, talking with lances, not words sometimes imbibing strong water, often chewing tobacco, untiring in purpose, unwavering in zeal, and scarcely wishing ill even to foemen. And to this partial description we may append the words of stanza 23:
“Thus he died, to fears a stranger, —
Man, when life began and ended,
Slow of speech, but quick in danger,
From his honor never bended;
Trained to deeds, but not to splendor,
Schooled all pleasures to surrender,
He would bear, in high or humble,
All faults saving one, — to grumble.”
Our concept of the type is complete. And though Munter is regarded as a creation of the poet’s fancy, what matters it so long as the type is portrayed in his personality? So was the perhaps fictitious Frithiof the incarnation of the ancient Norseman’s ideals of the heroic. To us Munter is mightily real. We do not wish him any more real. He is one of Runeberg’s typical characters. As we contemplate his wondrous deed of heroism, we are filled with admiration.
In the final six stanzas is found such a tribute to this intrepid warrior as the poet bows in homage to bestow. For such an apotheosis, far excelling the honor-medal Munter received, perhaps one could well afford to perish thus. The epitaph Runeberg has inscribed will live as long as Northern literature endures.
Longfellow has felicitously employed the same metric form — the trochaic tetrameter, — in the Song of Hiawatha.
XXVIII. MUNTER.
It was beautiful to ponder
How came Adlercreutz, the daring,
To a soldier’s burial yonder
In the dale, with tender bearing; —
How he at the grave attended,
And with hat in hand suspended,
O’er the lone bed gently hovered
Where Hans Munter should be covered.
Great was not the throng that followed
Him unto his last reposing;
Soldiers two his grave had hollowed,
Four more round his bier were closing;
Else were done these honors lonely
By three wealthy corporals only, —
Save the General and the Pastor,
And myself, a quarter-master.
Other state was all withholden;
In his box did Munter slumber,
Robed in war-worn vestments olden,
Pressed by four rough strips of lumber, —
Looked as calm, beyond death’s portal,
As he looked mid fortunes mortal, —
Warlike as the living creature,
Only varied less in feature.
Now, released from battle’s chances,
Quarter gained, a corporal hoary,
Buss, unto the grave advances,
And proclaims the comrade’s glory, —
How for birth and record treasured,
How by heart, speech, mind, full-measured,
He for war was coin-like moulded; —
All the aged Buss unfolded.
It was artless, but well noted;
Each gave ear, no sound evoking,
Smiled when Munter’s words were quoted,
On the side his moustache stroking.
Would you listen to his story?
Simple in its oratory,
One might little gain who waits it;
Yet attend, while Buss relates it:
“Warriors, now has Munter perished.
Braver far than most defenders,
He has lost out, whom we cherished.
And at last to death surrenders.
Having marched, fought, and assaulted,
He has now forever halted,
Laid him down sweet rest to gather,
And his heels turned to the weather.
“Ask of us who, battle-heated,
By his side, have bullets tasted,
If he ever once retreated
Or our faith in him was wasted; —
If in strife he ever dallied
And in countenance grew pallid, —
Or was not, when death-enfolded,
Dark-brown, as of copper molded.
“From the woods to army royal
Came he stiff in form and manner,
To his valiant fathers loyal,
Guardians all of Finland’s banner; —
Little speaking, answering dryly,
In his eye oft smiled he slyly,
Fish-mute, after three words fitting,
On the head the nail yet hitting.
“And like him, through time’s duration
Have his kindred made advances,
Bled and died in lowest station,
Held their tongues and spoke with lances.
But like magic once ascended,
Ere the reign of Charles Twelfth ended,
Straight to master’s place, a Munter; —
Now the race returns hereunder.
“Many, not to service wonted,
Far too long home-memories cherish,
Hang their jaws, and march woe-blunted
Till their fear has time to perish.
Never such was Munter’s manner, —
No! To Third Gustavus’ banner
From the first, he came war-passioned,
To a soldier coin-like fashioned; —
“Drank for joy, by eve grew frantic,
With a stroke his gun indented;
In the morning for his antic
With a flogging was presented.
Said the Sergeant: “Take it tender,
Old man; — we must service render!
Have you softened in the boiling!”
“Yea,” said Munter, “Thanks for oiling!”
“After that he reveled never,
Active, glad, on duty centered,
Winning in his first fight ever,
Wound that his left shoulder entered.
Dobeln, with his soldiers nigh him,
Heard this bullet whizzing by him;
“That came near us, boys, — who got it?’
Munter then replied, “I caught it!”
“Yet by fate must he be sounded:
He had scarce to health succeeded,
When, by Cossack band surrounded,
Swift his footsteps must be speeded; —
Forced for half a mile to follow
Desert’s steed, like wind or swallow,
Till by roving band of plunder
He was saved, as by a wonder!
“Sweat-streams from his brow descended,
Heart all throbbing, chest all swelling,
When his trial e’en was ended; —
Yet in him good grace was dwelling.
“Had to trot?” exclaimed the rabble,
In their wild and jesting babble,
“How’s the road, and how the journey?”
Munter answered, “Not so thorny!”
“Soon thereafter, Armfelt perished;
Munter, stained with blood expended,
Stood beside the flag he cherished
Which so brave he had defended.
When to him at last was given
Honor-mark in metal driven
On his gorget gray, in wonder
Munter calmly said, “O thunder!”
“As when in these battles blended,
And with valor unabated,