Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg
Page 27
That promised days of gold.
The memory of thy wondrous spring-times went beside me,
And of thy peaceful ways, —
And thy good spirits, borne within me, seemed to guide me,
E’en from my earliest days. —
And what have I brought back from you world wide
A snow-encumbered head, — and dreary?
A heart with sorrow sickened, and with falsehood weary,
And longing to be dead.
I crave no more of all that once was in my keeping,
Dear mother! but one thing:
Grant me a grave, where still thy fountain fair is weeping,
And where thy poplars spring! —
So shall I dream on, Mother! to thy calm breast owing
A faithful shelter then,
And live in every floweret, from mine ashes growing,
A guiltless life again.
THE NOBLE VICTORIOUS.
FOR the Noble, brethren, shall my lyre be sounded,
How the Noble conquers, though its steps be bounded,
How it braveth Evil, how it crusheth Powers:
Teach thou the world, oh, my hallowed song!
Him, who bleedeth, comfort, though no more he hopeth,
Tell the humbled slave that Freedom’s blossom opeth;
And to spoilers’ hosts, and guards of tyrants’ towers,
Say, the Avenger is coming ere long!
See, in star-decked mantle goes the villain shameless,
With a pomp, begotten out of plunders nameless,
And in silence sitteth Law with terror smitten,
Trodden in dust, where the mighty one goes.
But he meeteth Virtue, her calm front upraising,
And he sees her eye upon his own eye gazing,
And he standeth vanquished — and, with red shame bitten,
Earthward his o’erclouded glances he throws.
See you ancient lion, that destruction breedeth:
Here a herd is scattered, there a victim bleedeth;
In the conscious pride of lordly strength he swelleth,
Sure in the measureless wealth of his might.
But he marks the herdsman, who to help them hieth,
And that nobler stamp upon his brow descrieth,
And, with cowered pride, while yet his prey he felleth,
Flees to the forests to hide in their night.
But with sword for sceptre, and with blood that crowned him,
Sits enthroned the tyrant, rotting equals round him;
And his law is darkness, his commands enslaving,
Death and fell Terror his mandates propound.
And their birth ignoring, and their worth forgetting,
At his feet their incense cringing slaves are setting,
And the hireling crowd, around the castle raving,
Hail him a god with a jubilant sound.
As a King stands Wrong; in exile Good is quartered;
Truth is trampled down; Humanity is bartered;
And the lofty thoughts become but dwarf-grown flowers,
Bowed to the ground ‘neath a traitorous hand.
Say, when Nature sigheth for her fane disgraced,
When the holy day is by long night effaced,
Where is vengeance, brothers, when shall help be ours,
Bringing its peace to the down-trodden land?
Lo! not crushed by wrong, nor yet by glaves confounded,
Where the Noble rests, with blood and graves surrounded,
And the angel host to heaven’s own child down-wendeth,
Nursing the Sleeper with freedom and light.
But his strength beneath mild hands itself upraiseth,
And his thoughts’ small spark in time to full flame blazeth,
And he opes his eye, on you his glance he bendeth,
Tyrants, and Slaves, and Destruction, and Night!
See, then flies his torpor, and his anger gloweth,
From his heart a cry for down-crushed brethren goeth,
And he smites on buckler, in one oath achieving
Triumphs of light with a disenthralled world.
And with strength and fervour on his way he treadeth,
Robes of beams around him, like the day star, sheddeth,
And at Winter’s night, to tyrants’ sceptre cleaving,
Showers of his red-glowing arrows are hurled.
Then the spoiler falleth; Night is driven off worsted;
And a flaming dawn o’er land and sea hath bursted,
And the morning glow of that new day-break hailing,
Clearly ring out holy Liberty’s cries.
But the Noble riseth o’er the joyous whirling,
Calmly into cloudless heaven itself unfurling,
And disgraced no longer, nor in fetters wailing,
Blissful an Earth in its bosom abies.
But a time shall come, when Space’s boundless regions,
At the trumpet’s sound, collect their starry legions,
Into Evanescence and to Chaos hurling
Powers, that the glorious Azure did fill.
But, though suns from firm foundations fall asunder,
And, though Earth in one sigh pass away thereunder,
And, though worlds forgotten be but ashes whirling,
Lives on the Noble victorious still.
THE LARK.
DAY its course was taking
Higher; while, awaking,
Joy and mirth from winter’s trance recovered;
Spring its garlands stringing,
Woods with cuckoos ringing,
Round the hut my well-known swallow hovered;
Skies with music started,
Little birds true-hearted
Poured in tune their tiny bosoms’ fire.
Heard I all their pleasure,
Moved in deepest measure
At the lark’s sweet lot ‘neath circling heaven:
Warmest, as it seemed,
Of her love she dreamed,
Fond one, of the bliss to short life given;
Every note she uttered,
As she cloudward fluttered,
Thus, methought, it rang within mine ear: —
“Happy he, whom never
Cruel fetters sever
From the longed-for realms of boundless ether;
He, whom song upraiseth,
Who on Nature gazeth
In the forms of Spring and Mate together!”
Thus I heard her singing, —
Echoes doubled bringing
O’er and o’er again her song to me.
With the bright sun’s motion
Over land and ocean
To one’s southern home or northern turning,
In the valley billing,
Then in ether trilling,
Singing earth’s sweet bliss and one’s own yearning; —
What a life of pleasure,
Oh, what joys to treasure,
Lark, oh Lark! within thy little breast!
MAY-SONG.
LOVELY May, be welcome
To our land once more!
Lovely May, be welcome,
Playmate thou of yore!
Feeling’s god-flames fluttering
Wake up at thy beaming,
Earth and clouds are uttering
Love with pleasure teeming,
Forth from spring flies sadness,
While through tears laughs gladness, —
Mornings glow from out of trouble’s cloud.
Lay the floweret chilling
Neath the frost and snow:
Autumn’s pale ghost, willing
To its death to go.
Winter, — like fierce legions
On the land descended,
Which in ravaged regions
Rule, the battle ended, —
Sat with icy glave there,
Victor on the grave there.
Drear himself and dark and cold as it.
Not a beam was spread then
On our morning more,
Not a dew-tear shed then
Northlands evening o’er,
Till, by swans drawn, May, in
Wreaths of flow’rets dight here,
Poured her gold on Day, in
Purple clad the Night here.
Winter’s sceptre shivered, —
And, from bonds delivered,
Summoned then the beauteous Flora forth.
Now from groves to greet thee,
And from budding rose,
Gladly up to meet thee
Many an offering goes;
In thy praise but rings this
Rustling hedge of flowers,
To thine honour sings this
Purling brook of ours;
And, with thankful tongue now,
Thousand birds of song now
Sing, as we: “Be welcome, Lovely May!”
BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
YE, fugitive guests on a far foreign strand,
When seek ye again your own dear fatherland?
When flowers coyly peep out
In father-dale growing,
And rivulets leap out
Past alder-trees blowing,
On lifted wings hither
The tiny ones hie,
None shows the way whither
Through wildering sky;
Yet surely they fly.
They find it so safely, the long sighed-for North,
Where spring both their food and their shelter holds forth;
The fountain’s breast swelleth,
Refreshing the weary,
The waving branch telleth
Of pleasures so cheery;
And there the heart dreameth
‘Neath midnight-sun’s ray,
And love scarcely deemeth,
Mid song and mid play,
How long was the way.
The fortunate blithe ones, they build amid rest,
‘Mong moss-covered pine trees their peaceable nest;
Though tempest and fray, too,
And trouble may lower,
They find not the way to
The warderless tower.
Joy needs, to be full there,
But May-day’s bright brand,
And Night that shall lull there
With rose-tinted hand
The tiny wee band.
Thou, fugitive soul on a far foreign strand,
When seek’st thou again thine own dear fatherland?
When each palm-tree beareth,
In father-world growing,
Thy calm faith prepareth
In joy to be going
On lifted wings thither,
As little birds hie,
None shows the way whither
Through wildering sky;
Yet sure dost thou fly.
THE SHEPHERD.
HOW fair thro’ cloudlets swelling
The day doth ope,
And filleth field and dwelling
With joy and hope!
From grove and woodland regions
Glad voices ring,
And all the airy legions
God’s praises sing.
Clouds purple streaks are sending
O’er azure ground,
And earth’s fair hues are blending
With heaven’s around.
The fountain stands thereunder
So clear and smiles,
And to her lap each wonder
Of heaven beguiles.
Thee, meadow green, I wander
Once more around,
Where purling brooks meander
In merry bound;
By yonder stem decaying
My turf-banks lie,
And goats and lambkins playing
They thrive thereby.
How sweet, through latticed walling
Of leafy bowers,
To see morn’s dewdrops falling
Upon the flowers!
At ease I hear each song here,
The gentle gale
So often brings along here
From dale to dale.
Here for my sweetheart’s coming
I’m wont to bide;
Here she, her love-songs humming,
Sat by my side..
Oh, listen lamb! thou hearest
Her accents blest,
Soon shall I clasp my dearest
To faithful breast.
When first the sunlight gloweth
O’er mountain height,
Then yonder hill-top sheweth
My maid in sight.
To me she bringeth over
A wreath in hand, —
Out of the choicest clover
Upon the strand.
Then, swiftly speeding thither,
As on the wing,
Her and her lambkins hither
I shortly bring;
Here, both the same seat sharing,
We kiss anon,
And woodland doves are staring
With envy on.
She sings of nature sweetly;
The valleys heed
My clear pipe, fashioned featly
Of water-reed.
And waves are stilled in playing
On lake-shore then,
And strange herds come here straying
Now and again.
What are not shepherds given?
What words express
Their guiltless life who live in
The dale’s recess?
We here enjoy our riches
In quiet way,
And flock and floweret teaches,
How great are they.
Yea, e’en when North-winds riot
O’er buried flowers,
No blast disturbs my quiet
And happy hours.
I seek in wintry weather
My dwelling low,
And love and peace together
Within it grow.
Beside the warm hearth seated
I linger gay,
While stalléd herds are treated
To leaves and hay.
I sing the song of flowers
Within my room,
Though summer’s gone, and hours
Of bud and bloom.
The frost may nip my braes, or
My lowland site,
But not my simple lays, or
My pure delight.
Though storms outside are yelling,
It matters not,
If only calm be dwelling
Within the cot.
But spring returneth, treading
In winter’s rear,
With wind-flower’s eye still shedding
A dewy tear;
My flock to fields surrounding
I drive out then,
And hear the echoes sounding
My voice again.
Thee, meadow green, I wander
Once more around,
Where purling brooks meander
In merry bound;
By yonder stem decaying
My turf-banks lie,
And goats and lambkins playing
They thrive thereby.
MY DAYS.
IN shady dale, wherein the lark’s tone waketh,
I sit beside my girl with rapture glowing;
Whilst at my feet the fountain’s billow breaketh,
By flowerets kissed and breezes gently blowing:
Never, on any provocation, going
To fight that ghost, which sorrow’s title taketh;
And there is none who knows my hillock lonely,
Save friendship and my girl and goblet only.
I laugh, she laughs, my dream’s sweet partner, making
Ourselves no feigned or fancied troubles for us;
I sing her name, she sings mine back, till shaking
The foliage at our rapture thrills before us;
And butterflies, the floweret’s kiss forsaking,<
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Swarm up, and form a flowery heaven o’er us;
Oh, beauteous world! how nature all resoundeth
Each note of bliss, which in our bosom soundeth.
Why should I raise an inward discord, breaking
The harmony o’er all creation swaying?
A pure tone only is through all things playing,
And pure should be my echo, too, awaking.
Thou, gentle girl, my share of joy assaying,
Shalt, while thine ear our unison is taking,
Be closer clasped in my embrace, and in it
Turn life to kisses and each fleeting minute.
TO A BIRD.
OH, little bird, hid yonder,
Mid elmen leaflets, say,
How canst thou e’er be singing,
And always be so gay?
I hear thy voice each morning,
I hear it every night,
In sound the selfsame clearness,
In tone the same delight.
Thy store it is so scanty,
Thy dwelling is so small,
Yet, looking toward thy cottage,
Thou singest glad withal.
Thou gatherest in no harvest,
Thou canst not sow nor till,
Thou knowest not the morrow,
Yet art contented still.
How are there not full many,
Who goods and riches hold,
Who own both lands and kingdoms,
And dwell in halls of gold;
And yet they greet with sighing
And tear-besprinkled brow
The sun, whose rise thou hailedst
With songs of praise just now!
How would not man despise it
Thy humble lot to fill!
And he, the one ungrateful,
Is less contented still.
To crush thy tender bosom
Entirely free he is;
And yet thy fate thou praisest,
While he is cursing his.
Why should he, cold and frowning,
His eyes to heaven lift?
What can he claim as his, when
’Tis all the Maker’s gift?
When earth’s delight is lying
His very feet before,
Why should he look with pride on
The slave, and sigh for more?
Nay, sing thou little bird then
Of joy the whole day long,
And not one note of wailing
Will I blend with thy song.
Come, build on every summer
Beside my cottage now,
And teach me night and morning
To be as blest as thou.
THE SPRING MORNING.
SEE the glorious sun, that treadeth
Over Eastern billows yonder,
And his gold and purple sheddeth
O’er the earth that smiles thereunder.
Gloom is scattered, cold departeth,