Nature from her slumber starteth.
Lately borne on light wings over
From the South, in sprightly measure
Sing the larks, as high they hover,
Feeling’s hope and spring-time’s pleasure;
While in numbers earthward sailing
Flights of swans the North are hailing.
Free and wanton waves are tripping
‘Neath the tree-stems clustering thickly;
Squirrels, glad at heart, are skipping
Towards their moss-roofed chambers quickly.
Far away in deep woods wooing
True and tender doves are cooing.
Soft in morning breezes swaying
From the ground the green corn peepeth,
Winter’s white garb still displaying
O’er the blades the hare it leapeth.
Sportsmen, hid in bushes ready,
Raise the hammer slow and steady.
By the wood-chill scarce congealed
Here a sunken snowdrift gleameth;
There, by silver-birch concealed,
Streamlets brawl and primrose beameth;
Into life the brook-nymph bounding
Now her silver chord is sounding.
Beauteous spring, thy car has tarried
Long, ere Southern strands thou clearedst;
Ere, to hills forgotten carried,
In our North thou reappearedst.
Yet the South no bosom knoweth,
That, like ours, so grateful gloweth.
Hear our hymns, how loud they call now;
Hear thou, what it means, our singing; —
That thou comest to us all now,
Freedom unto captives bringing:
That where polar snows lie driven,
Hearts are yet found to enliven.
Hasten, and for land and water
Festal garbs fresh-woven make, and
Butterflies from night’s dark quarter,
From the dust their brides awake, and
Drive from minds, with love refilling,
Bygone winter’s memories chilling.
TO A FLOWER.
BURST is thy trance then; — no more confined thine eye
Now with such hearty gladness looks towards the sky,
Where crimson morn, whom the welkin light up holdeth,
In breast of purple Nature, his bride, enfoldeth.
All is so hushed in thine home, so quiet yet,
Of rapture die the breezes, as nigh they get,
On golden wings the fluttering treason neareth;
Say, little floweret, how fair the world appeareth.
‘Mid sportive Zephyrs as yet thou canst not guess,
‘Mid whispering butterflies and morning-dew’s caress,
How quickly ceaseth lover’s devotion fickle,
How many a sorrowing tear o’er thy cheek shall trickle.
Oh, wherefore gave not He of His power immense
Eternal spring to thy flower-life’s innocence?
And wherefore may’st thou not look, beguiled so lightly,
On midday’s sun, as on Daylight breaking brightly?
So smile thou, little floweret, so guiltless there,
Soon shalt thou find, how deceitful spring-days were,
And ponder, moved, on that former happy minute,
When to the bud confined thou wert dreaming in it.
THE BIRD’S NEST BY THE HIGHWAY.
LITTLE bird, why by the noises rough
Of the road didst thou thy hut erect there?
Was thy wood not cool and sweet enough?
Stood they not, the birches, leaf-bedecked there?
Shone not there the crimson morning’s light
E’en as here, with sweetness and delight?
Brooklets’ silent silver billows swam
Through those dales’ far, far away recesses;
Here deceit, loud rumbling, on its tram
Heavy, iron-welded, onward presses.
Calm and quiet was seclusion’s lot,
Fright alone, poor bird, pervades this spot.
Why exchange for parks so fragrant there
This embankment, which the worn way lineth?
Why shouldst thou the harried dust prefer
To the rich hue which in woodland shineth?
Why, to view the world’s tumultuous strife,
Give up thine unnoticed peaceful life?
Seems the day not often long, before
Night’s deep calm within thy hut appeareth?
Does thy heart not flutter o’er and o’er,
When some rumbling growing louder neareth?
Dost thou not full oft enough in dread
Lift the wing, that o’er thy brood is spread?
Wert thou but in yonder distant wood!
No disturbance there thy heart would harry;
There no fright would scare thy tender brood,
E’en though thou at times abroad shouldst tarry;
For to them would nature’s quiet there
Be what otherwise thy light wings were.
Bird, oh bird, when shortly comes the day,
When thy brood its feather-sails extendeth,
Then direct its flight, without delay,
Towards some region, where no pathway tendeth,
Build, and teach them then to build in rest
There next summer each his little nest.
A SUMMER NIGHT.
HEAVEN, what an evening, — how we fare!
Seest you ait’s small world of flowerets there?
Nana dear, in greenwood yonder
Birds now sing of th’ evening’s wonder;
Rest the oars, and let us float on
There to land.
O’er the hills the sun shines merry
Still, the creek’s wave rocks our wherry, —
Evening’s breezes bear our boat on
Towards the strand.
Hear’st thou the whispering alder-trees’ tone?
Seest thou the meadows, how green they have grown?
Now for pleasure! — swift time neareth,
Setting bounds to our delight;
Nana, soon Love’s hour takes flight,
And, like summer’s, disappeareth.
Midst the leaves peeps out the cottage now,
Hasten breezes, thither bear our prow!
Seest the old man, Nana, peering
In the door at how we’re steering?
And the pretty maid, behold her
Beckoning there,
With her strawberry basket standing
Laughing there upon the landing,
Towards thee, Nana, fain to hold her
Garden ware.
Darling, thou weepest, how holy, how sweet
Is not the guerdon that true love doth meet!
Sent like some angelic creature,
Now enjoy thine envied lot!
Oh how blessed are we not
Only with our heart and Nature!
What no halls of pride have nurtured yet,
Life’s enjoyment, Life’s fond hope, is met
Growing without aid, and bloometh,
Whether spring or winter cometh,
Where the country wide and free is —
In the cot.
Seest you duck before us flying,
With her brood to rushes hieing
Poor and bare? yet blissful she is
In her lot.
Ne’er would that wanderer give of them all
One for a palace though lofty and tall.
Not for gold profusely meted,
Not a thousand halls to have,
Would she ere give up her wave,
Or her home in rushes seated.
Evening’s coy and gentle love-star, thou!
Look down kindly on our landing now!
Shout, oh greenwood throng, for pleasure!
Be your song a bridal measure,
Which two faithful hearts unitet
h
You before!
O’er the hills the sun is setting,
Western skies are paler getting,
But thy colour, Nana, lighteth
More and more.
Late from our sail to our home may we steer,
Still may the morning-beams find us both here.
Home and friends as nothing deeming
Lean, dear, on thy lover’s breast.
In this flowery haven’s rest
While away the moments dreaming.
THE SWAN.
FROM cloud with purple-sprinkled rim
A swan, in calm delight,
Sank down upon the river’s brim,
And sang in June, one night.
Of Northlands’ beauty was his song,
How glad their skies, their air;
How day forgets, the whole night long,
To go to rest out there;
How shadows there, both rich and deep,
‘Neath birch and alder fall;
How gold-beams o’er each inlet sweep,
How cool the billows all; —
How fair it is, how passing fair,
To own there one true friend!
How faithfulness is home-bred there,
And thither longs to wend!
When thus from wave to wave his note,
His simple praise-song rang,
Swift fawned he on his fond mate’s throat,
And thus, methought, he sang: —
What more? though of thy life’s short dream
No tales the ages bring,
Yet hast thou loved on Northlands’ stream,
And sung songs there in spring!
THE COTTAGER’S DAUGHTER.
MOURN for Kandal’s daughter, greenwood bowers
Like unto your blossoms’ gentle hours,
Short also were her hours merry-hearted.
Mourn ye, greenwood bowers! she has departed.
Knoweth gloomy death then no condoning?
Shall then nature, for her fall atoning,
To a power, that harroweth and destroyeth,
Offer all the noblest she enjoyeth?
Can the grave’s moss-covered keep feel pleasure
Aught so tender and so fair to treasure?
Kandal’s child be loved in death’s grim alleys,
As in Lanna’s grottoes, Vanhais’ valleys?
Oh, thou wert so lovely, maid lamented;
Now no more by thirsty youth frequented
Is thy fountain blue, where but the semblance
Shews of thy regret and thy remembrance.
While the fount was thy resort selected,
Were its sweet banks seldom left neglected;
Oft the herd, allured by hope’s vain seeming,
There could while away the whole day dreaming.
Sighs of yearning, notes of joy resounding,
Were at home thy rippling stream surrounding,
And along it, clear as mirror flowing,
Nought was heard but songs and gay flutes blowing.
Listen not, oh, Lanna’s hoary rocks, now,
Kandal’s daughter tends no more the flocks now,
Vainly mourn your voiceless echoes, started
No more by her tones, for aye departed.
Now ’tis lone o’er Vanhais’ pastures yonder,
Through its parks no herds are seen to wander;
Some stray bird, p’raps, chased by hawk, is fluttering
There from tree to tree, his sad cry uttering.
Son of Vanhais, thou all else outvieing
In her love, who now so cold is lying,
Hers, of heretofore, a warm heart only,
Say, where with thy grief thou dwellest lonely?
In the wood thine axe all silent groweth,
For the girl no more devoted goeth
Answering to thy voice, as from the clearing
Thou didst stay thy blows with calls endearing.
High upon the strand thy boat is lying,
E’en as though no more thy calling plying
Thou shouldest cast out, you firth’s myriads netting,
And wert every once loved task forgetting.
Oh, amidst the churchyard’s willows weeping
Thou encampest, where thy love is sleeping;
And from waning day to kindled morning
Sittest thou beside the grave still mourning.
Mourn for Kandal’s daughter, greenwood bowers
Like unto your blossoms’ gentle hours,
Short also were her hours merry-hearted.
Mourn ye, greenwood bowers! she has departed.
AUTUMN EVENING.
WHY sighest thou, so oft repining,
Oh, weary breast?
In nightly hours, when gentle stars are shining,
Why through the silent darkness breaks thy pining
In frightened strains expressed?
Dost grieve for days on life’s isle waning
Too speedily?
In memory of a spring art thou complaining?
Dost fear the mild law throughout nature reigning:
To blossom and to die?
Thou mind’st the bird in bright space singing, —
He felt no woe.
Through woods the notes of nightingales are ringing, —
Their harmonies, are they from sorrow springing
For fleeting hours? — Oh, no!
The butterfly midst flowers was flying
One summer’s day;
At eventide none ever heard him sighing,
Though faint he drooped his wing, awearied lying,
Fate’s bidding to obey.
When oak-trees fall ‘neath time’s storms sweeping,
And mountains cleave,
Thou fool, wilt thou escape death’s arrows leaping?
Upon the grave, wherein the Past is sleeping,
Dost thou revile thine eve?
Who e’er came down thy lot allaying?
Who sets thee free
From evanescence, and death’s smart dismaying?
The floweret’s prayer, fond heart, thou shouldst be
Her dust should silence thee. — praying,
The naked desert’s manna sharing, —
The hour’s delight,
Go, wander on, a cloudless forehead bearing,
Thou art a stranger, mayest not cease wayfaring,
Till on thy Canaan’s height.
There, o’er the stars, thou shalt discover
Thy fitting rest.
Rejoice, that all that change suggests, when over,
Is but a dream, which round thy camp doth hover
In Time-eternal’s breast.
Shrink not in fear from that dim glave then
In th’ angel’s hand;
He crusheth fetters only, not the slave then;
Transfigured shalt thou look down on the grave then
From light’s own fatherland.
CONSOLATION.
AS I sat out of sight
In my lone dale, my eye
Saw the stars’ hosts on high,
How they moved on in bliss
Over mist, over night,
How they beaming dwelt on
In the vast blue abyss;
Then my rest it was gone,
And my thought it was this: —
How unending, oh Lord,
And how rich is Thy might!
By one sovereign word,
But one signal from Thee,
Like the stars’ would my flight
Through the vast regions be, —
Yet I’m sighing here now.
And eternal laws bear
Up for ever Thy sway,
And the crown on Thy brow
Shall not rest for a day
Over gray-growing hair.
And Thyself art as free
As Thy glorious light,
And Thy house, a world bright,
Comprehendeth not Thee, —
Yet no pang didst Thou have,
That no sceptres nor gold,
That no triumph nor ray,
Render blissful his lot,
But that trouble and ire,
But that gloom and decay
Are the portion he got
From the burgh of his Sire, —
Yet what wealth doth it hold!
And the seed is mown not,
Which from nought Thou didst wake
On the boundless fields’ space;
And the tree doth not rot
Thou in chaos didst place,
Though fresh garbs it doth take.
And Thy world is so wide,
Fair and blissful withal,
Spanned of time nor of tide,
On its day’s beaming eye
Shall no evening fall, —
Yet a bubble am I.
Just this power had I:
In Thy pomp to delight, —
But no more, but no more,
Comprehend could I not.
And Thou lurest with might
Towards Thy heaven mine eye,
And my longing is sore,
But I reach to it not.
So I thought — and there stood
Then a rose by my side
In the autumn wind bleak,
And all spilt was its blood,
And its beauty had died,
And all blanched was its cheek.
But a stray breeze, that woke
From the hillock, flew by,
And, in passing along,
O’er the languid one swept:
And the stem of it broke
And it bowed down to die.
And I noted thereon,
How so sweetly it slept,
Though its slumber was long.
And ’twas thus I thought on: —
See, have I any cause
O’er oppression to fret
In Eternity’s laws?
Only stranger-like set
In mine earthly seed,
I Shall bloom on in restraint;
The restraint where I won
Is the sweetest restraint,
For some day it shall die,
And I hope and trust on.
LOVE’S BLINDING.
YOUNG as yet Love’s god was lying
In his gentle mother’s bosom,
Like a star, that in the evening
In the fountain’s lap is seen.
Ether’s silver sheen descended
Like a dew upon his forehead,
And an ever-rosy colour
In his cheek had hid itself,
While his lips were smiling, fanned by
Fragrance of Olympian nectar,
And the joy of triumphs dreamt of
Innocently played on them.
Paphos’ queen, bereft of pleasure,
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 28
