Any joy or wealth, which has replaced
Gladness, that with spring made its appearance,
And, a mere delusion, with it waned?
Yes, within thine inmost deep were waked
For each yearning, which by Time was slaked,
Higher joys, desires of purer aim.
But thine outer veil do we discover,
But the furrows, which thy forehead cover,
Not the angel Peace within thy bosom,
Not the Eden which he there did frame.
See, while daytime’s purple flames are gleaming,
Charms us now a haze in gold-rays beaming,
Now a flower, that from its bud hath blown.
When the sun’s mild flames are first retiring,
Flies the dazzle which the dust was firing,
And in beauty all untransient glitters
Then the firmament all star-bestrown.
So when long eve of old age is falling,
Fly the soul’s terrestrial troubles galling,
And its heaven in radiant glory opes.
Is it so hard to forsake life’s day then?
Canst thou wish again its splendours gay then,
With thine eve bright as you starry region.
And, unlimited as it, thy hopes?
All that erewhile as the sweetest caught thee,
All that strife and fortune ever brought thee
Stands a faded nothing for thy sight.
As for him, who o’er Alps mountains paces,
Lie the dale’s balm, butterflies and graces,
When the mountain’s free top he attains, and
O’er the clouds is cooled in ether bright.
Oh, what is the bliss here prized so dearly?
But a flower-decked troll, a goblin merely,
Which our fancies from its night unfold.
Yearning stretch we out our hands to grasp it,
Jubilant sink on its lap to clasp it,
But, like smoke, the phantom wraps around us,
Peaceless, gloomy, tantalizing, cold.
Happy thou, whom guile no more betrayeth,
Every lie, that earth’s false spring displayeth,
Hast thou learnt to keep with scorn at bay;
All change from thy safe camp thou repressest,
What thou seekest, hopest, and possessest,
Is not in mortality’s parks fostered,
Shall not with their splendours fade away.
Safe from passion and from vice confounding,
With a memory sweet as harp-tones sounding,
And a grave that smilingly allures,
And beyond the grave a voice controlling,
Calling, bidding, soothing, and consoling.
Such the bliss for which thy longing aimeth,
And old age’s tranquil path secures.
Hail thee, who away from storms and years now
High, triumphant in thy silver hairs, now
Wanderest towards eternity’s near strand.
Like the sailor, rocked at last in quiet,
Looking on the distant ocean’s riot,
Who with joy’s white streaming pennant haileth
Fain the coasts upon his fatherland.
THE BARD.
WITHIN the dale his young life passed away,
Calm as the brook that by his cottage bubbled,
In hope and peace came rich each new-born day,
Nor by the fled one was his spirit troubled.
Himself he dreamt not of his future yet,
And none divined of coming years his duty;
His world was small, yet greatness there was met,
And even spring could there awake its beauty.
Shut in himself, and unobserved withal,
Conversed he with titanic nature, learning
The words of might from rushing waterfall,
From brooks and woods the tender words of yearning.
There saw he rocks in safety storms defy,
An image of brave men and heroes showing;
There woman’s soul shone through the azure sky,
And love burst forth in flowers o’er meadows growing.
Thus was he reared, and large became his mind,
His breast acquainted both with pain and pleasure;
Then took he leave of hut and mother kind,
Left childhood’s valley with his lyre for treasure.
And through the world he wandered with his song,
To every castle, every cot invited;
He sang — and slaves forgot their chains and wrong,
And at his strains kings’ brows with joy were lighted.
When high he stood forth in a burg of fame,
Some mighty deed in minstrelsy reciting,
Then beamed the lord’s eye like a starry flame,
While knights stood round the throne their bucklers smiting.
The damsel listening to him sat at rest,
Her eyes around the proud assembly hovered,
And while all crimson grew her cheek, her breast
Was stormed by feelings till then undiscovered.
SO sang, so spent he his life’s springtime fair,
And so his lifetime’s beauteous summer hours,
Till time at length brought winter to his hair,
And ‘neath it old age blanched his fresh cheek’s flowers.
Then back again unto his home he hied,
And took his harp once more to tune to stir it;
And smote a deep accord on it — and died,
And gave to spirits’ fosterland his spirit.
The stone now crumbleth on the minstrel’s grave,
Which, where for ages lay his dust, now showeth;
But still his song flies over land and wave,
Each heart still at his noble memory gloweth.
TO YEARNING.
TO Gods of earth my song hath not arisen,
My lyre’s own voice as offering I impart
To Yearning, to the mourner in the prison,
Unknown and hidden nurtured in my heart.
There, ‘midst life’s sorrows, is the High one dwelling,
With memories dim from past times in his breast,
And tears within his gloomy eyes are swelling,
And by his out-stretched arms but void is pressed.
Oh, wherefore can I not his days delight now,
Nor find some cool to slake his bosom’s brand!
What wings would bear me to the source of light now,
And give the stranger there a fatherland?
Eternity’s vast wealth alone atoneth
The proud one’s wishes’ agonizing flame;
And as a king the rigid crown he owneth,
The angel here scorns joys of every name.
And therefore he, each time the dawn is breaking,
With tears looks up towards the hateful days,
And therefore measures every breath I’m taking,
And gloomy counts each beat the heart betrays.
Have patience, guest from higher stations hailing!
Though hard, thy time of trial is not long;
A night shall come, thy watch in slumber veiling,
And free thee gently from thy fetters strong.
Thyself released shalt soon on wings ascending
From earth to a transfigured haven fly;
Thy way o’er stars, and over matter wending,
Thy heaven reach, thy fatherland on high.
THE WORK-GIRL.
OH, if, with church bells ringing clear,
I did but stand in feast-day gear,
And saw the night and darkness fly,
And Sunday’s lovely dawn draw nigh!
For then my weekly toil were past,
To matins I might go at last,
And meet him by the churchyard, too,
Who missed his friend the whole week through.
There long beforehand does he bide
Alo
ne upon the church-bank’s side,
And scans across the marshes long
The sledges’ and the people’s throng.
And she, for whom he looks, am I,
The crowds increase, the troop draws nigh,
When ‘midst them I am seen to stand,
And gladly reach to him my hand.
Now merry cricket, sing thy lay,
Until the wick is burnt away,
And I may to my bed repair
And dream about my sweetheart there.
I sit and spin, but cannot get
Half through the skein of wool as yet;
When I shall spin it out, God knows,
Or when the tardy eve will close!
THE PEASANT YOUTH.
I’VE hewed and hewed again the wood,
Till all my strength is gone;
The axe’s steel is sharp and good,
And yet the fir stands on.
My arm was once both stark and strong,
But is so now no more,
Since bark I eat all winter long,
And water drank thereo’er.
If I should change my service now,
A better one to try,
Perhaps a master I might know
Who gave me bread of rye.
Mayhap I in the town might get
For faithful work some pay,
So have I often thought, and yet
I cannot yearn that way.
Does there the mountain’s leaf-decked rise
In mirrored lakes appear?
Does there the glorious sun arise
And set as mild as here?
And are there dales with fragrance fraught,
And moors that pine-trees bear?
And she, whose horn my ear just caught,
Will she, too, meet me there?
The clouds unsheltered fly and come,
The sport of every wind,
What is a life, when foster-home
And friends are left behind?
Perhaps God hears what people pray,
And lightens troubles sore,
Perhaps the autumn’s harvest may
Have better bread in store.
THE ROWER.
SING now, poor boy, sing now,
Lest wearily thou row,
Soon faints thy hand upon the oar,
Then who shall speed the boat ashore?
No wave moves on the sea,
Of sun and day, I see
The merest streak in western skies,
Dark in the firth the dim cloud lies.
But say, poor fellow, say,
Where hastenest thou away?
Alone and tired in toilsome quest,
With night e’en gone to soothing rest.
Were those some wild fowl there,
Thou by the strand didst scare?
A diver, or a duck, art thou
From strand to strand pursuing now?
Thou, who from wooded heights
Hast asked me many nights,
Dost ask me now, hast asked before:
Hear, echo, my reply once more!
It was no wild-fowl there
I by the strand did scare,
No diver, and no duck do I
From strand to strand pursuing fly.
My thought I’m hunting for;
With each stroke of the oar,
However light or faint, I’m brought
Still nearer onward to my thought.
Lo, where the smoke goes up
Against you rock’s blue top,
There shows the hut, you marshes o’er,
Whither my thought is gone before.
There shall I find it then,
When, e’er ’tis day again,
The boat has reached the harbour’s rest,
And I, my faithful maiden’s breast.
THE PINE-THRUSH.
SO free, at last, one breathes and moves once more
No scorching Sun doth now its sheen down-pour
No remnant of the summer’s day to show,
But, glaring through the grove, the western glow,
And of the wind a faint and cooling gale,
Which soon shall die upon our flowery dale.
Thou, friend of silv’ry evening, only thou,
Oh pine-thrush, break’st the country’s silence now!
Let day be fiery, balmy be the night,
Of both thou borrow’st poetry’s colours bright;
And paintest in imperishable song
Thy faith’s high festival all springtime long.
Thou hast, like me, a friend to whom to tell
The joy, the pain that makes thy soft heart swell.
Have I, like thee, such an harmonious mood, —
A speech as tender, as well understood?
Oh, can I tell how deep my love is now,
Or ever love as tenderly as thou?
Oh, happy he, whom nature’s very breast
Doth with his love, and words, and voice invest,
Who, wandering, ne’er forgets his mother-speech,
He dreameth but, his dreams alone doth teach;
Unconscious, with no rules to bind his tongue,
He dreameth wisdom, and he speaketh song.
I’ll listen by the wood’s edge, Scald, to thee,
Till from the evening clouds the glow shall flee,
And till night’s torch its pale sheen lights again;
My maid will meet me by the cottage then.
And, should I tell her how I felt thy tone,
I use no words, but kiss on kiss alone.
THE YOUNG HUNTSMAN.
OUT in the fields but birds are met,
And leaves grow dim anon,
I have not made a shot as yet,
And eve is coming on.
If winter would but once come back
With snowdrift, I should see
Much better then the grouse to track,
Black-cock would keep the tree.
If but the air would cooler grow,
And leaves would fall again,
The nearest dale, perhaps, might show
A heath-cock covey then.
Yet soon the grouse’s track will show,
The heath-cock’s cover be o’er,
Her whom I most would look on, though,
Shall I see none the more.
I’m looking here, she’s looking there,
But ah, I meet her not,
I might stand in the glance of her,
And yet behold her not.
Between us there is mount and main,
And moors with many a tree,
Between us, day and eve again,
And night, too, it may be.
THE MORNING.
SOME few drops of purple blush the
Sun o’er Eastern clouds hath spread,
And on blade and bud and bush the
Pearly shower of dew is shed.
Woodland’s every bird is flying
Blithe from top to top around;
Sounds of joy, by thousands dying,
Thousand fold again resound.
Creased the firth, a crisp wave swelleth,
Woods with breeze on breeze awake,
Life and flowery fragrance dwelleth
In each single breath we take.
Angel from afar on high and
Every being’s friend, has yet,
Dawn! a single gloomy eye and
Thine own lustrous aspect met?
Scattered trouble’s fogs are flying,
Dismal clouds of thought are gone;
Day, in hours of childhood lying,
Childhood’s feelings loves alone.
Nothing suffers, nothing yearneth,
All is gladness, peace, and hope;
And as nature’s morn returneth,
Every bosom’s morn doth ope.
THE KISS.
I’M kissing thee, nor weary grow,
And shall I ever weary? No.
Now, darling maiden, answer me,
What bliss a kiss doth give to thee?
Thou lovest it as well as I;
Say, wherein does its pleasure lie?
I ask now, asked thee lately, this,
And get for answer kiss on kiss!
If in my lip did honey lie,
Thou could’st not kiss more tenderly;
Did even gall thereon distill,
Yet wouldst thou kiss as fondly still.
See here, what plea canst thou adduce,
If any ask thee thine excuse,
If any, pertly coming now,
Should ask thee, wherefore kissest thou?
Folk judge severely, dear, now pray,
What will they of a person say
Who kisses, and does nothing more,
And does not know herself what for?
For my part, I could never see
What good in kissing there might be.
But I will die ere aught shall keep
Me from thy lips of crimson deep.
REGRET.
KEEP in thy faithful lap, oh, poplar shade, here
The vows, which at his meeting last he made
His bold entreaties, ire, unrest endearing, here,
Were but for silence, for mine and thine hearing.
Already from on high the sun had glided,
And not a star her eyelids yet divided,
Nowhere a breath of wind abroad was starting,
When he ‘gan struggling for my kiss at parting.
To thee alone can I tell what concerned me,
How every sigh, each tear he shed then, burned me,
How thousand kisses I had given contented,
Had not my maiden modesty prevented.
Tell him, thou, if at any time he stroll here,
To dream awhile beside thee in the cool here;
Tell him, if language thou commandest ever,
The words, I trembling now to thee deliver.
“Forget, good youth, what gave thee pain and smart here,
The cold she feigned was far, far from her heart here;
Let not her seeming cold with ire inspire thee,
Nor ever let her coy caprices tire thee.”
THAT WAS THEN.
HIGH on the sand there
Swelleth the angry sea;
Birch on the strand there
Speaks no more green to me;
Stark is the snowy lea.
Fledst thou with spring the
Dale from thy friends away,
Could tears but bring thee
Back, for an hour to stay,
Then I to thee would say:
“Look round the leas here,
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 31
