The Songs of Ensign Stål/Canto 3

Deep in forests lay the humble cottage,
In the wilds, and distant from the region
Where, since autumn, had the war-fates shifted.
Yet this spot no foeman had discovered,
Nor had hostile foot yet trod the pathway
Hither leading; news of blood and battles
Came but from the cloud-borne, shrieking raven,
Or the sated kite on branch of fir-tree,—
Or the wolf, that with his blood-stained victim
Sought again the heath's secreted caverns.

But within the cot, by the long table,
Sat the host one Saturday at evening,
Downcast, resting from his weekly labors.
Propped upon his hand, his cheek was pressing,
On the table's end his elbow rested;
But anon his eyes aside were turning,
Restless, gazing not in one direction.
His unrest was marked not by his house-folk,
By the two who sat within the cottage,
By his foster-son nor by his daughter;
Silent, in each other's arms enfolded,
Hand in hand, and head to head inclining,
Sat they by the hearth, of all unmindful.

But at last the old man broke the silence;
To the wise one, lucid were his meaning,
Though he sang as if for his own pastime,
And the strain came forth in words unbidden.

Thus he sang: "The bear is born as wood-king;
To adorn the heath grows up the pine-tree;
But if child of man is born for greatness,
Or for vanity and dust, none knoweth.
On a winter evening to my cottage
Came an unknown boy, like wandering wild-bird
Lost, that flutters into human dwelling;
Bare his head through slitted cap was showing,
Snow upon his feet the toe concealed not,
And his chest appeared through jacket tattered.
"Whose and whence? Nay, 'whose' and 'whence' inquire thou
Of the rich who father has and country.
From my home perchance some wind may murmur;
Cloud of air I dare to call my brother,
Though I am but snow to Night's feet clinging,
Which she stamps off at your cottage threshold."—
From the feet of Night the snow ne'er melted,
With the wind ne'er vanished the cloud's brother;
Here remained the boy, to youth advancing.
For the first year ran he round unheeded;
Trees he felled the next year in the clearing;—
But the fourth, before the summer ended,
Slew a bear that had the flock invaded!
Where is now his fame, by all so treasured,
Greater than achieved by those around us?
​Where his fosterer's hope? The old man, weary,
Sits within his cottage, vainly longing
For a single message from the conflict,—
If his native land is saved or fallen.
Tongue of eagle he cannot interpret,
Cry of raven knows he not; no stranger
Ever to the waste brings up a message;
And the youth, who should have been his mainstay,
Only from a maiden's heart hears tidings!"

As when toward the eve, a summer whirlwind,
When all nature, Sabbath-like, is silent,
Comes alone, unseen, swift as an arrow,
Striking down in forest lake, while moves not
Plant nor leaf, nor shaken is the pine-tree,
Nor on rocky strand a floweret wavers,—
Calm is all, the sea-depths only seething;—
So, when smote this strain the young man's spirit,
Sat he dumb, stunned, motionless, and shrinking;
From his heart each word the blood had driven.
All the evening sat he by the maiden,
Went to rest when went to rest the others,
Seemed to slumber ere the others slumbered;
But a long time ere the others wakened,
With the earliest gleam of morning's crimson,
Stole he out alone, and left the cottage.

Daylight came, the sun toward heaven was mounting,
But two only in the hut awakened.
Tasks were done, the morning bread was ready,
But appeared two only at the table.
​Midday came, but still there came no third one;
Yet the old man's brow remained unclouded,
Yet his daughter's eyes were clear and tearless.
But to rest, although of Sunday mindful,
Neither went when meal-time now was over.
When a time had passed,—as long as passes
Ere a storm-cloud, seen on the horizon,
Comes, and bursts, sheds hailstones, and disperses,—
Then arose the old man's voice consoling:
"Long the journey to the village, daughter;
Steeps are met, and streams delay one; bridges
There are none, and fall-rains swell the marshes.
He who thither went at dawn of morning,
Scare could home return ere evening darkens."
Thus the old man. But, the speech unheeding,
Sat his daughter, as a floweret folded,
When its cup at night's invasion closes;
What she thought, was in her own heart hidden.

Not a long time sat the noble maiden,—
Longer not than after golden sunset
Waits the wearied plant for dews of evening,—
Ere a tear upon her cheek descended,
And she sang with drooping head, and softly:
"When one heart another heart has mated,
Paltry then grows what before was mighty,—
Earth and heaven, homeland, father, mother.
More than earth in one embrace is gathered;
More than heaven is from an eye reflected;
More than mother's counsel, father's pleasure,
Murmurs in a sigh the ear scarce reaches!

O, what power can so enchant as loving,
And what fetters can enchain the lover?
O'er the ocean swims he like a spirit,
And with eagle wings he scales the mountains;
Long before the midday could return he,
Though unlooked for ere the night has fallen."

Scare the aged man had caught her murmurs,
When, to dread foreboding now awakened,
Sped he forth to seek the one departed.
Mute he left the cot, mute took the pathway
Through the waste land winding dim and hidden;
Near the tree-tops had the sum descended
Ere the nearest farm he reached o'erwearied.

Void and lone as on the heath a pine-tree,
Where a forest fire has left its ravage,
Now appeared the one-time thrifty homestead;
But alone within the house, the hostess
Low above her cradled child was bending.

Not unlike a bird that without warning
Hears the sound of shot and whizzing bullet,
Starts in terror, flapping wild its pinions,—
From her chair thus sprang the youthful woman,
When she heard the grating door; but gladness
Filled her when she saw the old man's features.
Up she sprang, his hand in her hands grasping,
While great tears her cheeks were overflowing:
"Welcome," cried she, "hail thee, aged father,
Coming, dear in sorrow, to our dwelling!
Three times hail the glorious one thou'st fostered,
​To protect the oppressed and shield the wretched!
Sit awhile, and rest thy limbs now weary,
And with gladness hear what I would tell thee:
Fierce has raged the war since earliest autumn,
And the land by friend and foe is wasted;
Yet were spared the lives of those defenseless.
But a single day has scarce departed
Since a band of men from nearest parish
Joined our army to attack the foemen.
Fought the battle was; we lost the triumph;
Few of all our numbers death evaded,
And like leaves in tempest these were scattered.
Now swept terror boundless, like a spring-flood,
O'er the country. Whether armed or helpless,
Man or woman, none was granted mercy!
Here the blood-stream swept at dawn of morning,
When for worship rang the earliest church bell,
And upon us broke a wave of ravage!
Bid me not prolong the tale of horror!
Bound upon the floor, my husband languished;
Blood was flowing, violence was reigning,
Need was sorest, and no help forthcoming.
I myself by eight fierce arms was taken
Like the victim of wild beasts contending!
Then a savior came, at hand was succor;
Storm-like to the cottage the Cloud's Brother
Rushed; oppression ceased, and fell th'oppressors!
Here I sit within my rifled dwelling,
Poorer than the sparrow 'neath the cornice;
Yet more glad than in my days of fortune
Shall I greet that hero and my husband,
​If but safe return they from the village,
Whither they pursued the fleeing foemen!"

When the old man heard this final utterance,
He arose, as if too long delaying;
And his eye was dark with woe, and anxious.
Bid in vain to stay, he took the highway
Which should lead him to the prospered village.
Veiled was now the sun by distant forest,
When between alarm and hope, the old man
Reached the house where dwelt the temple's pastor.
Here the whole domain seemed devastated,
Void and barren as a wasted island
Seen from frozen marsh on winter evening;
But within the cot, alone was sitting,
Tired of years, the aged soldier Klinga.

When the soldier heard the portal's creaking,
Saw his friend of old-time days approaching,
Sprang he up, though sore of wounds and labors.
"Yet the day has light for us", exclaimed he,
"When the young men follow in our footsteps,
Strength nor manhood in our land forgotten!
Here was held this day such holy service
That the child who heard it in his cradle,
Will relate it to his children's children.—
Then, behold, like pack of wolves rapacious,
Came our country's foe all triumph-drunken,
Blood and ravage bringing!—Lesser evils
All untold may rest, though unforgotten;
When at last the troop with blood was sated,
​Yet remained with us the foes most brutal;
Then our misery all bounds transcended.
Now between two fiery steeds was fettered,
Hereto spared to us, our noble pastor,
Doomed on foot to follow the wild rider.
Short the doom were; for, ere many moments
Must his hand grow numb, his feet must fail him,
And his snow-white locks the dust be sweeping.
Stood alone the old man; then toward heaven
Turned his eyes, as eyes are heavenward turning
When on earth remain but night and darkness.
Praise and glory! Now at hand was rescue!
He whose birth was that of meadow-breezes,
Brother of the Cloud, lo! changed to lightning,
Swift struck down, and crushed there lay the foemen!
Here I've lived, supported by my comrades,
Like uprooted fir 'gainst others fallen,
Weighty, and a burden for my neighbor;
But the gift of life I yet will treasure,
If from battle, near the temple raging,
Comes victorious home our noble hero!"
When the old man heard this last disclosure,
Sped he out, as one from fire would hasten;
Pale already was the glow of evening
Ere his feet had reached the old church hamlet.
Seemed the village, veiled in smoke and ashes,
Like a starry vault of heaven cloud-ravaged;
Stood the church beyond the hill-set village
Like a lonely star by clouds surrounded;
Over all the waste the silence brooded
Like the moonlight over barren autumn.

​Midst the fallen warriors, friend and foeman,
Like a shadow over field of harvest,
Passed the old man. Everywhere death hovered,
And of life not e'en a sigh gave token.
At the ending of a winding footpath
Beaten through the devastated farm-lands,
Sat a youth, death-bleeding, by the wayside.
O'er his pallid cheek a flush was darting,
Transient as the tinge on skies of evening;
And his dimming eyes again were lighted,
When, aroused, he saw the old man nearing;
"Hail!" he cried, "Now is it easy bleeding,—
One midst many who are early granted
Death with triumph for their native country!
Hail thou, who hast reared our nation's savior!
Three times hail the hero who has led us,
Mightier alone than we united!
Lo! With broken strength remained our forces,
Like a flock dispersed, without a shepherd,
Hopelessly now left to death's dishonor.
None was here to call our men together,
No one counsel gave, nor counsel followed,
Till came he, till from the wilds deserted
Sprang the beggar's son with brow so royal,
And his voice was heard, that called to combat.
Then each heart was filled with fire heroic,
Doubt and fear were fled; all knew the hero,
And with him we charged the hostile sword-blades,
As a storm-wind through the reeds is crashing.
Toward the church now look! Where'er the path leads,
Strewn behold our foes like straws in meadow,
​Side by side laid low by scythe of reaper!
There the way lies which the hero traveled,
Which, since failed my feet, my glance has followed,—
Which my thoughts in death now likewise follow."
Spoke he, and his dying eyes closed slowly.

So in silence was the day, too, closing;
Night-tide's sun, the moon, alone and pallid,
To the churchyard lit the wanderer's pathway.
When within the walls had stepped the old man,
Stood a human throng among the crosses,
Mute and spectral as the forms thereunder.
There was none who moved a step to meet him,
None who had a welcome word to utter,
None who spoke him even with an eye-glance.
When the aged man the circle entered,
At his very feet a youth lay prostrate,—
Though immersed in blood, yet full familiar,
Like a fir amid the pine-trees fallen;
Though in dust laid low, yet all unequaled,
Here, mid vanquished foemen, lay the hero.

But with hands together clasped, and voiceless,
As of lightning stricken, stood the old man;
And his cheek was white, his lips a-quiver,
Till his woe found words, and broke in anguish:
"Now my dwelling's roof is rent asunder,
And my harvest-field by hail is ravaged;
Now the grave is worth far more than homestead!
Woe, that I again should thus behold thee,—
Thee, mine old-age stay, my life's great glory,
​Sent of heaven, and late so strong and glorious,
Now but as the sand where thou dost slumber!"
Scarce the old man's mournful words were uttered,
When a voice was heard; it was his daughter's.
She but late had entered, and she murmured:
"Dear was he, when to my heart pressed fondly,—
More than all things else that earth possesses;
Yet now doubly dear to me, the hero,
Cold upon the earth's cold breast enfolded.
More than living, I have learned, was loving,
More than loving is like him to perish."

She had spoken without tear or sobbing,
To the slain youth's side then moved in silence,
Kneeling, took her handkerchief, and covered
Gently, silently, his transfixed forehead.
Mute and mournful stood the throng of warriors,
Like a grove where breath of air doth stir not;
Silent likewise stood the village women
Who had hither come to gaze in sorrow.
But again the noble maiden spoke them:
"If some one of you would bring me water,
That his forehead I might wash of blood-stains,
Stroking with my hand once more his tresses,
Looking on his eyes in death yet lovely,
Then "The Brother of the Cloud" so gladly
I would show to all,—the hapless beggar,
Who arose to be our country's savior."
When the old man heard the words she uttered,
Saw her at his side bereaved, forsaken,
He again took voice in accents broken:

"Woe to thee, ah woe! Afflicted daughter!
Joy of joys, thy sole relief in sorrow,
Shield in trials, father, brother, husband,—
All with him hath now from thee departed,
All is lost now, all is gone forever!"

At these words the throng made loud lamenting,
Nor was one who stood with eyelids tearless;
But the noble maiden's tear-drops glistened,
As she took the dead youth's hand and murmured:
"Not with grief shall be thy memory honored,
As of one who goes and is forgotten;
But thy fatherland shall o'er thee sorrow,
As the evening weeps its dew in summer,
Full of joy, and light, and calm and music,
And with arms outstretched to dawn of morning."