Canto 3 (Thus he sang: "The bear is…)

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.

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.

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."

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."