With a troubled look of apprehension,
And pressed onward towards the populous village.
Sank the sun behind the distant forest,
When, 'twixt hope and fear his soul divided,
He approached the dwelling of the pastor.
Ravaged stood that once so prosperous homestead,
Shorn and dreary like a wasted islet
Seen mid fenland ice in depth of winter;
Yet within the house sate, pale and silent
By the wall, the aged servant, Klinga.

When he saw the door turn on its hinges,
And his old friend enter, uprose Klinga —
Rose in haste, though spent and sorely wounded.
"Still the day has light for us! " exclaimed he,
"Strength and manhood have not left our country
Whilst the young walk nobly in our footsteps!
This day hath been done such true God-worship,
That the child which hears it in the cradle
Shall unto his son's son proudly tell it!
Hark you! Like a pack of wolves bloodthirsty,
Came the land's foe hither, drunk with conquest,
Came their fierce attendants, death and rapine.
Outrage had no bounds, blood flowed like water;
And between two strong unbroken horses
Bound they the good priest, till now uninjured,
To be dragged on foot by those wild riders.
Short would be his fate; a few brief moments
Numb his fettered hands, his feet would fail him,
And his white locks in the mire be draggled.
Pale the good man stood, to heaven uplooking,
As if centred every thought on heaven,
Now that all on earth was dark and cruel.
Praise and glory unto God! That moment
Help was nighest! He, the desert's wild-flower,
Brother of the Cloud, like flashing lightning,
Struck the avenging blow, hewed down the oppressors!
I too am living only by his succour,
Like a rootless pine propped by its neighbours,
Yet life's gift would be to me a treasure
Could I see that youth return victorious
From the fight which near the church is raging.''

When the old man heard the last word spoken
Forth he went, as though from fire he hastened.
Pale the crimson glory of the sunset
As he reached the somewhat distant village.
Sad the sight! a scene of smoke and ashes,
Like the midnight vault with clouds o'ershadowed,
And, upon the hill beyond the village,
Stood the church, one star amid the storm-wrack,—
Stood in silence gleaming o'er the moorlands,
Like a moonbeam mid a dreary tempest.

Amid ghastly corpses, friend and foeman,
Like a shadow o'er a harvest meadow,
Went he; all around him death; no living
Sound was heard, was seen nought living.
Came at length the old man to a pathway
Small and winding amid desolate homesteads,
Where a youth was seated, pale and bleeding,
Yet into the pale cheek flashed the crimson,
Yet again his dim eye was uplighted
When he saw that aged man approaching.
"Hail! " said he, " from death the sting is taken
When he dies who has been early chosen
For his land to fall, in victory's glory!
Hail to thee, the victor's foster-father!
Hail, the noble youth who led us onward,
He more powerful than all we together!
Of our little band the strength was broken,
Scattered like a flock without a shepherd,
Rushing hopeless into death's dishonour!
There was none to call the land together.
None to give us council, none to guide us,
Till he came; till, mid our direst ruin,
Came the beggar's son, with kingly bearing,
Came with voice that summoned us to battle!
Then was fire aroused in every bosom;
Doubt was at an end, new hope sprang upward,
And like tempests sweeping over sedges
Was our onslaught on their serried forces.
Look! from this, into the church wall yonder,
Lie our country foes as thick as corn-stalks
Lie before the sickle of the reaper!
That, the path hewed out by the avenger,
Followed by my glance, though here I faltered.
As in death my thoughts are his and Finland's!"
Speaking thus, his eyes were closed for ever.
Day had set; deep silence all pervaded;
And the calm white moon the heavens ascending,
Saw alone the wanderer reach the church-wall.

When beneath the sacred roof he entered,
He beheld a crowd before the altar,
Sad and silent as the dead beneath them.
None stepped forth from out the crowd to meet him ;
No one greeted him with words of welcome.
Pressing through the throng, with dire foreboding,
He beheld one slain before the altar,
Easily recognised, though blood-disfigured,
Mid a heap of foes, the youthful hero,
Like a pine-tree felled within the forest.

With his hard hands clenched, and as by lightning
Struck, the old man stood, his thin cheek pallid,
And in feeble voice, with anguish quivering,
Forth his misery burst in lamentation.
"Now above my roof the storm has broken;
Now the harvest of my field is ravaged;
Now the grave is dearer than the homestead!
Woe to me that thus again I meet thee,
Thou, my age's staff, my life's bright honour;
Gift of heaven, late so fair and glorious,
Now as little as the dust that soils thee! "

Thus the old man to his woe gave language,
When a voice was heard, which was his daughter's,
Speaking thus before the dead and living:
"He was dear to me as my own being;
Than aught else the earth held far more precious;
Yet now doubly dear that noble hero
Lying cold and stark on earth's cold bosom !
More than life I found it, was to love him,
More than loving is, to die as he did! "

Thus she spake without lament or weeping.
Then unto the dead youth stepping forward,
Bent her knee, and with her kerchief gently,
And in silence, wiped his bloody forehead.
Silent stood the crowd in deep emotion,
Like a forest in the lull of tempest;
Silent stood the peasant women also,
Who had hither pressed to gaze and sorrow,
When again she spake, that noble maiden;
"Is there any here will fetch me water,
So that I may clear his face of blood-stains,
So that I may smooth his locks and part them,
And in death behold him beautiful;
So that I may fitly show unto you
Him, the foundling boy, the wild Cloud's Brother,
Who rose up and was our land's deliverer!"

When the father thus had heard his daughter,
Thus beheld her by the slain youth kneeling,
Once again his broken voice he lifted:
' Woe to thee, my poor unhappy daughter!
Sorrow's solace, joy of thy rejoicing,