At first I read with little heed
        What little interest conveyed,
     Until at length I chanced to read
        Of noble Savolak's brigade.
      I read a page, and word by word
      My heart into its depths was stirred.

      I saw a people who could hold
        The loss of all, save honour, light;
     A troop, mid hunger-pangs and cold,
         Still, still victorious in the fight.
     On, on from pane to page I sped,
     I could have kissed the words I read.

      In danger's hour, in battle's scathe,
         What courage showed this little band;
     What patriot love, what matchless faith
         Didst thou inspire, poor native land!
     What generous, steadfast love was born
     In those thou fed'st on bark and corn!

      Into new realms my fancy broke,
         Where all a magic influence bore,
     And in my heart a life awoke
        Whose rapture was unknown before.
     As if on wings the day careered,
     And all too short the book appeared.

      With close of day the book was done,
        Yet was my spirit all a-glow;
      Much yet remained to ponder on,
        Much to inquire about and know;
      Much yet in darkness wrapped the whole;
      I went to seek old Ensign StÃ¥l.

      He sate, as oft he sate before,
        Busily bending o'er his net,
      And at the opening of the door,
        A glance displeased my coming met;
      It seemed as though his thought might say,
      " Is there no peace by night or day?"

      But mischief from my mind was far,
         I came in very different mood;
     " I 've read of Finland's latest war—
         And in my veins runs Finnish blood!
     My soul still craveth for this lore;
     To you, old friend, I come for more."

      Thus spake I, and the aged man,
         Amazed, his netting laid aside;
      A flush passed o'er his features wan,
         As if of ancient martial pride:
     "Yes," said he, " I can witness bear,
     If so you will, for I was there."

      His bed of straw my seat became;
        And he began with joy to tell
      Of Malm and Duncker's soul of flame,
        And deeds which even theirs excel.
      Bright was his eye and clear his brow—
      His noble look is with me now.

      He many a bloody day had seen,
        Had shared much peril and much woe;
      In conquest, in defeat had been—
        Defeat whose wounds no cure can know.
     Much which the world doth quite forget
       Lay in his faithful memory yet.

      Listening I sate, but nought I said
         And every word fell on my heart;
      And half the night away had fled
         Before I rose from him to part.

      Since then no better joy he had
         Than when he saw me by his side:
      Together mourned we or were glad,
         Together smoked as friends long tried.
      He was in years, I in life's spring—
      A student I, he more than king.

      The tales which now I tell in song,
         Through many a long and silent night,
      Fell from the old man's faltering tongue,
         Beside the peat-fire's feeble light.
      They speak what all may understand,
      Receive them, thou dear native land.

The poems which follow the above, and fill
one little volume, are scenes from the war of
the Russian invaders, and are extremely
impressive and full of a pathetic beauty. They
are mostly little incidents out of the great
struggle; glimpses into the afflicted heart of
a whole people. The poem which we will
give as a specimen is written in a style of
blank verse peculiar to Scandinavia; it is
remarkable for its scriptural simplicity and
force of language, and the frequent repetition
of the same phrase or imagery, which is
invariably drawn from the aspects of nature
or the features of their stern northern
scenery.

THE BROTHER OF THE CLOUD.

         More than life I found it, was to love him,
         More than loving was to die as he did.

Far within the forest's deep recesses
Stood the homestead of a peasant-farmer,
Distant from the present scene of warfare.
Foe as yet had not the place discovered—
Hostile foot not yet had trod the pathways
Leading thither. News of blood and battle
Screamed the raven only from the storm-cloud,
Or the resting hawk amid the pine-trees,
Or the wolf, which with a bloody booty,
Sought again the caverns of the forest.

In that cottage, on the eve of Sabbath,
By his table sate the thoughtful peasant,
Resting from the six days' weary labour;
On his horny palm his cheek lay heavy,
And his arm was planted on the table.
Still his keen gray eye was glancing sideways
Ever and anon with troubled meaning.
Unobserved this movement by his household—
By the only twain within the cottage—
By his foster-son or by his daughter.
They, with arms thrown fondly round each other,
Hand in hand and head to head inclining,
Sate beside the wall in blissful silence.
But at length the old man broke the silence,
And each word contained a subtle meaning,
Though he sang as merely for amusement,
As the words came and the air dictated.
Thus he sang:
     " The young bear rules the forest;
Grows the pine-tree to adorn the moorland;
But if born the child for power and greatness,
Or for sloth and cowardice, knows no one!
Came the lad one dreary winter's evening,
Like a wild bird came, no one knew whither,
Strange and homeless, to a human dwelling.
Unkempt locks around his forehead clustered;
Shoeless feet across the snows had wandered;