 | Orra |  |
1
CANTO I.
THE heavens are again serene,
The summer sun on high is glowing,
Again the woods and vales are green,
And flowers bloom, and streams are flowing.
But whither is young Lawo going,
That thus, beneath the noontide heat,
We see him up the river rowing
His little bark so fleet.
The summer sun on high is glowing,
Again the woods and vales are green,
And flowers bloom, and streams are flowing.
But whither is young Lawo going,
That thus, beneath the noontide heat,
We see him up the river rowing
His little bark so fleet.
2
Onward he looks, the waters roll,
Still winding through the gloomy waste,
And many a cataract and shoal,
He yet shall meet to mock his haste:
But though his bark were even-paced
With thought, alas! his speed were vain:
The pleasure that he flies to taste,
His soul shall never feel again.
Still winding through the gloomy waste,
And many a cataract and shoal,
He yet shall meet to mock his haste:
But though his bark were even-paced
With thought, alas! his speed were vain:
The pleasure that he flies to taste,
His soul shall never feel again.
To-night young Orra's father gives,
In yonder vale, a gay repast;
For there the beauteous maiden lives,
And thither Lawo goes so fast;
Now see how bends his flexile mast,
And how his bark strikes up the spray!
Oh! heaven grant the breeze may last,
For he but ill can brook delay.
In yonder vale, a gay repast;
For there the beauteous maiden lives,
And thither Lawo goes so fast;
Now see how bends his flexile mast,
And how his bark strikes up the spray!
Oh! heaven grant the breeze may last,
For he but ill can brook delay.
3
Yet no repast shall Lawo share,
Far other hopes inflame his breast;
He seeks alone young Orra there,
Nor looks for pleasure from the rest.
And though no welcome be expressed
So near her reverend father's ear,
The maid has smiled on many a guest
By far less welcome, and less dear.
Far other hopes inflame his breast;
He seeks alone young Orra there,
Nor looks for pleasure from the rest.
And though no welcome be expressed
So near her reverend father's ear,
The maid has smiled on many a guest
By far less welcome, and less dear.
And now he sees the destined vale
Before him wide and far expand,
And furls at last his drooping sail,
And moors his bark upon the sand:
Impatient from his weary hand,
The youth has flung the dripping oar,
And gladly now has gained the land,
And trembling stands at Orra's door.
Before him wide and far expand,
And furls at last his drooping sail,
And moors his bark upon the sand:
Impatient from his weary hand,
The youth has flung the dripping oar,
And gladly now has gained the land,
And trembling stands at Orra's door.
4
At intervals his Orra's name
He hears, with many a tend'rer word;
He knocks, but no one to him came;
Again he knocks, but no one stirr'd.
But now young Orra's voice is heard
Far sweeter than the sweetest lay
That e'er the many-tongued bird
Chants in the woods on summer's day.
He hears, with many a tend'rer word;
He knocks, but no one to him came;
Again he knocks, but no one stirr'd.
But now young Orra's voice is heard
Far sweeter than the sweetest lay
That e'er the many-tongued bird
Chants in the woods on summer's day.
This bird is the Motacilla Suecica or Scandinavian Wagtail, which, according to Mr. Acerbi (who travelled through Lapland in 1798–9) surpasses all other Birds found in that Country, by the beauty of its plumage and the sweetness of its voice. The natives call it Saddan Keillinen, signifying the Bird of a Hundred Tongues, and is expressive of the nature of its song, which continually varies, and is an imitation of the voices of almost all other birds.
She sings—but not as erst she sung;
For, though it be a lively strain,
It falters on her trembling tongue,
And speaks a soul oppressed with pain;
But her distress would never gain
The pity of that noisy throng;
And Orra, scorning to complain,
Thus cloaks her woe in lively song.
For, though it be a lively strain,
It falters on her trembling tongue,
And speaks a soul oppressed with pain;
But her distress would never gain
The pity of that noisy throng;
And Orra, scorning to complain,
Thus cloaks her woe in lively song.
| Orra | |