The Conquest Of Finland

Across the frozen marshes     The winds of autumn blow,     And the fen-lands of the Wetter     Are white with early snow.     But where the low, gray headlands     Look o'er the Baltic brine,     A bark is sailing in the track     Of England's battle-line.     No wares hath she to barter     For Bothnia's fish and grain;     She saileth not for pleasure,     She saileth not for gain.     But still by isle or mainland     She drops her, anchor down,     Where'er the British cannon     Rained fire on tower and town.     Outspake the ancient Amtman,     At the gate of Helsingfors:     "Why comes this ship a-spying     In the track of England's wars?"     "God bless her," said the coast-guard,     "God bless the ship, I say.     The holy angels trim the sails     That speed her on her way!     "Where'er she drops her anchor,     The peasant's heart is glad;     Where'er she spreads her parting sail,     The peasant's heart is sad.     "Each wasted town and hamlet     She visits to restore;     To roof the shattered cabin,     And feed the starving poor.     " The sunken boats of fishers,     The foraged beeves and grain,     The spoil of flake and storehouse,     The good ship brings again.     "And so to Finland's sorrow     The sweet amend is made,     As if the healing hand of Christ     Upon her wounds were laid!"     Then said the gray old Amtman,     "The will of God be done!     The battle lost by England's hate,     By England's love is won!     "We braved the iron tempest     That thundered on our shore;     But when did kindness fail to find     The key to Finland's door?     "No more from Aland's ramparts     Shall warning signal come,     Nor startled Sweaborg hear again     The roll of midnight drum.     "Beside our fierce Black Eagle     The Dove of Peace shall rest;     And in the mouths of cannon     The sea-bird make her nest.     "For Finland, looking seaward,     No coming foe shall scan;     And the holy bells of Abo     Shall ring, 'Good-will to man!'     "Then row thy boat, O fisher!     In peace on lake and bay;     And thou, young maiden, dance again     Around the poles of May!     "Sit down, old men, together,     Old wives, in quiet spin;     Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon     Is the brother of the Finn!