SNOILSKY'S LÜTZEN IN ENGLISH

I have finally translated Snoilsky's poem on the Battle of Lützen into Shakespeare's language (having already translated it into Spanish three months ago), and I have dedicated it to a teacher of mine:

THE BATTLE OF LÜTZEN

A historical tableau by Carl Snoilsky

translated from the Swedish by Sandra Dermark

on the 2nd of September 2013

(Dedicated to Juan Carlos Ruiz with sincere admiration)

With thunder and lightning, two armies have clashed

at daybreak, one autumn morrow.

Through thick gray fog, gunfire has violently flashed,

stifling the wounded’s cries of sorrow.

On winning, on winning, on daring to dare

is hell-bent the mind of each rider,

though he lose the grip on the reins of his mare,

and rashly dismount, in a stride, her.

As the heavy cuirassier falls to the ground,

the pikeman, who would stand defeated,

sees his chance and thrusts his blade, turning around:

thus, rider and steed are mistreated.

The common soldier rushes into the fray:

his duty reads “dying or slaying”.

The commander watches his men the game play,

and soon heavy cards he’s seen playing.

There he rides, his blue plume flutters! Lovely lad!

Cool eyes, every muscle in tension!

The tall, dashing figure in bright doublet clad

draws friends’ and enemies’ attention!

Thus he takes command of his faltering wing,

exposed like a leader of twenty.

Like a young lieutenant, risks takes the blond king:

his sword’s drawn, his scabbard is empty.

He’s shuttled by thunderstorm wings through the ranks,

into the fog, into the fire.

Like hail, many a bullet on a breastplate clanks

where enemy units conspire.

“Onward, my brave Swedish cavalry!

Onward, comrades of German breeding!”

In vain… they can’t catch up… their leader don’t see...

then, suddenly, hear: “The King’s bleeding!”

Into the dark bosom of Wallenstein’s troop

no one the wounded rider followed.

The yellow doublet was, at one fell swoop,

by the clanking iron wave swallowed.

Then, a rising clamour sears flesh and bone:

“Gustavus! Our father! Our leader!”

Thus, his brigades combine: he won’t die alone.

They roar, rushing forward, dear reader.

Croatians retreat and Walloons take to flight,

and, buried in heaps of slain sinners,

the Friedlander’s cannons are hidden from sight:

the martyr’s men shall be the winners.

The last word was missing in his epic song:

the word that crowns every achievement.

The mourners have done their duty, right or wrong:

they wrote it in blood and bereavement.

They’ve won. On the fields, with a lovely parade,

they honour their beloved leader,

but most of them have fallen within the glade:

the living are few, my dear reader.

On the plains of Lützen, by faint evening light,

in cold, foggy early November,

I saw such a bloody, violent sight,

that I, to this day, still remember.