STENBOCK'S MESSENGER

STENBOCK'S MESSENGER

By Count Carl Snoilsky

From the Swedish by Sandra Dermark.

August MMXVII - Stora Höga

(Partial translation)

Within the royal castle

that rises on the isle,

by the lakeside, round towers

on which springtime won't smile,

the aged royal matriarch,

Queen Hedwig Eleanor,

three Charleses' firm supporter,

is anxious evermore.

How many nights of waking

has she spent in her life?

Her spouse fighting in Warsaw,

only son in Lund's strife!

Her grandson at Poltava...

like thunder, 't struck her ear...

Is this the fall of Sweden?

Thus does the news appear.

She sits there in the throne room,

the queen so good and old;

her granddaughter Ulrica

on her left, pale and cold...

Through her lips, no words stealing;

same King Fritz, on the right...

only the clock's tick-tocking

rouses this courtly sight.

But what's up on the staircase?

Door opens after door...

Through powdered wigs, a whisper

spreads lightning-fast for sure!

"A messenger from Stenbock!"

Victory or defeat?

At the page's announcement,

a few steps all retreat.

Two royal guards support, though,

this half-fainted young man;

on leaden feet he staggers --

they no more bear him can.

Each footstep Swedish soil leaves

on the floor -- he's so weak!

He stands before the royals --

he swoons, he cannot speak.

As pale as snow or marble,

yet remaining serene,

from her crowned throne arises

the old Dowager Queen.

"Please take a seat, Lieutenant!"

The courtiers stare in fright:

unusually, he sits there

and she's standing upright!

She waves, and a cupbearer

arrives, flagon in hand:

'tis a fine silver tankard

with scenes of war's command,

full of the finest Rhenish

within the royal store:

to the youth she has reached it,

her grip still strong and sure.

"As a dutiful soldier,

you've fulfilled your command:

thankful are not we only,

but all of Sweden's land.

Remember this good kindness:

thus, drink your thirst away,

and then, let us all listen

to what you have to say!"

No sooner have his parched lips

kissed the golden grape's blood

that through his limbs and soft face

streams anew life's warm flood.

He stands up at attention:

let all of Sweden hear

the young warrior speaking,

for sorrow or good cheer:

"Twenty-eighth of February:

At Helsingborg, the Dane

vanquished in open battle

was, with much toil and pain.

We've got thousands of captives,

and foemens' banners, too:

our bold general's written

the whole account here, true."

The mother of the Charleses

dissolves herself in tears:

"Now I shall die in peace, thus

bereft of any fears!

Amidst cheers of elation,

Ulrica's face shines bright:

she resembles her brother...

Everything's full of light!