Mr. SPECTATOR,

The following Verses are a Translation of a Lapland Love-Song, which I met with in Scheffer’s History of that Country. [1] I was agreeably surprized to find a Spirit of Tenderness and Poetry in a Region which I never suspected for Delicacy.  In hotter Climates, tho’ altogether uncivilized, I had not wonder’d if I had found some sweet wild Notes among the Natives, where they live in Groves of Oranges, and hear the Melody of Birds about them:  But a Lapland Lyric, breathing Sentiments of Love and Poetry, not unworthy old Greece or Rome; a regular Ode from a Climate pinched with Frost, and cursed with Darkness so great a Part of the Year; where ’tis amazing that the poor Natives should get Food, or be tempted to propagate their Species:  this, I confess, seemed a greater Miracle to me, than the famous Stories of their Drums, their Winds and Inchantments.

I am the bolder in commending this Northern Song, because I have faithfully kept to the Sentiments, without adding or diminishing; and pretend to no greater Praise from my Translation, than they who smooth and clean the Furs of that Country which have suffered by Carriage.  The Numbers in the Original are as loose and unequal, as those in which the British Ladies sport their Pindaricks; and perhaps the fairest of them might not think it a disagreeable Present from a Lover:  But I have ventured to bind it in stricter Measures, as being more proper for our Tongue, tho perhaps wilder Graces may better suit the Genius of the Laponian Language.

  It will be necessary to imagine, that the Author of this Song, not
  having the Liberty of visiting his Mistress at her Father’s House, was
  in hopes of spying her at a Distance in the Fields.

    I. Thou rising Sun, whose gladsome Ray
          Invites my Fair to Rural Play,
          Dispel the Mist, and clear the Skies,
          And bring my Orra to my Eyes.

    II.  Oh! were I sure my Dear to view,
          I’d climb that Pine-Trees topmost Bough,
          Aloft in Air that quivering plays,
          And round and round for ever gaze.

    III.  My Orra Moor, where art thou laid? 
          What Wood conceals my sleeping Maid? 
          Fast by the Roots enrag’d I’ll tear
          The Trees that hide my promised Fair.

    IV.  Oh!  I cou’d ride the Clouds and Skies,
          Or on the Raven’s Pinions rise: 
          Ye Storks, ye Swans, a moment stay,
          And waft a Lover on his Way.

    V. My Bliss too long my Bride denies,
          Apace the wasting Summer flies: 
          Nor yet the wintry Blasts I fear,
          Not Storms or Night shall keep me here.

    VI.  What may for Strength with Steel compare? 
          Oh!  Love has Fetters stronger far: 
          By Bolts of Steel are Limbs confin’d,
          But cruel Love enchains the Mind.