drips from hame and collar, Vapors rise from both their horses. Speaks the minstrel, Wainamoinen: "Who art thou, and whence? Thou comest Driving like a stupid stripling, Wainamoinen and Youkahainen. Careless, dashing down upon me. Thou hast ruined shafts and traces; And the collar of my racer Thou hast shattered into ruin, And my golden sleigh is broken, Box and runners dashed to pieces." Youkahainen then make answer, Spake at last the words that follow: "I am youthful Youkahainen, But make answer first, who thou art, Whence thou comest, where thou goest, From what lowly tribe descended?" Wainamolinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus the youthful minstrel: "If thou art but Youkahainen, Thou shouldst give me all the highway; I am many years thy senior." Then the boastful Youkahainen Spake again to Wainamoinen: "Young or ancient, little matter, Little consequence the age is; He that higher stands in wisdom, He whose knowledge is the greater, He that is the sweeter singer, He alone shall keep the highway, And the other take the roadside. Art thou ancient Wainamoinen, Famous sorcerer and minstrel? Let us then begin our singing, Let us sing our ancient legends, Let us chant our garnered wisdom, That the one may hear the other, That the one may judge the other, In a war of wizard sayings." Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Thus replied in modest accents: "What I know is very little, Hardly is it worth the singing, Neither is my singing wondrous: All my days I have resided In the cold and dreary Northland, In a desert land enchanted, In my cottage home for ayes; All the songs that I have gathered, Are the cuckoo's simple measures, Some of these I may remember; But since thou perforce demandest, I accept thy boastful challenge. Tell me now, my golden youngster, What thou knowest more than others, Open now thy store of wisdom." Thus made answer Youkahainen, Lapland's young and fiery minstrel: "Know I many bits of learning This I know in perfect clearness: Every roof must have a chimney, Every fire-place have a hearth-stone; Lives of seal are free and merry, Merry is the life of walrus, Feeding on incautious salmon, Daily eating perch and whiting; Whitings live in quiet shallows, Salmon love the level bottoms; Spawns the pike in coldest weather, And defies the storms of winter. Slowly perches swim in Autumn, Wry-backed, hunting deeper water, Spawn in shallows in the summer, Bounding on the shore of ocean. Should this wisdom seem too little, I can tell thee other matters, Sing thee other wizard sayings: All the Northmen plow with reindeer, Mother-horses plow the Southland, Inner Lapland plows with oxen; All the trees on Pisa-mountain, Know I well in all their grandeur; On the Horna-rock are fir-trees, Fir-trees growing tall and slender; Slender grow the trees on mountains. Three, the water-falls in number, Three in number, inland oceans, Three in number, lofty mountains, Shooting to the vault of heaven. Hallapyora's near to Yaemen, Katrakoski in Karyala; Imatra, the falling water, Tumbles, roaring, into Wuoksi." Then the ancient Wainimoinen: "Women's tales and children's wisdom Do not please a bearded hero, Hero, old enough for wedlock; Tell the story of creation, Tell me of the world's beginning, Tell me of the creatures in it, And philosophize a little." Then the youthful Youkahainen Thus replied to Wainamoinen: "Know I well the titmouse-fountains, Pretty birdling is the titmouse; And the viper, green, a serpent; Whitings live in brackish waters; Perches swim in every river; Iron rusts, and rusting weakens; Bitter is the taste of umber; Boiling water is malicious; Fire is ever full of danger; First physician, the Creator; Remedy the oldest, water; Magic is the child of sea-foam; God the first and best adviser; Waters gush from every mountain; Fire descended first from heaven; Iron from the rust was fashioned; Copper from the rocks created; Marshes are of lands the oldest; First of all the trees, the willow; Fir-trees were the first of houses; Hollowed stones the first of kettles." Now the ancient Wainamoinen Thus addresses Youkahainen: "Canst thou give me now some wisdom, Is this nonsense all thou knowest?" Youkahainen thus made answer: "I can tell thee still a trifle, Tell thee of the times primeval, When I plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When I raked the sea-girt islands, When I dug the salmon-grottoes, Hollowed out the deepest caverns, When I all the lakes created, When I heaped the mountains round them, When I piled the rocks about them. I was present as a hero, Sixth of wise and ancient heroes, Seventh of all primeval heroes, When the heavens were created, When were formed the ether-spaces, When the sky was crystal-pillared, When was arched the beauteous rainbow, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, And with stars the heavens were sprinkled." Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Thou art surely prince of liars, Lord of all the host of liars; Never wert thou in existence, Surely wert thou never present, When was plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When were raked the sea-girt islands, When were dug the salmon-grottoes, When were hollowed out the caverns, When the lakes were all created, When were heaped the mountains round them, When the rocks were piled about them. Thou wert never seen or heard of When the earth was first created, When were made the ether-spaces, When the air was crystal-pillared, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, When the skies with stars were sprinkled." Then in anger Youkahainen Answered ancient Wainamoinen: "Then, sir, since I fail in wisdom, With the sword I offer battle; Come thou, famous bard and minstrel, Thou the ancient wonder-singer, Let us try our strength with broadswords, let our blades be fully tested." Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Not thy sword and not thy wisdom, Not thy prudence, nor thy cunning, Do I fear a single moment. Let who may accept thy challenge, Not with thee, a puny braggart, Not with one so vain and paltry, Will I ever measure broadswords." Then the youthful Youkahainen, Mouth awry and visage sneering, Shook his golden locks and answered: "Whoso fears his blade to measure, Fears to test his strength at broadswords, Into wild-boar of the forest, Swine at heart and swine in visage, Singing I will thus transform him; I will hurl such hero-cowards, This one hither, that one thither, Stamp him in the mire and bedding, In the rubbish of the stable." Angry then grew Wainamoinen, Wrathful waxed, and fiercely frowning, Self-composed he broke his silence, And began his wondrous singing. Sang he not the tales of childhood, Children's nonsense, wit of women, Sang he rather bearded heroes, That the children never heard of, That the boys and maidens knew not Known but half by bride and bridegroom, Known in part by many heroes, In these mournful days of evil, Evil times our race befallen. Grandly sang wise Wainamoinen, Till the copper-bearing mountains, And the flinty rocks and ledges Heard his magic tones and trembled; Mountain cliffs were torn to pieces, All the ocean heaved and tumbled; And the distant hills re-echoed. Lo! the boastful Youkahainen Is transfixed in silent wonder, And his sledge with golden trimmings Floats like brushwood on the billows; Sings his braces into reed-grass, Sings his reins to twigs of willow, And to shrubs his golden cross-bench. Lo! his birch-whip, pearl-enameled, Floats a reed upon the border; Lo! his steed with golden forehead, Stands a statue on the waters; Hames and traces are as fir-boughs, And his collar, straw and sea-grass. Still the minstrel sings enchantment, Sings his sword with golden handle, Sings it into gleam of lightning, Hangs it in the sky above him; Sings his cross-bow, gaily painted, To a rainbow o'er the ocean; Sings his quick and feathered arrows Into hawks and screaming eagles; Sings his dog with bended muzzle, Into block of stone beside him; Sings his cap from off his forehead, Sings it into wreaths of vapor; From his hands he sings his gauntlets Into rushes on the waters; Sings his vesture, purple-colored, Into white clouds in the heavens; Sings his girdle, set with jewels, Into twinkling stars around him; And alas! for Youkahainen, Sings him into deeps of quick-sand; Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, In his torture, sinks the wizard, To his belt in mud and water. Now it was that Youkahainen Comprehended but too clearly What his folly, what the end was, Of the journey he had ventured, Vainly he had undertaken For the glory of a contest With the grand, old Wainamoinen. When at last young Youkahainen, Pohyola's old and sorry stripling, Strives his best to move his right foot, But alas! the foot obeys not; When he strives to move his left foot, Lo! he finds it turned to flint-stone. Thereupon sad Youkahainen, In the deeps of desperation, And in earnest supplication, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: "O thou wise and worthy minstrel, Thou the only true, magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment,. Only turn away thy magic, Let me leave this slough of horror, Loose me from this stony prison, Free me from this killing torment, I will pay a golden ransom." Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "What the ransom thou wilt give me If I cease from mine enchantment, If I turn away my magic, Lift thee from thy slough of horror, Loose thee from thy stony prison, Free thee from thy killing torment?" Answered youthful Youkahainen: "Have at home two magic cross-bows, Pair of bows of wondrous power, One so light a child can bend it, Only strength can bend the other, Take of these the one that pleases." Then the ancient Wainamoinen: "Do not wish thy magic cross-bows, Have a few of such already, Thine to me are worse than useless I have bows in great abundance, Bows on every nail and rafter, Bows that laugh at all the hunters, Bows that go themselves a-hunting." Then the ancient Wainamoinen Sang alas! poor Youkahainen Deeper into mud and water, Deeper in the slough of torment. Youkahainen thus made answer: "Have at home two magic shallops, Beautiful the boats and wondrous; One rides light upon the ocean, One is made for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases." Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Do not wish thy magic shallops, Have enough of such already; All my bays are full of shallops, All my shores are lined with shallops, Some before the winds are sailors, Some were built to sail against them." Still the Wainola bard and minstrel Sings again poor Youkahainen Deeper, deeper into torment, Into quicksand to his girdle, Till the Lapland bard in anguish Speaks again to Wainamoinen: "Have at home two magic stallions, One a racer, fleet as lightning, One was born for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases." Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Neither do I wish thy stallions, Do not need thy hawk-limbed stallions, Have enough of these already; Magic stallions swarm my stables, Eating corn at every manger, Broad of back to hold the water, Water on each croup in lakelets." Still the bard of Kalevala Sings the hapless Lapland minstrel Deeper, deeper into torment, To his shoulders into water. Spake again young Youkahainen: "O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Thou the only true magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment, Only turn away thy magic, I will give thee gold abundant, Countless stores of shining silver; From the wars my father brought it, Brought it from the hard-fought battles." Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: "For thy gold I have no longing, Neither do I wish thy silver, Have enough of each already; Gold abundant fills my chambers, On each nail hang bags of silver, Gold that glitters in the sunshine, Silver shining in the moonlight." Sank the braggart, Youkahainen, Deeper in his slough of torment, To his chin in mud and water, Ever praying, thus beseeching: "O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Greatest of the old magicians, Lift me from this pit of horror, From this prison-house of torture; I will give thee all my corn-fields, Give thee all my corn in garners, Thus my hapless life to ransom, Thus to gain eternal freedom." Wainamoinen thus made answer: "Take thy corn to other markets, Give thy garners to the needy; I have corn in great abundance, Fields have I in every quarter, Corn in all my fields is growing; One's own fields are always richer, One's own grain is much the sweeter." Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, Sorrow-laden, thus enchanted, Deeper sinks in mud and water, Fear-enchained and full of anguish, In the mire, his beard bedrabbled, Mouth once boastful filled with sea-weed, In the grass his teeth entangled, Youkahainen thus beseeches: "O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers, Cease at last thine incantations, Only turn away thy magic, And my former life restore me, Lift me from this stifling torment, Free mine eyes from sand and water, I will give thee sister, Aino, Fairest daughter of my mother, Bride of thine to be forever, Bride of thine to do thy pleasure, Sweep the rooms within thy cottage, Keep thy dwelling-place in order, Rinse for thee the golden platters, Spread thy couch with finest linens, For thy bed, weave golden covers, Bake for thee the honey-biscuit." Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Finds at last the wished-for ransom, Lapland's young and fairest daughter, Sister dear of Youkahainen; Happy he, that he has won him, In his age a beauteous maiden, Bride of his to be forever, Pride and joy of Kalevala. Now the happy Wainamoinen, Sits upon the rock of gladness, Joyful on the rock of music, Sings a little, sings and ceases, Sings again, and sings a third time, Thus to break the spell of magic, Thus to lessen the enchantment, Thus the potent charm to banish. As the magic spell is broken, Youkahainen, sad, but wiser, Drags his feet from out the quicksand, Lifts his beard from out the water, From the rocks leads forth his courser, Brings his sledge back from the rushes, Calls his whip back from the ocean, Sets his golden sledge in order, Throws himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps his whip and hies him homeward, Hastens homeward, heavy-hearted, Sad indeed to meet his mother, Aino's mother, gray and aged. Careless thus be hastens homeward, Nears his home with noise and bustle, Reckless drives against the pent-house, Breaks the shafts against the portals, Breaks his handsome sledge in pieces. Then his mother, quickly guessing, Would have chided him for rashness, But the father interrupted: "Wherefore dost thou break thy snow-sledge, Wherefore dash thy thills in fragments, Wherefore comest home so strangely, Why this rude and wild behavior?" Now alas! poor Youkahainen, Cap awry upon his forehead, Falls to weeping, broken-hearted, Head depressed and mind dejected, Eyes and lips expressing sadness, Answers not his anxious father. Then the mother quickly asked him, Sought to find his cause for sorrow: "Tell me, first-born, why thou weepest, Why thou weepest, heavy-hearted, Why thy mind is so dejected, Why thine eyes express such sadness." Youkahainen then made answer: "Golden mother, ever faithful, Cause there is to me sufficient, Cause enough in what has happened, Bitter cause for this my sorrow, Cause for bitter tears and murmurs: All my days will pass unhappy, Since, O mother of my being, I have promised beauteous Aino, Aino, thy beloved daughter, Aino, my devoted sister, To decrepit Wainamoinen, Bride to be to him forever, Roof above him, prop beneath him, Fair companion at his fire-side." Joyful then arose the mother, Clapped her hands in glee together, Thus addressing Youkahainen: "Weep no more, my son beloved, Thou hast naught to cause thy weeping, Hast no reason for thy sorrow, Often I this hope have cherished; Many years have I been praying That this mighty bard and hero, Wise and valiant Wainamoinen, Spouse should be to beauteous Aino, Son-in-law to me, her mother." But the fair and lovely maiden, Sister dear of Youkahainen, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, On the threshold wept and lingered, Wept all day and all the night long, Wept a second, then a third day, Wept because a bitter sorrow On her youthful heart had fallen. Then the gray-haired mother asked her: "Why this weeping, lovely Aino? Thou hast found a noble suitor, Thou wilt rule his spacious dwelling, At his window sit and rest thee, Rinse betimes his golden platters, Walk a queen within his dwelling." Thus replied the tearful Aino: "Mother dear, and all-forgiving, Cause enough for this my sorrow, Cause enough for bitter weeping: I must loose my sunny tresses, Tresses beautiful and golden, Cannot deck my hair with jewels, Cannot bind my head with ribbons, All to be hereafter hidden Underneath the linen bonnet That the wife. must wear forever; Weep at morning, weep at evening, Weep alas! for waning beauty, Childhood vanished, youth departed, Silver sunshine, golden moonlight, Hope and pleasure of my childhood, Taken from me now forever, And so soon to be forgotten At the tool-bench of my brother, At the window of my sister, In the cottage of my father." Spake again the gray-haired mother To her wailing daughter Aino: "Cease thy sorrow, foolish maiden, By thy tears thou art ungrateful, Reason none for thy repining, Not the slightest cause for weeping; Everywhere the silver sunshine Falls as bright on other households; Not alone the moonlight glimmers Through thy father's open windows, On the work-bench of thy brother; Flowers bloom in every meadow, Berries grow on every mountain; Thou canst go thyself and find them, All the day long go and find them; Not alone thy brother's meadows Grow the beauteous vines and flowers; Not alone thy father's mountains Yield the ripe, nutritious berries; Flowers bloom in other meadows, Berries grow on other mountains, There as here, my lovely Aino."



RUNE IV.



THE FATE OF AINO.

When the night had passed, the maiden, Sister fair of Youkahainen, Hastened early to the forest, Birchen shoots for brooms to gather, Went to gather birchen tassels; Bound a bundle for her father, Bound a birch-broom for her mother, Silken tassels for her sister. Straightway then she hastened homeward, By a foot-path left the forest; As she neared the woodland border, Lo! the ancient Wainamoinen, Quickly spying out the maiden, As she left the birchen woodland, Trimly dressed in costly raiment, And the minstrel thus addressed her: "Aino, beauty of the Northland, Wear not, lovely maid, for others, Only wear for me, sweet maiden, Golden cross upon thy bosom, Shining pearls upon thy shoulders; Bind for me thine auburn tresses, Wear for me thy golden braidlets." Thus the maiden quickly answered: "Not for thee and not for others, Hang I from my neck the crosslet, Deck my hair with silken ribbons; Need no more the many trinkets Brought to me by ship or shallop; Sooner wear the simplest raiment, Feed upon the barley bread-crust, Dwell forever with my mother In the cabin with my father." Then she threw the gold cross from her, Tore the jewels from her fingers, Quickly loosed her shining necklace, Quick untied her silken ribbons, Cast them all away indignant Into forest ferns and flowers. Thereupon the maiden, Aino, Hastened to her mother's cottage. At the window sat her father Whittling on an oaken ax-helve: "Wherefore weepest, beauteous Aino, Aino, my beloved daughter? "Cause enough for weeping, father, Good the reasons for my mourning, This, the reason for my weeping, This, the cause of all my sorrow: From my breast I tore the crosslet, From my belt, the clasp of copper, From my waist, the belt of silver, Golden was my pretty crosslet." Near the door-way sat her brother, Carving out a birchen ox-bow: "Why art weeping, lovely Aino, Aino, my devoted sister?" "Cause enough for weeping, brother, Good the reasons for my mourning Therefore come I as thou seest, Rings no longer on my fingers, On my neck no pretty necklace; Golden were the rings thou gavest, And the necklace, pearls and silver!" On the threshold sat her sister, Weaving her a golden girdle: "Why art weeping, beauteous Aino, Aino, my beloved sister?" "Cause enough for weeping, sister, Good the reasons for my sorrow: Therefore come I as thou seest, On my head no scarlet fillet, In my hair no braids of silver, On mine arms no purple ribbons, Round my neck no shining necklace, On my breast no golden crosslet, In mine ears no golden ear-rings." Near the door-way of the dairy, Skimming cream, sat Aino's mother. "Why art weeping, lovely Aino, Aino, my devoted daughter?" Thus the sobbing maiden answered; "Loving mother, all-forgiving, Cause enough for this my weeping, Good the reasons for my sorrow, Therefore do I weep, dear mother: I have been within the forest, Brooms to bind and shoots to gather, There to pluck some birchen tassels; Bound a bundle for my father, Bound a second for my mother, Bound a third one for my brother, For my sister silken tassels. Straightway then I hastened homeward, By a foot-path left the forest; As I reached the woodland border Spake Osmoinen from the cornfield, Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Wear not, beauteous maid, for others, Only wear for me, sweet maiden, On thy breast a golden crosslet, Shining pearls upon thy shoulders, Bind for me thine auburn tresses, Weave for me thy silver braidlets.' Then I threw the gold-cross from me, Tore the jewels from my fingers, Quickly loosed my shining necklace, Quick untied my silken ribbons, Cast them all away indignant, Into forest ferns and flowers. Then I thus addressed the singer: 'Not for thee and not for others, Hang I from my neck the crosslet, Deck my hair with silken ribbons; Need no more the many trinkets, Brought to me by ship and shallop; Sooner wear the simplest raiment, Feed upon the barley bread-crust, Dwell forever with my mother In the cabin with my father.'" Thus the gray-haired mother answered Aino, her beloved daughter: "Weep no more, my lovely maiden, Waste no more of thy sweet young-life; One year eat thou my sweet butter, It will make thee strong and ruddy; Eat another year fresh bacon, It will make thee tall and queenly; Eat a third year only dainties, It will make thee fair and lovely. Now make haste to yonder hill-top, To the store-house on the mountain, Open there the large compartment, Thou will find it filled with boxes, Chests and cases, trunks and boxes; Open thou the box, the largest, Lift away the gaudy cover, Thou will find six golden girdles, Seven rainbow-tinted dresses, Woven by the Moon's fair daughters, Fashioned by the Sun's sweet virgins. In my young years once I wandered, As a maiden on the mountains, In the happy days of childhood, Hunting berries in the coppice; There by chance I heard the daughters Of the Moon as they were weaving; There I also heard the daughters Of the Sun as they were spinning On the red rims of the cloudlets, O'er the blue edge of the forest, On the border of the pine-wood, On a high and distant mountain. I approached them, drawing nearer, Stole myself within their hearing, Then began I to entreat them, Thus besought them, gently pleading: 'Give thy silver, Moon's fair daughters, To a poor, but worthy maiden; Give thy gold, O Sun's sweet virgins, To this maiden, young and needy.' Thereupon the Moon's fair daughters Gave me silver from their coffers; And the Sun's sweet shining virgins Gave me gold from their abundance, Gold to deck my throbbing temples, For my hair the shining silver. Then I hastened joyful homeward, Richly laden with my treasures, Happy to my mother's cottage; Wore them one day, than a second, Then a third day also wore them, Took the gold then from my temples, From my hair I took the silver, Careful laid them in their boxes, Many seasons have they lain there, Have not seen them since my childhood. Deck thy brow with silken ribbon, Trim with gold thy throbbing temples, And thy neck with pearly necklace, Hang the gold-cross on thy bosom, Robe thyself in pure, white linen Spun from flax of finest fiber; Wear withal the richest short-frock, Fasten it with golden girdle; On thy feet, put silken stockings, With the shoes of finest leather; Deck thy hair with golden braidlets, Bind it well with threads of silver; Trim with rings thy fairy fingers, And thy hands with dainty ruffles; Come bedecked then to thy chamber, Thus return to this thy household, To the greeting of thy kindred, To the joy of all that know thee, Flushed thy cheeks as ruddy berries, Coming as thy father's sunbeam, Walking beautiful and queenly, Far more beautiful than moonlight." Thus she spake to weeping Aino, Thus the mother to her daughter; But the maiden, little bearing, Does not heed her mother's wishes; Straightway hastens to the court-yard, There to weep in bitter sorrow, All alone to weep in anguish. Waiting long the wailing Aino Thus at last soliloquizes: "Unto what can I now liken Happy homes and joys of fortune? Like the waters in the river, Like the waves in yonder lakelet, Like the crystal waters flowing. Unto what, the biting sorrow Of the child of cold misfortune? Like the spirit of the sea-duck, Like the icicle in winter, Water in the well imprisoned. Often roamed my mind in childhood, When a maiden free and merry, Happily through fen and fallow, Gamboled on the meads with lambkins, Lingered with the ferns and flowers, Knowing neither pain nor trouble; Now my mind is filled with sorrow, Wanders though the bog and stubble, Wanders weary through the brambles, Roams throughout the dismal forest, Till my life is filled with darkness, And my spirit white with anguish. Better had it been for Aino Had she never seen the sunlight, Or if born had died an infant, Had not lived to be a maiden In these days of sin and sorrow, Underneath a star so luckless. Better had it been for Aino, Had she died upon the eighth day After seven nights had vanished; Needed then but little linen, Needed but a little coffin, And a grave of smallest measure; Mother would have mourned a little, Father too perhaps a trifle, Sister would have wept the day through, Brother might have shed a tear-drop, Thus had ended all the mourning." Thus poor Aino wept and murmured, Wept one day, and then a second, Wept a third from morn till even, When again her mother asked her: "Why this weeping, fairest daughter, Darling daughter, why this grieving? Thus the tearful maiden answered: Therefore do I weep and sorrow, Wretched maiden all my life long, Since poor Aino, thou hast given, Since thy daughter thou hast promised To the aged Wainamoinen, Comfort to his years declining Prop to stay him when he totters, In the storm a roof above him, In his home a cloak around him; Better far if thou hadst sent me Far below the salt-sea surges, To become the whiting's sister, And the friend of perch and salmon; Better far to ride the billows, Swim the sea-foam as a mermaid, And the friend of nimble fishes, Than to be an old man's solace, Prop to stay him when be totters, Hand to aid him when he trembles, Arm to guide him when he falters, Strength to give him when he weakens; Better be the whiting's sister And the friend of perch and salmon, Than an old man's slave and darling." Ending thus she left her mother, Straightway hastened to the mountain? To the store-house on the summit, Opened there the box the largest, From the box six lids she lifted, Found therein six golden girdles, Silken dresses seven in number. Choosing such as pleased her fancy, She adorned herself as bidden, Robed herself to look her fairest, Gold upon her throbbing temples, In her hair the shining silver, On her shoulders purple ribbons, Band of blue around her forehead, Golden cross, and rings, and jewels, Fitting ornaments to beauty. Now she leaves her many treasures, Leaves the store-house on the mountain, Filled with gold and silver trinkets, Wanders over field and meadow, Over stone-fields waste and barren, Wanders on through fen and forest, Through the forest vast and cheerless, Wanders hither, wanders thither, Singing careless as she wanders, This her mournful song and echo: "Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Woe to Aino, broken-hearted! Torture racks my heart and temples, Yet the sting would not be deeper, Nor the pain and anguish greater, If beneath this weight of sorrow, In my saddened heart's dejection, I should yield my life forever, Now unhappy, I should perish! Lo! the time has come for Aino From this cruel world to hasten, To the kingdom of Tuoni, To the realm of the departed, To the isle of the hereafter. Weep no more for me, O Father, Mother dear, withhold thy censure, Lovely sister, dry thine eyelids, Do not mourn me, dearest brother, When I sink beneath the sea-foam, Make my home in salmon-grottoes, Make my bed in crystal waters, Water-ferns my couch and pillow." All day long poor Aino wandered, All the next day, sad and weary, So the third from morn till evening, Till the cruel night enwrapped her, As she reached the sandy margin, Reached the cold and dismal sea-shore, Sat upon the rock of sorrow, Sat alone in cold and darkness, Listened only to the music Of the winds and rolling billows, Singing all the dirge of Aino. All that night the weary maiden Wept and wandered on the border Through the sand and sea-washed pebbles. As the day dawns, looking round her, She beholds three water-maidens, On a headland jutting seaward, Water-maidens four in number, Sitting on the wave-lashed ledges, Swimming now upon the billows, Now upon the rocks reposing. Quick the weeping maiden, Aino, Hastens there to join the mermaids, Fairy maidens of the waters. Weeping Aino, now disrobing, Lays aside with care her garments, Hangs her silk robes on the alders, Drops her gold-cross on the sea-shore, On the aspen hangs her ribbons, On the rocks her silken stockings, On the grass her shoes of deer-skin, In the sand her shining necklace, With her rings and other jewels. Out at sea a goodly distance, Stood a rock of rainbow colors, Glittering in silver sunlight. Toward it springs the hapless maiden, Thither swims the lovely Aino, Up the standing-stone has clambered, Wishing there to rest a moment, Rest upon the rock of beauty; When upon a sudden swaying To and fro among the billows, With a crash and roar of waters Falls the stone of many colors, Falls upon the very bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea. With the stone of rainbow colors, Falls the weeping maiden, Aino, Clinging to its craggy edges, Sinking far below the surface, To the bottom of the blue-sea. Thus the weeping maiden vanished. Thus poor Aino sank and perished, Singing as the stone descended, Chanting thus as she departed: Once to swim I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone or many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty son-bird. perished. Never come a-fishing, father, To the borders of these waters, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest daughter Aino. "Mother dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors, Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never mix thy bread, dear mother, With the blue-sea's foam and waters, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest daughter Aino. Brother dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never bring thy prancing war-horse, Never bring thy royal racer, Never bring thy steeds to water, To the borders of the blue-sea, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest sister Aino. "Sister dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never come to lave thine eyelids In this rolling wave and sea-foam, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest sister Aino. All the waters in the blue-sea Shall be blood of Aino's body; All the fish that swim these waters Shall be Aino's flesh forever; All the willows on the sea-side Shall be Aino's ribs hereafter; All the sea-grass on the margin Will have grown from Aino's tresses." Thus at last the maiden vanished, Thus the lovely Aino perished. Who will tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings To the cottage of her mother, Once the home of lovely Aino? Will the bear repeat the story, Tell the tidings to her mother? Nay, the bear must not be herald, He would slay the herds of cattle. Who then tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings To the cottage of her father, Once the home of lovely Aino? Shall the wolf repeat the story, Tell the sad news to her father? Nay, the wolf must not be herald, He would eat the gentle lambkins. Who then tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings. To the cottage of her sister? 'Will the fox repeat the story Tell the tidings to her sister? Nay, the fox must not be herald, He would eat the ducks and chickens. Who then tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings To the cottage of her brother, Once the home of lovely Aino? Shall the hare repeat the story, Bear the sad news to her brother? Yea, the hare shall be the herald, Tell to all the cruel story. Thus the harmless hare makes answer: "I will bear the evil tidings To the former home of Aino, Tell the story to her kindred." Swiftly flew the long-eared herald, Like the winds be hastened onward, Galloped swift as flight of eagles; Neck awry he bounded forward Till he gained the wished-for cottage, Once the home of lovely Aino. Silent was the home, and vacant; So he hastened to the bath-house, Found therein a group of maidens, Working each upon a birch-broom. Sat the hare upon the threshold, And the maidens thus addressed him: "Hie e there, Long-legs, or we'll roast thee, Hie there, Big-eye, or we'll stew thee, Roast thee for our lady's breakfast, Stew thee for our master's dinner, Make of thee a meal for Aino, And her brother, Youkahainen! Better therefore thou shouldst gallop To thy burrow in the mountains, Than be roasted for our dinners." Then the haughty hare made answer, Chanting thus the fate of Aino: "Think ye not I journey hither, To be roasted in the skillet, To be stewed in yonder kettle Let fell Lempo fill thy tables! I have come with evil tidings, Come to tell the cruel story Of the flight and death of Aino, Sister dear of Youkahainen. With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless waters, Like a pretty song-bird perished; Hung her ribbons on the aspen, Left her gold-cross on the sea-shore, Silken robes upon the alders, On the rocks her silken stockings, On the grass her shoes of deer-skin, In the sand her shining necklace, In the sand her rings and jewels; In the waves, the lovely Aino, Sleeping on the very bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, In the caverns of the salmon, There to be the whiting's sister And the friend of nimble fishes." Sadly weeps the ancient mother From her blue-eyes bitter tear-drops, As in sad and wailing measures, Broken-hearted thus she answers: "Listen, all ye mothers, listen, Learn from me a tale of wisdom: Never urge unwilling daughters From the dwellings of their fathers, To the bridegrooms that they love not, Not as I, inhuman mother, Drove away my lovely Aino, Fairest daughter of the Northland." Sadly weeps the gray-haired mother, And the tears that fall are bitter, Flowing down her wrinkled visage, Till they trickle on her bosom; Then across her heaving bosom, Till they reach her garment's border; Then adown her silken stockings, Till they touch her shoes of deer-skin; Then beneath her shoes of deer-skin, Flowing on and flowing ever, Part to earth as its possession, Part to water as its portion. As the tear-drops fall and mingle, Form they streamlets three in number, And their source, the mother's eyelids, Streamlets formed from pearly tear-drops, Flowing on like little rivers, And each streamlet larger growing, Soon becomes a rushing torrent In each rushing, roaring torrent There a cataract is foaming, Foaming in the silver sunlight; From the cataract's commotion Rise three pillared rocks in grandeur; From each rock, upon the summit, Grow three hillocks clothed in verdure; From each hillock, speckled birches, Three in number, struggle skyward; On the summit of each birch-tree Sits a golden cuckoo calling, And the three sing, all in concord: "Love! O Love! the first one calleth; Sings the second, Suitor! Suitor! And the third one calls and echoes, "Consolation! Consolation!" He that "Love! O Love!" is calling, Calls three moons and calls unceasing, For the love-rejecting maiden Sleeping in the deep sea-castles. He that "Suitor! Suitor!" singeth, Sings six moons and sings unceasing For the suitor that forever Sings and sues without a hearing. He that sadly sings and echoes, "Consolation! Consolation!" Sings unceasing all his life long For the broken-hearted mother That must mourn and weep forever. When the lone and wretched mother Heard the sacred cuckoo singing, Spake she thus, and sorely weeping: "When I hear the cuckoo calling, Then my heart is filled with sorrow; Tears unlock my heavy eyelids, Flow adown my, furrowed visage, Tears as large as silver sea pearls; Older grow my wearied elbows, Weaker ply my aged fingers, Wearily, in all its members, Does my body shake in palsy, When I hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling."



RUNE V.



WAINAVOINEN'S LAMENTATION.

Far and wide the tidings travelled, Far away men heard the story Of the flight and death of Aino, Sister dear of Youkahainen, Fairest daughter of creation. Wainamoinen, brave and truthful, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, Wept at morning, wept at evening, Sleepless, wept the dreary night long, That his Aino had departed, That the maiden thus had vanished, Thus had sunk upon the bottom Of the blue-sea, deep and boundless. Filled with grief, the ancient singer, Wainamoinen of the Northland, Heavy-hearted, sorely weeping, Hastened to the restless waters, This the suitor's prayer and question: "Tell, Untamo, tell me, dreamer, Tell me, Indolence, thy visions, Where the water-gods may linger, Where may rest Wellamo's maidens?" Then Untamo, thus made answer, Lazily he told his dreamings: "Over there, the mermaid-dwellings, Yonder live Wellamo's maidens, On the headland robed in verdure, On the forest-covered island, In the deep, pellucid waters, On the purple-colored sea-shore; Yonder is the home or sea-maids, There the maidens of Wellamo, Live there in their sea-side chambers, Rest within their water-caverns, On the rocks of rainbow colors, On the juttings of the sea-cliffs." Straightway hastens Wainamoinen To a boat-house on the sea-shore, Looks with care upon the fish-hooks, And the lines he well considers; Lines, and hooks, and poles, arid fish-nets, Places in a boat of copper, Then begins he swiftly rowing To the forest-covered island, To the point enrobed In verdure, To the purple-colored headland, Where the sea-nymphs live and linger. Hardly does he reach the island Ere the minstrel starts to angle; Far away he throws his fish-hook, Trolls it quickly through the waters, Turning on a copper swivel Dangling from a silver fish-line, Golden is the hook he uses. Now he tries his silken fish-net, Angles long, and angles longer, Angles one day, then a second, In the morning, in the evening, Angles at the hour of noontide, Many days and nights he angles, Till at last, one sunny morning, Strikes a fish of magic powers, Plays like salmon on his fish-line, Lashing waves across the waters, Till at length the fish exhausted Falls a victim to the angler, Safely landed in the bottom Of the hero's boat of copper. Wainamoinen, proudly viewing, Speaks these words in wonder guessing: "This the fairest of all sea-fish, Never have I seen its equal, Smoother surely than the salmon, Brighter-spotted than the trout is, Grayer than the pike of Suomi, Has less fins than any female, Not the fins of any male fish, Not the stripes of sea-born maidens, Not the belt of any mermaid, Not the ears of any song-bird, Somewhat like our Northland salmon From the blue-sea's deepest caverns." In his belt the ancient hero Wore a knife insheathed with silver; From its case he drew the fish-knife, Thus to carve the fish in pieces, Dress the nameless fish for roasting, Make of it a dainty breakfast, Make of it a meal at noon-day, Make for him a toothsome supper, Make the later meal at evening. Straightway as the fish he touches, Touches with his knife of silver, Quick it leaps upon the waters, Dives beneath the sea's smooth surface, From the boat with copper bottom, From the skiff of Wainamoinen. In the waves at goodly distance, Quickly from the sea it rises On the sixth and seventh billows, Lifts its head above the waters, Out of reach of fishing-tackle, Then addresses Wainamoinen, Chiding thus the ancient hero: "Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Do not think that I came hither To be fished for as a salmon, Only to be chopped in pieces, Dressed and eaten like a whiting Make for thee a dainty breakfast, Make for thee a meal at midday, Make for thee a toothsome supper, Make the fourth meal of the Northland." Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Wherefore didst thou then come hither, If it be not for my dinner?" Thus the nameless fish made answer: "Hither have I come, O minstrel, In thine arms to rest and linger, And thyself to love and cherish, At thy side a life-companion, And thy wife to be forever; Deck thy couch with snowy linen, Smooth thy head upon the pillow, Sweep thy rooms and make them cheery, Keep thy dwelling-place in order, Build a fire for thee when needed, Bake for thee the honey-biscuit, Fill thy cup with barley-water, Do for thee whatever pleases. "I am not a scaly sea-fish, Not a trout of Northland rivers, Not a whiting from the waters, Not a salmon of the North-seas, I, a young and merry maiden, Friend and sister of the fishes, Youkahainen's youngest sister, I, the one that thou dost fish for, I am Aino whom thou lovest. "Once thou wert the wise-tongued hero, Now the foolish Wainamoinen, Scant of insight, scant of judgment, Didst not know enough to keep me, Cruel-hearted, bloody-handed, Tried to kill me with thy fish-knife, So to roast me for thy dinner; I, a mermaid of Wellamo, Once the fair and lovely Aino, Sister dear of Youkahainen." Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, Filled with sorrow, much regretting: "Since thou'rt Youkahainen's sister, Beauteous Aino of Pohyola, Come to me again I pray thee!" Thus the mermaid wisely answered; Nevermore will Aino's spirit Fly to thee and be ill-treated." Quickly dived the water-maiden From the surface of the billow To the many-colored pebbles, To the rainbow-tinted grottoes Where the mermaids live and linger. Wainamoinen, not discouraged, Thought afresh and well reflected, How to live, and work, and win her; Drew with care his silken fish-net, To and fro through foam and billow, Through the bays and winding channels, Drew it through the placid waters, Drew it through the salmon-dwellings, Through the homes of water-maidens, Through the waters of Wainola, Through the blue-back of the ocean, Through the lakes of distant Lapland, Through the rivers of Youkola, Through the seas of Kalevala, Hoping thus to find his Aino. Many were the fish be landed, Every form of fish-like creatures, But be did not catch the sea-maid, Not Wellamo's water-maiden, Fairest daughter of the Northland. Finally the ancient minstrel, Mind depressed, and heart discouraged, Spake these words, immersed in sorrow: "Fool am I, and great my folly, Having neither wit nor judgment; Surely once I had some knowledge, Had some insight into wisdom, Had at least a bit of instinct; But my virtues all have left me In these mournful days of evil, Vanished with my youth and vigor, Insight gone, and sense departed, All my prudence gone to others! Aino, whom I love and cherish, All these years have sought to honor, Aino, now Wellamo's maiden, Promised friend of mine when needed, Promised bride of mine forever, Once I had within my power, Caught her in Wellamo's grottoes, Led her to my boat of copper, With my fish-line made of silver; But alas! I could not keep her, Did not know that I had caught her Till too late to woo and win her; Let her slip between my fingers To the home of water-maidens, To the kingdom of Wellamo." Wainamoinen then departed, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Straightway hastened to his country, To his home in Kalevala, Spake these words upon his journey: "What has happened to the cuckoo, Once the cuckoo bringing gladness, In the morning, in the evening, Often bringing joy at noontide? What has stilled the cuckoo's singing, What has changed the cuckoo's calling? Sorrow must have stilled his singing, And compassion changed his calling, As I hear him sing no longer, For my pleasure in the morning, For my happiness at evening. Never shall I learn the secret, How to live and how to prosper, How upon the earth to rest me, How upon the seas to wander! Only were my ancient mother Living on the face of Northland, Surely she would well advise me, What my thought and what my action, That this cup of grief might pass me, That this sorrow might escape me, And this darkened cloud pass over." In the deep awoke his mother, From her tomb she spake as follows: "Only sleeping was thy mother, Now awakes to give thee answer, What thy thought and what thine action, That this cup of grief may pass thee, That this sorrow may escape thee, And this darkened cloud pass over. Hie thee straightway to the Northland, Visit thou the Suomi daughters; Thou wilt find them wise and lovely, Far more beautiful than Aino, Far more worthy of a husband, Not such silly chatter-boxes, As the fickle Lapland maidens. Take for thee a life-companion, From the honest homes of Suomi, One of Northland's honest daughters; She will charm thee with her sweetness, Make thee happy through her goodness, Form perfection, manners easy, Every step and movement graceful, Full of wit and good behavior, Honor to thy home and kindred."



RUNE VI.



WAINAMOINEN'S HAPLESS JOURNEY.

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Now arranges for a journey To the village of the Northland, To the land of cruel winters, To the land of little sunshine, To the land of worthy women; Takes his light-foot, royal racer, Then adjusts the golden bridle, Lays upon his back the saddle, Silver-buckled, copper-stirruped, Seats himself upon his courser, And begins his journey northward; Plunges onward, onward, onward, Galloping along the highway, In his saddle, gaily fashioned, On his dappled steed of magic, Plunging through Wainola's meadows, O'er the plains of Kalevala. Fast and far he galloped onward, Galloped far beyond Wainola, Bounded o'er the waste of waters, Till he reached the blue-sea's margin, Wetting not the hoofs in running. But the evil Youkahainen Nursed a grudge within his bosom, In his heart the worm of envy, Envy of this Wainamoinen, Of this wonderful enchanter. He prepares a cruel cross-bow, Made of steel and other metals, Paints the bow in many colors, Molds the top-piece out or copper, Trims his bow with snowy silver, Gold he uses too in trimming, Then he hunts for strongest sinews, Finds them in the stag of Hisi, Interweaves the flax of Lempo. Ready is the cruel cross-bow, String, and shaft, and ends are finished, Beautiful the bow and mighty, Surely cost it not a trifle; On the back a painted courser, On each end a colt of beauty, Near the curve a maiden sleeping Near the notch a hare is bounding, Wonderful the bow thus fashioned; Cuts some arrows for his quiver, Covers them with finest feathers, From the oak the shafts be fashions, Makes the tips of keenest metal. As the rods and points are finished, Then he feathers well his arrows From the plumage of the swallow, From the wing-quills of the sparrow; Hardens well his feathered arrows, And imparts to each new virtues, Steeps them in the blood of serpents, In the virus of the adder. Ready now are all his arrows, Ready strung, his cruel cross-bow. Waiting for wise Wainamoinen. Youkahainen, Lapland's minstrel, Waits a long time, is not weary, Hopes to spy the ancient singer; Spies at day-dawn, spies at evening, Spies he ceaselessly at noontide, Lies in wait for the magician, Waits, and watches, as in envy; Sits he at the open window, Stands behind the hedge, and watches In the foot-path waits, and listens, Spies along the balks of meadows; On his back he hangs his quiver, In his quiver, feathered arrows Dipped in virus of the viper, On his arm the mighty cross-bow, Waits, and watches, and unwearied, Listens from the boat-house window, Lingers at the end of Fog-point, By the river flowing seaward, Near the holy stream and whirlpool, Near the sacred river's fire-fall. Finally the Lapland minstrel, Youkahainen of Pohyola, At the breaking of the day-dawn, At the early hour of morning, Fixed his gaze upon the North-east, Turned his eyes upon the sunrise, Saw a black cloud on the ocean, Something blue upon the waters, And soliloquized as follows: "Are those clouds on the horizon, Or perchance the dawn of morning? Neither clouds on the horizon, Nor the dawning of the morning; It is ancient Wainamoinen, The renowned and wise enchanter, Riding on his way to Northland; On his steed, the royal racer, Magic courser of Wainola." Quickly now young Youkahainen, Lapland's vain and evil minstrel, Filled with envy, grasps his cross-bow, Makes his bow and arrows ready For the death of Wainamoinen. Quick his aged mother asked him, Spake these words to Youkahainen: "For whose slaughter is thy cross-bow, For whose heart thy poisoned arrows?" Youkahainen thus made answer: "I have made this mighty cross-bow, Fashioned bow and poisoned arrows For the death of Wainamoinen, Thus to slay the friend of waters; I must shoot the old magician, The eternal bard and hero, Through the heart, and through the liver, Through the head, and through the shoulders, With this bow and feathered arrows Thus destroy my rival minstrel." Then the aged mother answered, Thus reproving, thus forbidding. Do not slay good Wainamoinen, Ancient hero of the Northland, From a noble tribe descended, He, my sister's son, my nephew. If thou slayest Wainamoinen, Ancient son of Kalevala, Then alas! all joy will vanish, Perish all our wondrous singing; Better on the earth the gladness, Better here the magic music, Than within the nether regions, In the kingdom of Tuoni, In the realm of the departed, In the land of the hereafter." Then the youthful Youkahainen Thought awhile and well considered, Ere he made a final answer. With one hand he raised the cross-bow But the other seemed to weaken, As he drew the cruel bow-string. Finally these words he uttered As his bosom swelled with envy: "Let all joy forever vanish, Let earth's pleasures quickly perish, Disappear earth's sweetest music, Happiness depart forever; Shoot I will this rival minstrel, Little heeding what the end is." Quickly now he bends his fire-bow, On his left knee rests the weapon, With his right foot firmly planted, Thus he strings his bow of envy; Takes three arrows from his quiver, Choosing well the best among them, Carefully adjusts the bow-string, Sets with care the feathered arrow, To the flaxen string he lays it, Holds the cross-bow to his shoulder, Aiming well along the margin, At the heart of Wainamoinen, Waiting till he gallops nearer; In the shadow of a thicket, Speaks these words while he is waiting "Be thou, flaxen string, elastic; Swiftly fly, thou feathered ash-wood, Swiftly speed, thou deadly missile, Quick as light, thou poisoned arrow, To the heart of Wainamoinen. If my hand too low should hold thee, May the gods direct thee higher; If too high mine eye should aim thee, May the gods direct thee lower." Steady now he pulls the trigger; Like the lightning flies the arrow O'er the head of Wainamoinen; To the upper sky it darteth, And the highest clouds it pierces, Scatters all the flock of lamb-clouds, On its rapid journey skyward. Not discouraged, quick selecting, Quick adjusting, Youkahainen, Quickly aiming shoots a second. Speeds the arrow swift as lightning; Much too low he aimed the missile, Into earth the arrow plunges, Pierces to the lower regions, Splits in two the old Sand Mountain. Nothing daunted, Youkahainen, Quick adjusting shoots a third one. Swift as light it speeds its journey, Strikes the steed of Wainamoinen, Strikes the light-foot, ocean-swimmer, Strikes him near his golden girdle, Through the shoulder of the racer. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Headlong fell upon the waters, Plunged beneath the rolling billows, From the saddle of the courser, From his dappled steed of magic. Then arose a mighty storm-wind, Roaring wildly on the waters, Bore away old Wainamoinen Far from land upon the billows, On the high and rolling billows, On the broad sea's great expanses. Boasted then young Youkahainen, Thinking Waino dead and buried, These the boastful words be uttered: "Nevermore, old Wainamoinen, Nevermore in all thy life-time, While the golden moonlight glistens, Nevermore wilt fix thy vision On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala; Full six years must swim the ocean, Tread the waves for seven summers, Eight years ride the foamy billows, In the broad expanse of water; Six long autumns as a fir-tree, Seven winters as a pebble; Eight long summers as an aspen." Thereupon the Lapland minstrel Hastened to his room delighting, When his mother thus addressed him "Hast thou slain good Wainamoinen, Slain the son of Kalevala?" Youkahainen thus made answer: "I have slain old Wainamoinen, Slain the son of Kalevala, That he now may plow the ocean, That he now may sweep the waters, On the billows rock and slumber. In the salt-sea plunged he headlong, In the deep sank the magician, Sidewise turned he to the sea-shore On his back to rock forever, Thus the boundless sea to travel, Thus to ride the rolling billows." This the answer of the mother: "Woe to earth for this thine action, Gone forever, joy and singing, Vanished is the wit of ages! Thou hast slain good Wainamoinen. Slain the ancient wisdom-singer, Slain the pride of Suwantala, Slain the hero of Wainola, Slain the joy of Kalevala."



RUNE VII.



WAINIOINEN'S RESCUE.

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Swam through all the deep-sea waters, Floating like a branch of aspen, Like a withered twig of willow; Swam six days in summer weather, Swam six nights in golden moonlight; Still before him rose the billows, And behind him sky and ocean. Two days more he swam undaunted, Two long nights be struggled onward. On the evening of the eighth day, Wainamoinen grew disheartened, Felt a very great discomfort, For his feet had lost their toe-nails, And his fingers dead and dying. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Sad and weary, spake as follows: "Woe is me, my old life fated! Woe is me, misfortune's offspring! Fool was I when fortune, favored, To forsake my home and kindred, For a maiden fair and lovely, Here beneath the starry heavens, In this cruel waste of waters, Days and nights to swim and wander, Here to struggle with the storm-winds, To be tossed by heaving billows, In this broad sea's great expanses, In this ocean vast and boundless. "Cold my life and sad and dreary, Painful too for me to linger Evermore within these waters, Thus to struggle for existence! Cannot know how I can prosper, How to find me food and shelter, In these cold and lifeless waters, In these days of dire misfortune. Build I in the winds my dwelling? It will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the billows? Surely would the waves destroy it." Comes a bird from far Pohyola, From the occident, an eagle, Is not classed among the largest, Nor belongs he to the smallest; One wing touches on the waters, While the other sweeps the heavens; O'er the waves he wings his body, Strikes his beak upon the sea-cliffs, Flies about, then safely perches, Looks before him, looks behind him, There beholds brave Wainamoinen, On the blue-back of the ocean, And the eagle thus accosts him: "Wherefore art thou, ancient hero, Swimming in the deep-sea billows? Thus the water-minstrel answered: "I am ancient Wainamoinen, Friend and fellow of the waters I, the famous wisdom-singer; Went to woo a Northland maiden, Maiden from the dismal Darkland, Quickly galloped on my journey, Riding on the plain of ocean. I arrived one morning early, At the breaking of the day-dawn. At the bay of Luotola, Near Youkola's foaming river, Where the evil Youkahainen Slew my steed with bow and arrow, Tried to slay me with his weapons. On the waters fell I headlong, Plunged beneath the salt-sea's surface, From the saddle of the courser, From my dappled steed of magic. "Then arose a mighty storm-wind, From the East and West a whirlwind, Washed me seaward on the surges, Seaward, seaward, further, further, Where for many days I wandered, Swam and rocked upon the billows, Where as many nights I struggled, In the dashing waves and sea-foam, With the angry winds and waters. "Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Cannot solve this heavy problem, How to live nor how to perish In this cruel salt-sea water. Build I in the winds my dwelling? It will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the waters? Surely will the waves destroy it. Must I swim the sea forever, Must I live, or must I perish? What will happen if I perish, If I sink below the billows, Perish here from cold and hunger?" Thus the bird of Ether answered "Be not in the least disheartened, Place thyself between my shoulders, On my back be firmly seated, I will lift thee from the waters, Bear thee with my pinions upward, Bear thee wheresoe'er thou willest. Well do I the day remember Where thou didst the eagle service, When thou didst the birds a favor. Thou didst leave the birch-tree standing, When were cleared the Osmo-forests, From the lands of Kalevala, As a home for weary song-birds, As a resting-place for eagles." Then arises Wainamoinen, Lifts his head above the waters, Boldly rises from the sea-waves, Lifts his body from the billows, Seats himself upon the eagle, On the eagle's feathered shoulders. Quick aloft the huge bird bears him, Bears the ancient Wainamoinen, Bears him on the path of zephyrs, Floating on the vernal breezes, To the distant shore of Northland, To the dismal Sariola, Where the eagle leaves his burden, Flies away to join his fellows. Wainamoinen, lone and weary, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, Wept and moaned in heavy accents, On the border of the blue-sea. On a cheerless promontory, With a hundred wounds tormented, Made by cruel winds and waters, With his hair and beard dishevelled By the surging of the billows. Three long days he wept disheartened Wept as many nights in anguish, Did not know what way to journey, Could not find a woodland foot-print, That would point him to the highway, To his home in Kalevala, To his much-loved home and kindred. Northland's young and slender maiden, With complexion fair and lovely, With the Sun had laid a wager, With the Sun and Moon a wager, Which should rise before the other, On the morning of the morrow. And the maiden rose in beauty, Long before the Sun had risen, Long before the Moon bad wakened, From their beds beneath the ocean. Ere the cock had crowed the day-break, Ere the Sun had broken slumber She had sheared six gentle lambkins, Gathered from them six white fleeces, Hence to make the rolls for spinning, Hence to form the threads for weaving, Hence to make the softest raiment, Ere the morning dawn had broken, Ere the sleeping Sun had risen. When this task the maid had ended, Then she scrubbed the birchen tables, Sweeps the ground-floor of the stable, With a broom of leaves and branches From the birches of the Northland, Scrapes the sweepings well together On a shovel made of copper, Carries them beyond the stable, From the doorway to the meadow, To the meadow's distant border, Near the surges of the great-sea, Listens there and looks about her, Hears a wailing from the waters, Hears a weeping from the sea-shore, Hears a hero-voice lamenting. Thereupon she hastens homeward, Hastens to her mother's dwelling, These the words the maiden utters: "I have heard a wail from ocean, Heard a weeping from the sea-coast, On the shore some one lamenting." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, toothless dame of Northland, Hastens from her door and court-yard, Through the meadow to the sea-shore, Listens well for sounds of weeping, For the wail of one in sorrow; Hears the voice of one in trouble, Hears a hero-cry of anguish. Thus the ancient Louhi answers: "This is not the wail of children, These are not the tears of women, In this way weep bearded heroes; This the hero-cry of anguish." Quick she pushed her boat to water, To the floods her goodly vessel, Straightway rows with lightning swiftness, To the weeping Wainamoinen; Gives the hero consolation, Comfort gives she to the minstrel Wailing in a grove of willows, In his piteous condition, Mid the alder-trees and aspens, On the border of the salt-sea, Visage trembling, locks dishevelled. Ears, and eyes, and lips of sadness. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: "Tell me what has been thy folly, That thou art in this condition." Old and truthful Wainamoinen Lifts aloft his bead and answers: "Well I know that it is folly That has brought me all this trouble, Brought me to this land of strangers, To these regions unbefitting Happy was I with my kindred, In my distant home and country, There my name was named in honor." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to Wainamoinen: "I would gain the information, Should I be allowed to ask thee, Who thou art of ancient heroes, Who of all the host of heroes? This is Wainamoinen's answer: "Formerly my name was mentioned, Often was I heard and honored, As a minstrel and magician, In the long and dreary winters, Called the 'Singer of the Northland, In the valleys of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala; No one thought that such misfortune Could befall wise Wainamoinen." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied in cheering accents "Rise, O hero, from discomfort, From thy bed among the willows; Enter now upon the new-way, Come with me to yonder dwelling, There relate thy strange adventures, Tell the tale of thy misfortunes." Now she takes the hapless hero, Lifts him from his bed of sorrow, In her boat she safely seats him, And begins at once her rowing, Rows with steady hand and mighty To her home upon the sea-shore, To the dwellings of Pohyola. There she feeds the starving hero, Rests the ancient Wainamoinen, Gives him warmth, and food, and shelter, And the hero soon recovers. Then the hostess of Pohyola Questioned thus the ancient singer: "Wherefore didst thou, Wainamoinen, Friend and fellow of the waters, Weep in sad and bitter accents, On the border of the ocean, Mid the aspens and the willows?" This is Wainamoinen's answer: Had good reason for my weeping, Cause enough for all my sorrow; Long indeed had I been swimming, Had been buffeting the billows, In the far outstretching waters. This the reason for my weeping; I have lived in toil and torture, Since I left my home and country, Left my native land and kindred, Came to this the land of strangers, To these unfamiliar portals. All thy trees have thorns to wound me, All thy branches, spines to pierce me, Even birches give me trouble, And the alders bring discomfort, My companions, winds and waters, Only does the Sun seem friendly, In this cold and cruel country, Near these unfamiliar portals." Louhi thereupon made answer, Weep no longer, Wainamoinen, Grieve no more, thou friend of waters, Good for thee, that thou shouldst linger At our friendly homes and firesides; Thou shalt live with us and welcome, Thou shalt sit at all our tables, Eat the salmon from our platters, Eat the sweetest of our bacon, Eat the whiting from our waters." Answers thus old Wainamoinen, Grateful for the invitation: "Never do I court strange tables, Though the food be rare and toothsome; One's own country is the dearest, One's own table is the sweetest, One's own home, the most attractive. Grant, kind Ukko, God above me, Thou Creator, full of mercy, Grant that I again may visit My beloved home and country. Better dwell in one's own country, There to drink Its healthful waters From the simple cups of birch-wood, Than in foreign lands to wander, There to drink the rarest liquors From the golden bowls of strangers." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to the magician: "What reward wilt thou award me, Should I take thee where thou willest, To thy native land and kindred, To thy much-loved home and fireside, To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala?" These the words of Wainamoinen: "What would be reward sufficient, Shouldst thou take me to my people, To my home and distant country, To the borders of the Northland, There to hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling? Shall I give thee golden treasures, Fill thy cups with finest silver?" This is Louhi's simple answer: "O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Only true and wise magician, Never will I ask for riches, Never ask for gold nor silver; Gold is for the children's flowers, Silver for the stallion's jewels. Canst thou forge for me the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins? "I will give thee too my daughter, Will reward thee through the maiden, Take thee to thy much-loved home-land, To the borders of Wainola, There to hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling." Wainamoinen, much regretting, Gave this answer to her question: "Cannot forge for thee the Sampo, Cannot make the lid in colors. Take me to my distant country, I will send thee Ilmarinen, He will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee the lid in colors, He may win thy lovely maiden; Worthy smith is Ilmarinen, In this art is first and master; He, the one that forged the heavens. Forged the air a hollow cover; Nowhere see we hammer-traces, Nowhere find a single tongs-mark." Thus replied the hostess, Louhi: "Him alone I'll give my daughter, Promise him my child in marriage, Who for me will forge the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins." Thereupon the hostess Louhi, Harnessed quick a dappled courser, Hitched him to her sledge of birch-wood, Placed within it Wainamoinen, Placed the hero on the cross-bench, Made him ready for his journey; Then addressed the ancient minstrel, These the words that Louhi uttered: "Do not raise thine eyes to heaven, Look not upward on thy journey, While thy steed is fresh and frisky, While the day-star lights thy pathway, Ere the evening star has risen; If thine eyes be lifted upward, While the day-star lights thy pathway, Dire misfortune will befall thee, Some sad fate will overtake thee." Then the ancient Wainamoinen Fleetly drove upon his journey, Merrily he hastened homeward, Hastened homeward, happy-hearted From the ever-darksome Northland From the dismal Sariola.



RUNE VIII.



MAIDEN OF THE RAINBOW.

Pohyola's fair and winsome daughter, Glory of the land and water, Sat upon the bow of heaven, On its highest arch resplendent, In a gown of richest fabric, In a gold and silver air-gown, Weaving webs of golden texture, Interlacing threads of silver; Weaving with a golden shuttle, With a weaving-comb of silver; Merrily flies the golden shuttle, From the maiden's nimble fingers, Briskly swings the lathe in weaving, Swiftly flies the comb of silver, From the sky-born maiden's fingers, Weaving webs of wondrous beauty. Came the ancient Wainamoinen, Driving down the highway homeward, From the ever sunless Northland, From the dismal Sariola; Few the furlongs he had driven, Driven but a little distance, When he heard the sky-loom buzzing, As the maiden plied the shuttle. Quick the thoughtless Wainamoinen Lifts his eyes aloft in wonder, Looks upon the vault of heaven, There beholds the bow of beauty, On the bow the maiden sitting, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Glory of the earth and ocean, Weaving there a golden fabric, Working with the rustling silver. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Quickly checks his fleet-foot racer, Looks upon the charming maiden, Then addresses her as follows: "Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge, By my side I wish thee seated." Thus the Maid of Beauty answers: "Tell me what thou wishest of me, Should I join thee in the snow-sledge." Speaks the ancient Wainamoinen, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: "This the reason for thy coming: Thou shalt bake me honey-biscuit, Shalt prepare me barley-water, Thou shalt fill my foaming beer-cups, Thou shalt sing beside my table, Shalt rejoice within my portals, Walk a queen within my dwelling, In the Wainola halls and chambers, In the courts of Kalevala." Thus the Maid of Beauty answered From her throne amid the heavens: "Yesterday at hour of twilight, Went I to the flowery meadows, There to rock upon the common, Where the Sun retires to slumber; There I heard a song-bird singing, Heard the thrush simple measures, Singing sweetly thoughts of maidens, And the minds of anxious mothers. "Then I asked the pretty songster, Asked the thrush this simple question: 'Sing to me, thou pretty song-bird, Sing that I may understand thee, Sing to me in truthful accents, How to live in greatest pleasure, And in happiness the sweetest, As a maiden with her father, Or as wife beside her husband.' "Thus the song-bird gave me answer, Sang the thrush this information: 'Bright and warm are days of summer, Warmer still is maiden-freedom; Cold is iron in the winter, Thus the lives of married women; Maidens living with their mothers Are like ripe and ruddy berries; Married women, far too many, Are like dogs enchained in kennel, Rarely do they ask for favors, Not to wives are favors given.'" Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: "Foolish is the thrush thus singing, Nonsense is the song-bird's twitter; Like to babes are maidens treated, Wives are queens and highly honored. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, I am not despised as hero, Not the meanest of magicians; Come with me and I will make thee Wife and queen in Kalevala." Thus the Maid of Beauty answered— "Would consider thee a hero, Mighty hero, I would call thee, When a golden hair thou splittest, Using knives that have no edges; When thou snarest me a bird's egg With a snare that I can see not." Wainamoinen, skilled and ancient, Split a golden hair exactly, Using knives that had no edges; And he snared an egg as nicely With a snare the maiden saw not. "Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, I have done what thou desirest." Thus the maiden wisely answered: "Never enter I thy snow-sledge, Till thou peelest me the sandstone, Till thou cuttest me a whip-stick From the ice, and make no splinters, Losing not the smallest fragment." Wainamoinen, true magician, Nothing daunted, not discouraged, Deftly peeled the rounded sandstone, Deftly cut from ice a whip-stick, Cutting not the finest splinter, Losing not the smallest fragment. Then again be called the maiden, To a seat within his snow-sledge. But the Maid or Beauty answered, Answered thus the great magician: I will go with that one only That will make me ship or shallop, From the splinters of my spindle, From the fragments of my distaff, In the waters launch the vessel, Set the little ship a-floating, Using not the knee to push it, Using not the arm to move it, Using not the hand to touch it, Using not the foot to turn it, Using nothing to propel it." Spake the skilful Wainamoinen, These the words the hero uttered: "There is no one in the Northland, No one under vault of heaven, Who like me can build a vessel, From the fragments of the distaff, From the splinters of the spindle." Then he took the distaff-fragments, Took the splinters of the spindle, Hastened off the boat to fashion, Hastened to an iron mountain, There to join the many fragments. Full of zeal be plies the hammer, Swings the hammer and the hatchet; Nothing daunted, builds the vessel, Works one day and then a second, Works with steady hand the third day; On the evening of the third day, Evil Hisi grasps the hatchet, Lempo takes the crooked handle, Turns aside the axe in falling, Strikes the rocks and breaks to pieces; From the rocks rebound the fragments, Pierce the flesh of the magician, Cut the knee of Wainamoinen. Lempo guides the sharpened hatchet, And the veins fell Hisi severs. Quickly gushes forth a blood-stream, And the stream is crimson-colored. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, The renowned and wise enchanter, Thus outspeaks in measured accents: "O thou keen and cruel hatchet, O thou axe of sharpened metal, Thou shouldst cut the trees to fragments, Cut the pine-tree and the willow, Cut the alder and the birch-tree, Cut the juniper and aspen, Shouldst not cut my knee to pieces, Shouldst not tear my veins asunder." Then the ancient Wainamoinen Thus begins his incantations, Thus begins his magic singing, Of the origin of evil; Every word in perfect order, Makes no effort to remember, Sings the origin of iron, That a bolt he well may fashion, Thus prepare a look for surety, For the wounds the axe has given, That the hatchet has torn open. But the stream flows like a brooklet, Rushing like a maddened torrent, Stains the herbs upon the meadows, Scarcely is a bit of verdure That the blood-stream does not cover As it flows and rushes onward From the knee of the magician, From the veins of Wainamoinen. Now the wise and ancient minstrel Gathers lichens from the sandstone, Picks them from the trunks of birches, Gathers moss within the marshes, Pulls the grasses from the meadows, Thus to stop the crimson streamlet, Thus to close the wounds laid open; But his work is unsuccessful, And the crimson stream flows onward. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Feeling pain and fearing languor, Falls to weeping, heavy-hearted; Quickly now his steed he hitches, Hitches to the sledge of birch-wood, Climbs with pain upon the cross-bench, Strikes his steed in quick succession, Snaps his whip above the racer, And the steed flies onward swiftly; Like the winds he sweeps the highway, Till be nears a Northland village, Where the way is triple-parted. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Takes the lowest of the highways, Quickly nears a spacious cottage, Quickly asks before the doorway: "Is there any one here dwelling, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet. That can check this crimson streamlet?" Sat a boy within a corner, On a bench beside a baby, And he answered thus the hero: "There is no one in this dwelling That can know the pain thou feelest, That can heal the wounds of hatchet, That can check the crimson streamlet; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service." Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Whips his courser to a gallop, Dashes on along the highway; Only drives a little distance, On the middle of the highways, To a cabin on the road-side, Asks one standing on the threshold, Questions all through open windows, These the words the hero uses: "Is there no one in this cabin, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet, That can check this crimson streamlet?" On the floor a witch was lying, Near the fire-place lay the beldame, Thus she spake to Wainamoinen, Through her rattling teeth she answered. "There is no one in this cabin That can know the pain thou feelest, That can heal the wounds of hatchets, That can check the crimson streamlet; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service." Wainamoinen, nothing daunted, Whips his racer to a gallop, Dashes on along the highway; Only drives a little distance, On the upper of the highways, Gallops to a humble cottage, Asks one standing near the penthouse, Sitting on the penthouse-doorsill: "Is there no one in this cottage, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet, That can check this crimson streamlet?" Near the fireplace sat an old man, On the hearthstone sat the gray-beard, Thus he answered Wainamoinen: "Greater things have been accomplished, Much more wondrous things effected, Through but three words of the master; Through the telling of the causes, Streams and oceans have been tempered, River cataracts been lessened, Bays been made of promontories, Islands raised from deep sea-bottoms."



RUNE IX.



ORIGIN OF IRON.

Wainamoinen, thus encouraged, Quickly rises in his snow-sledge, Asking no one for assistance, Straightway hastens to the cottage, Takes a seat within the dwelling. Come two maids with silver pitchers, Bringing also golden goblets; Dip they up a very little, But the very smallest measure Of the blood of the magician, From the wounds of Wainamoinen. From the fire-place calls the old man, Thus the gray-beard asks the minstrel: "Tell me who thou art of heroes, Who of all the great magicians? Lo! thy blood fills seven sea-boats, Eight of largest birchen vessels, Flowing from some hero's veinlets, From the wounds of some magician. Other matters I would ask thee; Sing the cause of this thy trouble, Sing to me the source of metals, Sing the origin of iron, How at first it was created." Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made this answer to the gray-beard: "Know I well the source of metals, Know the origin of iron; f can tell bow steel is fashioned. Of the mothers air is oldest, Water is the oldest brother, And the fire is second brother, And the youngest brother, iron; Ukko is the first creator. Ukko, maker of the heavens, Cut apart the air and water, Ere was born the metal, iron. Ukko, maker of the heavens, Firmly rubbed his hands together, Firmly pressed them on his knee-cap, Then arose three lovely maidens, Three most beautiful of daughters; These were mothers of the iron, And of steel of bright-blue color. Tremblingly they walked the heavens, Walked the clouds with silver linings, With their bosoms overflowing With the milk of future iron, Flowing on and flowing ever, From the bright rims of the cloudlets To the earth, the valleys filling, To the slumber-calling waters. "Ukko's eldest daughter sprinkled Black milk over river channels And the second daughter sprinkled White milk over hills and mountains, While the youngest daughter sprinkled Red milk over seas and oceans. Whero the black milk had been sprinked, Grew the dark and ductile iron; Where the white milk had been sprinkled. Grew the iron, lighter-colored; Where the red milk had been sprinkled, Grew the red and brittle iron. "After Time had gone a distance, Iron hastened Fire to visit, His beloved elder brother, Thus to know his brother better. Straightway Fire began his roarings, Labored to consume his brother, His beloved younger brother. Straightway Iron sees his danger, Saves himself by fleetly fleeing, From the fiery flame's advances, Fleeing hither, fleeing thither, Fleeing still and taking shelter In the swamps and in the valleys, In the springs that loudly bubble, By the rivers winding seaward, On the broad backs of the marshes, Where the swans their nests have builded, Where the wild geese hatch their goslings. "Thus is iron in the swamp-lands, Stretching by the water-courses, Hidden well for many ages, Hidden in the birchen forests, But he could not hide forever From the searchings of his brother; Here and there the fire has caught him, Caught and brought him to his furnace, That the spears, and swords, and axes, Might be forged and duly hammered. In the swamps ran blackened waters, From the heath the bears came ambling, And the wolves ran through the marshes. Iron then made his appearance, Where the feet of wolves had trodden, Where the paws of bears had trampled. "Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Came to earth to work the metal; He was born upon the Coal-mount, Skilled and nurtured in the coal-fields; In one hand, a copper hammer, In the other, tongs of iron; In the night was born the blacksmith, In the morn he built his smithy, Sought with care a favored hillock, Where the winds might fill his bellows; Found a hillock in the swamp-lands, Where the iron hid abundant; There he built his smelting furnace, There he laid his leathern bellows, Hastened where the wolves had travelled, Followed where the bears had trampled, Found the iron's young formations, In the wolf-tracks of the marshes, In the foot-prints of the gray-bear. "Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, 'Thus addressed the sleeping iron: Thou most useful of the metals, Thou art sleeping in the marshes, Thou art hid in low conditions, Where the wolf treads in the swamp-lands, Where the bear sleeps in the thickets. Hast thou thought and well considered, What would be thy future station, Should I place thee in the furnace, Thus to make thee free and useful?' "Then was Iron sorely frightened, Much distressed and filled with horror, When of Fire he heard the mention, Mention of his fell destroyer. "Then again speaks Ilmarinen, Thus the smith addresses Iron: 'Be not frightened, useful metal, Surely Fire will not consume thee, Will not burn his youngest brother, Will not harm his nearest kindred. Come thou to my room and furnace, Where the fire is freely burning, Thou wilt live, and grow, and prosper, Wilt become the swords of heroes, Buckles for the belts of women.' "Ere arose the star of evening, Iron ore had left the marshes, From the water-beds had risen, Had been carried to the furnace, In the fire the smith had laid it, Laid it in his smelting furnace. Ilmarinen starts the bellows, Gives three motions of the handle, And the iron flows in streamlets From the forge of the magician, Soon becomes like baker's leaven, Soft as dough for bread of barley. Then out-screamed the metal, Iron: 'Wondrous blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Take, O take me from thy furnace, From this fire and cruel torture.' "Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'I will take thee from my furnace, 'Thou art but a little frightened, Thou shalt be a mighty power, Thou shalt slay the best of heroes, Thou shalt wound thy dearest brother.' "Straightway Iron made this promise, Vowed and swore in strongest accents, By the furnace, by the anvil, By the tongs, and by the hammer, These the