Quick the hero, Wainamoinen, Saw misfortune hanging over, Saw destruction in the distance Heavy-hearted, long reflecting, Trouble-laden, spake as follows: "Only is there one salvation, Know one miracle for safety!"

Then he grasped his box of tinder, From the box he took a flint-stone, Of the tinder took some fragments, Cast the fragments on the waters, Spake these words of master-magic.

"Let from these arise a mountain From the bottom of the deep-sea, Let a rock arise in water, That the war-ship of Pohyola, With her thousand men and heroes, May be wrecked upon the summit, By the aid of surging billows."

Instantly a reef arises, In the sea springs up a mountain, Eastward, westward, through the waters.

Came the war-ship of the Northland, Through the floods the boat came steering, Sailed against the mountain-ledges, Fastened on the rocks in water, Wrecked upon the Mount of Magic.

In the deep-sea fell the topmasts, Fell the sails upon the billows, Carried by the winds and waters O'er the waves of toil and trouble.

Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Tries to free her sinking vessel, Tries to rescue from destruction; But she cannot raise the war-ship, Firmly fixed upon the mountain; Shattered are the ribs and rudder, Ruined is the ship of Pohya.

Then the hostess of the Northland, Much disheartened, spake as follows: "Where the force, in earth or heaven, That will help a soul in trouble?"

Quick she changes form and feature, Makes herself another body; Takes five sharpened scythes of iron, Also takes five goodly sickles, Shapes them into eagle-talons; Takes the body of the vessel, Makes the frame-work of an eagle; Takes the vessel's ribs and flooring Makes them into wings and breastplate; For the tail she shapes the rudder; In the wings she plants a thousand Seniors with their bows and arrows; Sets a thousand magic heroes In the body, armed with broadswords In the tail a hundred archers, With their deadly spears and cross-bows, Thus the bird is hero-feathered.

Quick she spreads her mighty pinions, Rises as a monster-eagle, Flies on high, and soars, and circles With one wing she sweeps the heavens, While the other sweeps the waters.

Spake the hero's ocean-mother: "O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Turn thy vision to the north-east, Cast thine eyes upon the sunrise, Look behind thy fleeing vessel, See the eagle of misfortune!"

Wainamoinen turned as bidden, Turned his vision to the north-east, Cast his eyes upon the sunrise, There beheld the Northland-hostess, Wicked witch of Sariola, Flying as a monster-eagle, Swooping on his mighty war-ship; Flies and perches on the topmast, On the sail-yards firmly settles; Nearly overturns the vessel Of the heroes of Wainola, Underneath the weight of envy.

Then the hero, Ilmarinen, Turned to Ukko as his refuge, Thus entreated his Creator: "Ukko, thou O G.o.d in heaven, Thou Creator full of mercy, Guard us from impending danger, That thy children may not perish, May not meet with fell destruction.

Hither bring thy magic fire-cloak, That thy people, thus protected, May resist Pohyola's forces, Well may fight against the hostess Of the dismal Sariola, May not fall before her weapons, May not in the deep-sea perish!"

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: "O thou hostess of Pohyola, Wilt thou now divide the Sampo, On the fog-point in the water, On the island forest-covered?

Thus the Northland hostess answered: "I will not divide the Sampo, Not with thee, thou evil wizard, Not with wicked Wainamoinen!"

Quick the mighty eagle, Louhi, Swoops upon the lid in colors, Grasps the Sampo in her talons; But the daring Lemminkainen Straightway draws his blade of battle, Draws his broadsword from his girdle, Cleaves the talons of the eagle, One toe only is uninjured, Speaks these magic words of conquest: "Down, ye spears, and down, ye broadswords, Down, ye thousand witless heroes, Down, ye feathered hosts of Louhi!"

Spake the hostess of Pohyola, Calling, screeching, from the sail-yards: "O thou faithless Lemminkainen, Wicked wizard, Kaukomieli, To deceive thy trusting mother!

Thou didst give to her thy promise, Not to go to war for ages, Not to war for sixty summers, Though desire for gold impels thee, Though thou wishest gold and silver!

Wainamoinen, ancient hero, The eternal wisdom-singer, Thinking he had met destruction, s.n.a.t.c.hed the rudder from the waters, With it smote the monster-eagle, Smote the eagle's iron talons, Smote her countless feathered heroes.

From her breast her hosts descended, Spearmen fell upon the billows, From the wings descend a thousand, From the tail, a hundred archers.

Swoops again the bird of Pohya To the bottom of the vessel, Like the hawk from birch or aspen, Like the falcon from the linden; Grasps the Sampo with one talon, Drags the treasure to the waters, Drops the magic lid in colors From the red rim of the war-ship To the bottom of the deep-sea, Where the Sampo breaks in pieces, Scatters through the Alue-waters, In the mighty deeps for ages, To increase the ocean's treasures, Treasures for the hosts of Ahto.

Nevermore will there be wanting Richness for the Ahto-nation, Never while the moonlight brightens On the waters of the Northland.

Many fragments of the Sampo Floated on the purple waters, On the waters deep and boundless, Rocked by winds and waves of Suomi, Carried by the rolling billows To the sea-sides of Wainola.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Saw the fragments of the treasure Floating on the billows landward, Fragments of the lid in colors, Much rejoicing, spake as follows: "Thence will come the sprouting seed-grain, The beginning of good fortune, The unending of resources, From the plowing and the sowing, From the glimmer of the moonlight, From the splendor of the sunshine, On the fertile plains of Suomi, On the meads of Kalevala."

Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus addressed old Wainamoinen: "Know I other mighty measures, Know I means that are efficient, And against thy golden moonlight, And the splendor of thy sunshine, And thy plowing, and thy reaping; In the rocks I'll sink the moonbeams, Hide the sun within the mountain, Let the frost destroy thy sowings, Freeze the crops on all thy corn-fields; Iron-hail I'll send from heaven, On the richness of thine acres, On the barley of thy planting; I will drive the bear from forests, Send thee Otso from the thickets, That he may destroy thy cattle, May annihilate thy sheep-folds, May destroy thy steeds at pasture.

I will send thee nine diseases, Each more fatal than the other, That will sicken all thy people, Make thy children sink and perish, Nevermore to visit Northland, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the plains of Kalevala!"

Thus the ancient bard made answer: "Not a Laplander can banish Wainamoinen and his people; Never can a Turyalander Drive my tribes from Kalevala; G.o.d alone has power to banish, G.o.d controls the fate of nations, Never trusts the arms of evil, Never gives His strength to others.

As I trust in my Creator, Call upon benignant Ukko, He will guard my crops from danger Drive the Frost-fiend from my corn-fields, Drive great Otso to his caverns.

"Wicked Louhi of Pohyola, Thou canst banish evil-doers, In the rocks canst hide the wicked, In thy mountains lock the guilty; Thou canst never hide the moonlight, Never bide the silver sunshine, In the caverns of thy kingdom.

Freeze the crops of thine own planting, Freeze the barley of thy sowing, Send thine iron-hail from heaven To destroy the Lapland corn-fields, To annihilate thy people, To destroy the hosts of Pohya; Send great Otso from the heather, Send the sharp-tooth from the forest, To the fields of Sariola, On the herds and flocks of Louhi!"

Thus the wicked hostess answered: "All my power has departed, All my strength has gone to others, All my hope is in the deep-sea; In the waters lies my Sampo!"

Then the hostess of Pohyola Home departed, weeping, wailing, To the land of cold and darkness; Only took some worthless fragments Of the Sampo to her people; Carried she the lid to Pohya, In the blue-sea left the handle; Hence the poverty of Northland, And the famines of Pohyola.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Hastened to the broad-sea's margin, Stepped upon the sh.o.r.e in joyance; Found there fragments of the Sampo, Fragments of the lid in colors, On the borders of the waters, On the curving sands and sea-sides; Gathered well the Sampo-relics From the waters near the fog-point, On the island forest-covered.

Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, Spake these words in supplication: "Grant, O Ukko, our Creator, Grant to us, thy needful children, Peace, and happiness, and plenty, That our lives may be successful, That our days may end in honor, On the vales and hills of Suomi, On the prairies of Wainola, In the homes of Kalevala!

"Ukko, wise and good Creator, Ukko, G.o.d of love and mercy, Shelter and protect thy people From the evil-minded heroes, From the wiles of wicked women, That our country's plagues may leave us, That thy faithful tribes may prosper.

Be our friend and strong protector, Be the helper of thy children, In the night a roof above them, In the day a shield around them, That the sunshine may not vanish, That the moonlight may not lessen, That the killing frosts may leave them, And destructive hail pa.s.s over.

Build a metal wall around us, From the valleys to the heavens; Build of stone a mighty fortress On the borders of Wainola, Where thy people live and labor, As their dwelling-place forever, Sure protection to thy people, Where the wicked may not enter, Nor the thieves break through and pilfer, Never while the moonlight glistens, And the Sun brings golden blessings To the plains of Kalevala."

RUNE XLIV.

BIRTH OF THE SECOND HARP.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Long reflecting, sang these measures: "It is now the time befitting To awaken joy and gladness, Time for me to touch the harp-strings, Time to sing the songs primeval, In these s.p.a.cious halls and mansions, In these homes of Kalevala; But, alas! my harp lies hidden, Sunk upon the deep-sea's bottom, To the salmon's hiding-places, To the dwellings of the whiting, To the people of Wellamo, Where the Northland-pike a.s.semble.

Nevermore will I regain it, Ahto never will return it, Joy and music gone forever!

"O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Forge for me a rake of iron, Thickly set the teeth of copper, Many fathoms long the handle; Make a rake to search the waters, Search the broad-sea to the bottom, Rake the weeds and reeds together, Rake them to the curving sea-sh.o.r.e, That I may regain my treasure, May regain my harp of fish-bow From the whiting's place of resting, From the caverns of the salmon, From the castles of Wellamo."

Thereupon young Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forges well a rake of iron, Teeth in length a hundred fathoms, And a thousand long the handle, Thickly sets the teeth of copper.

Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Takes the rake of magic metals, Travels but a little distance, To the cylinders of oak-wood, To the copper-banded rollers, Where he finds two ships awaiting, One was new, the other ancient.

Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Thus addressed the new-made vessel: "Go, thou boat of master-magic, Hasten to the willing waters, Speed away upon the blue-sea, And without the hand to move thee; Let my will impel thee seaward."

Quick the boat rolled to the billows On the cylinders of oak-wood, Quick descended to the waters, Willingly obeyed his master.

Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began to rake the sea-beds, Raked up all the water-flowers, Bits of broken reeds and rushes, Deep-sea sh.e.l.ls and colored pebbles, Did not find his harp of fish-bone, Lost forever to Wainola!

Thereupon the ancient minstrel Left the waters, homeward hastened, Cap pulled clown upon his forehead, Sang this song with sorrow laden: "Nevermore shall I awaken With my harp-strings, joy and gladness!

Nevermore will Wainamoinen Charm the people of the Northland With the harp of his creation!

Nevermore my songs will echo O'er the hills of Kalevala!"

Thereupon the ancient singer Went lamenting through the forest, Wandered through the sighing pine-woods, Heard the wailing of a birch-tree, Heard a juniper complaining; Drawing nearer, waits and listens, Thus the birch-tree he addresses: "Wherefore, brother, art thou weeping, Merry birch enrobed in silver, Silver-leaved and silver-ta.s.selled?

Art thou shedding tears of sorrow, Since thou art not led to battle, Not enforced to war with wizards?

Wisely does the birch make answer: "This the language of the many, Others speak as thou, unjustly, That I only live in pleasure, That my silver leaves and ta.s.sels Only whisper my rejoicings; That I have no cares, no sorrows, That I have no hours unhappy, Knowing neither pain nor trouble.

I am weeping for my smallness, Am lamenting for my weakness, Have no sympathy, no pity, Stand here motionless for ages, Stand alone in fen and forest, In these woodlands vast and joyless.

Others hope for coming summers, For the beauties of the spring-time; I, alas! a helpless birch-tree, Dread the changing of the seasons, I must give my bark to, others, Lose my leaves and silken ta.s.sels.

Men come the Suomi children, Peel my bark and drink my life-blood: Wicked shepherds in the summer, Come and steal my belt of silver, Of my bark make berry-baskets, Dishes make, and cups for drinking.

Oftentimes the Northland maidens Cut my tender limbs for birch-brooms,'

Bind my twigs and silver ta.s.sels Into brooms to sweep their cabins; Often have the Northland heroes Chopped me into chips for burning; Three times in the summer season, In the pleasant days of spring-time, Foresters have ground their axes On my silver trunk and branches, Robbed me of my life for ages; This my spring-time joy and pleasure, This my happiness in summer, And my winter days no better!

When I think of former troubles, Sorrow settles on my visage, And my face grows white with anguish; Often do the winds of winter And the h.o.a.r-frost bring me sadness, Blast my tender leaves and ta.s.sels, Bear my foliage to others, Rob me of my silver raiment, Leave me naked on the mountain, Lone, and helpless, and disheartened!"

Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: "Weep no longer, sacred birch-tree, Mourn no more, my friend and brother, Thou shalt have a better fortune; I will turn thy grief to joyance, Make thee laugh and sing with gladness."

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made a harp from sacred birch-wood, Fashioned in the days of summer, Beautiful the harp of magic, By the master's hand created On the fog-point in the Big-Sea, On the island forest-covered, Fashioned from the birch the archings, And the frame-work from the aspen.

These the words of the magician: "All the archings are completed, And the frame is fitly finished; Whence the hooks and pins for tuning, That the harp may sing in concord?"

Near the way-side grew an oak-tree, Skyward grew with equal branches, On each twig an acorn growing, Golden b.a.l.l.s upon each acorn, On each ball a singing cuckoo.

As each cuckoo's call resounded, Five the notes of song that issued From the songster's throat of joyance; From each throat came liquid music, Gold and silver for the master, Flowing to the hills and hillocks, To the silvery vales and mountains; Thence he took the merry harp-pins, That the harp might play in concord.

Spake again wise Wainamoinen: "I the pins have well completed, Still the harp is yet unfinished; Now I need five strings for playing, Where shall I procure the harp-strings?"

Then the ancient bard and minstrel Journeyed through the fen and forest.

On a hillock sat a maiden, Sat a virgin of the valley; And the maiden was not weeping, Joyful was the sylvan daughter, Singing with the woodland songsters, That the eventide might hasten, In the hope that her beloved Would the sooner sit beside her.

Wainamoinen, old and trusted, Hastened, tripping to the virgin, Asked her for her golden ringleta, These the words of the magician.

"Give me, maiden, of thy tresses, Give to me thy golden ringlets; I will weave them into harp-strings, To the joy of Wainamoinen, To the pleasure of his people."

Thereupon the forest-maiden Gave the singer of her tresses, Gave him of her golden ringlets, And of these he made the harp-strings.

Sources of eternal pleasure To the people of Wainola.

Thus the sacred harp is finished, And the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Sits upon the rock of joyance, Takes the harp within his fingers, Turns the arch up, looking skyward; With his knee the arch supporting, Sets the strings in tuneful order, Runs his fingers o'er the harp-strings, And the notes of pleasure follow.

Straightway ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, Plays upon his harp of birch-wood.

Far away is heard the music, Wide the harp of joy re-echoes; Mountains dance and valleys listen, Flinty rocks are tom asunder, Stones are hurled upon the waters, Pebbles swim upon the Big-Sea, Pines and lindens laugh with pleasure, Alders skip about the heather, And the aspen sways in concord.

All the daughters of Wainola Straightway leave their shining needles, Hasten forward like the current, Speed along like rapid rivers, That they may enjoy and wonder.

Laugh the younger men and maidens, Happy-hearted are the matrons Flying swift to bear the playing, To enjoy the common pleasure, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen.

Aged men and bearded seniors, Gray-haired mothers with their daughters Stop in wonderment and listen.

Creeps the babe in full enjoyment As he hears the magic singing, Hears the harp of Wainamoinen.

All of Northland stops in wonder, Speaks in unison these measures: "Never have we heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the earth was fashioned, As the songs of this magician, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen!"

Far and wide the sweet tones echo, Ring throughout the seven hamlets, O'er the seven islands echo; Every creature of the Northland Hastens forth to look and listen, Listen to the songs of gladness, To the harp of Wainamoinen.

All the beasts that haunt the woodlands Fall upon their knees and wonder At the playing of the minstrel, At his miracles of concord.

All the songsters of the forests Perch upon the trembling branches, Singing to the wondrous playing Of the harp of Wainamoinen.

All the dwellers of the waters Leave their beds, and eaves, and grottoes, Swim against the sh.o.r.e and listen To the playing of the minstrel, To the harp of Wainamoinen.

All the little things in nature, Rise from earth, and fall from ether, Come and listen to the music, To the notes of the enchanter, To the songs of the magician, To the harp of Wainamoinen.

Plays the singer of the Northland, Plays in miracles of sweetness, Plays one day, and then a second, Plays the third from morn till even; Plays within the halls and cabins, In the dwellings of his people, Till the floors and ceilings echo, Till resound the roofs of pine-wood, Till the windows speak and tremble, Till the portals echo joyance, And the hearth-stones sing in pleasure.

As he journeys through the forest, As he wanders through the woodlands, Pine and sorb-tree bid him welcome, Birch and willow bend obeisance, Beech and aspen bow submission; And the linden waves her branches To the measure of his playing, To the notes of the magician.

As the minstrel plays and wanders, Sings upon the mead and heather, Glen and hill his songs re-echo, Ferns and flowers laugh in pleasure, And the shrubs attune their voices To the music of the harp-strings, To the songs of Wainamoinen.