Chapter XIII: Part 13

Ilmarinen, magic blacksmith, Works unceasing at his forging, Thus to mould a golden image, Mould a bride from gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithless stand they at the bellows. Wow the artist, Ilmarinen, Fans the flame with force of magic, Blows one day, and then a second, Blows the third from morn till even; Then he looks within the furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Hoping there to see an image Rising from the molten metals.

Comes a lambkin from the furnace, Rising from the fire of magic, Wearing hair of gold and copper, Laced with many threads of silver; All rejoice but Ilmarinen At the beauty of the image. This the language of the blacksmith: “May the wolf admire thy graces; I desire a bride of beauty Born from molten gold and silver!”

Ilmarinen, the magician, To the furnace threw the lambkin; Added gold in great abundance, And increased the mass of silver, Added other magic metals, Set the workmen at the bellows; Zealously the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace.

Ilmarinen, wizard-forgeman, Works unceasing with his metals, Moulding well a golden image, Wife of molten gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithless do they ply the bellows.

Now the artist, Ilmarinen, Fans the flames by force of magic; Blows one day, and then a second, Blows a third from morn till evening, When he looks within the furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Hoping there to see an image Rising from the molten metals. From the flames a colt arises, Golden-maned and silver-headed, Hoofs are formed of shining copper. All rejoice but Ilmarinen At the wonderful creation; This the language of the blacksmith: “Let the bears admire thy graces; I desire a bride of beauty Born of many magic metals.”

Thereupon the wonder-forger Drives the colt back to the furnace, Adds a greater mass of silver, And of gold the rightful measure, Sets the workmen at the bellows. Eagerly the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace.

Ilmarinen, the magician, Works unceasing at his witchcraft, Moulding well a golden maiden, Bride of molten gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithlessly they ply the bellows.

Now the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Fans the flames with magic powers, Blows one day, and then a second, Blows a third from morn till even; Then he looks within his furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Trusting there to see a maiden Coming from the molten metals. From the fire a virgin rises, Golden-haired and silver-headed, Beautiful in form and feature. All are filled with awe and wonder, But the artist and magician. Ilmarinen, metal-worker, Forges nights and days unceasing, On the bride of his creation; Feet he forges for the maiden, Hands and arms, of gold and silver; But her feet are not for walking, Neither can her arms embrace him. Ears he forges for the virgin, But her ears are not for hearing; Forges her a mouth of beauty, Eyes he forges bright and sparkling; But the magic mouth is speechless, And the eyes are not for seeing. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: “This, indeed, a priceless maiden, Could she only speak in wisdom, Could she breathe the breath of Ukko!”

Thereupon he lays the virgin On his silken couch of slumber, On his downy place of resting. Ilmarinen heats his bath-room, Makes it ready for his service, Binds together silken brushes, Brings three cans of crystal water, Wherewithal to lave the image, Lave the golden maid of beauty. When this task had been completed, Ilmarinen, hoping, trusting, Laid his golden bride to slumber, On his downy couch of resting; Ordered many silken wrappings, Ordered bear-skins, three in number, Ordered seven lambs-wool blankets, Thus to keep him warm in slumber, Sleeping by the golden image He had forged from magic metals. Warm the side of Ilmarinen That was wrapped in furs and blankets; Chill the parts beside the maiden, By his bride of gold and silver; One side warm, the other lifeless, Turning into ice from coldness. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: “Not for me was born this virgin From the magic molten metals; I shall take her to Wainola, Give her to old Wainamoinen, As a bride and life-companion, Comfort to him in his dotage.”

Ilmarinen, much disheartened, Takes the virgin to Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala, To his brother speaks as follows: “O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Look with favor on this image; Make the maiden fair and lovely, Beautiful in form and feature, Suited to thy years declining!”

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Looked in wonder on the virgin, On the golden bride of beauty, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: “Wherefore dost thou bring this maiden, Wherefore bring to Wainamoinen Bride of molten gold and silver?” Spake in answer Ilmarinen: “Wherefore should I bring this image, But for purposes the noblest? I have brought her as companion To thy life in years declining, As a joy and consolation, When thy days are full of trouble!” Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: “Magic brother, wonder-forger, Throw the virgin to the furnace, To the flames, thy golden image, Forge from her a thousand trinkets. Take the image into Ehstland, Take her to the plains of Pohya, That for her the mighty powers May engage in deadly contest, Worthy trophy for the victor; Not for me this bride of wonder, Neither for my worthy people. I shall never wed an image Born from many magic metals, Never wed a silver maiden, Never wed a golden virgin.” Then the hero of the waters Called together all his people, Spake these words of ancient wisdom: “Every child of Northland, listen, Whether poor, or fortune-favored: Never bow before an image Born of molten gold and silver; Never while the sunlight brightens, Never while the moonlight glimmers, Choose a maiden of the metals, Choose a bride from gold created; Cold the lips of golden maiden, Silver breathes the breath of sorrow.”

RUNE XXXVIII. ILMARINEN’S FRUITLESS WOOING.

Ilmarinen, the magician, The eternal metal-artist, Lays aside the golden image, Beauteous maid of magic metals; Throws the harness on his courser, Binds him to his sledge of birch-wood, Seats himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps the whip above the racer, Thinking once again to journey To the mansions of Pohyola, There to woo a bride in honor, Second daughter of the Northland.

On he journeyed, restless, northward, Journeyed one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When he reached a Northland-village On the plains of Sariola.

Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Standing in the open court-yard, Spied the hero, Ilmarinen, Thus addressed the metal-worker: “Tell me how my child is living, How the Bride of Beauty prospers, As a daughter to thy mother.”

Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Head bent down and brow dejected, Thus addressed the Northland hostess: “O, thou dame of Sariola, Do not ask me of thy daughter, Since, alas! in Tuonela Sleeps the Maiden of the Rainbow, Sleeps in death the Bride of Beauty, Underneath the fragrant heather, In the kingdom of Manala. Come I for a second daughter, For the fairest of thy virgins. Beauteous hostess of Pohyola, Give to me thy youngest maiden, For my former wife’s compartments, For the chambers of her sister.”

Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: “Foolish was the Northland-hostess, When she gave her fairest virgin, In the bloom of youth and beauty To the blacksmith of Wainola, Only to be led to Mana, Like a lambkin to the slaughter! I shall never give my daughter, Shall not give my youngest maiden Bride of thine to be hereafter, Life-companion at thy fireside. Sooner would I give the fair one To the cataract and whirlpool, To the river of Manala, To the waters of Tuoni!”

Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Drew away his head, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Entered to the inner court-room, Where the maiden sat in waiting, Spake these measures to the daughter: “Come with me, thou bright-eyed maiden, To the cottage where thy sister Lived and lingered in contentment, Baked for me the toothsome biscuit, Brewed for me the beer of barley, Kept my dwelling-place in order.”

On the floor a babe was lying, Thus he sang to Ilmarinen: “Uninvited, leave this mansion, Go, thou stranger, from this dwelling; Once before thou camest hither, Only bringing pain and trouble, Filling all our hearts with sorrow. Fairest daughter of my mother, Do not give this suitor welcome, Look not on his eyes with pleasure, Nor admire his form and features. In his mouth are only wolf-teeth, Cunning fox-claws in his mittens, In his shoes art only bear-claws, In his belt a hungry dagger; Weapons these of blood and murder, Only worn by the unworthy.”

Then the daughter spake as follows To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: “Follow thee this maid will never, Never heed unworthy suitors; Thou hast slain the Bride of Beauty, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow, Thou wouldst also slay her sister. I deserve a better suitor, Wish a truer, nobler husband, Wish to ride in richer sledges, Have a better home-protection; Never will I sweep the cottage And the coal-place of a blacksmith.”

Then the hero, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-artist, Turned his head away, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Quickly seized the trembling maiden, Held her in his grasp of iron, Hastened from the court of Louhi, To his sledge upon the highway. In his sleigh he seats the virgin, Snugly wraps her in his fur-robes, Snaps his whip above the racer, Gallops on the high-road homeward; With one hand the reins he tightens, With the other holds the maiden. Speaks the virgin-daughter, weeping: “We have reached the lowland-berries, Here the herbs of water-borders; Leave me here to sink and perish As a child of cold misfortune. Wicked Ilmarinen, listen! If thou dost not quickly free me, I will break thy sledge to pieces, Throw thy fur-robes to the north-winds.” Ilmarinen makes this answer: “When the blacksmith builds his snow-sledge, All the parts are hooped with iron; Therefore will the beauteous maiden Never beat my sledge to fragments.”

Then the silver-tinselled daughter Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen: “If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall change to ocean-salmon, Be a whiting of the waters.”

“Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a pike I’ll fleetly follow.”

Then the maiden of Pohyola Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen; “If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall hasten to the forest, Mid the rocks become an ermine!”

“Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a serpent I will follow.”

Then the beauty of the Northland, Wailed and wept in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake once more to Ilmarinen: “Surely, if thou dost not free me, As a lark I’ll fly the ether, Hide myself within the storm-clouds.”

“Neither wilt thou thus escape me, As an eagle I will follow.”

They had gone but little distance, When the courser shied and halted, Frighted at some passing object; And the maiden looked in wonder, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: “Who has run across our highway?”

“’Tis the timid hare”, he answered. Thereupon the stolen maiden Sobbed, and moaned, in deeps of sorrow, Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: “Woe is me, ill-fated virgin! Happier far my life hereafter, If the hare I could but follow To his burrow in the woodlands! Crook-leg’s fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.”

Ilmarinen, the magician, Tossed his head in full resentment, Galloped on the highway homeward; Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted, Frighted at some passing stranger. Quick the maiden looked and wondered, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these measures to the blacksmith: “Who has crossed our snowy pathway?”

“’Tis a fox”, replied the minstrel. Thereupon the beauteous virgin Moaned again in depths of anguish, Sang these accents, heavy-hearted: “Woe is me, ill-fated maiden! Happier far my life hereafter, With the cunning fox to wander, Than with this ill-mannered suitor; Reynard’s fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.”

Thereupon the metal-worker Shut his lips in sore displeasure, Hastened on the highway homeward; Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted.

Quick the maiden looked in wonder, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to the magician: “Who again has crossed our pathway?”

“’Tis the wolf”, said Ilmarinen. Thereupon the fated daughter Fell again to bitter weeping, And intoned these words of sorrow: “Woe is me, a hapless maiden! Happier far my life hereafter, Brighter far would be my future, If these tracks I could but follow; On the wolf the hair is finer Than the furs of Ilmarinen, Faithless suitor of the Northland.”

Then the minstrel of Wainola Closed his lips again in anger, Shook his sable locks, resentful, Snapped the whip above the racer, And the steed flew onward swiftly, O’er the way to Kalevala, To the village of the blacksmith.

Sad and weary from his journey, Ilmarinen, home-returning, Fell upon his couch in slumber, And the maiden laughed derision.

In the morning, slowly waking, Head confused, and locks dishevelled, Spake the wizard, words as follow: “Shall I set myself to singing Magic songs and incantations? Shall I now enchant this maiden To a black-wolf on the mountains, To a salmon of the ocean? Shall not send her to the woodlands, All the forest would be frighted; Shall not send her to the waters, All the fish would flee in terror; This my sword shall drink her life-blood, End her reign of scorn and hatred.”

Quick the sword feels his intention, Quick divines his evil purpose, Speaks these words to Ilmarinen: “Was not born to drink the life-blood Of a maiden pure and lovely, Of a fair but helpless virgin.”

Thereupon the magic minstrel, Filled with rage, began his singing; Sang the very rocks asunder, Till the distant hills re-echoed; Sang the maiden to a sea-gull, Croaking from the ocean-ledges, Calling from the ocean-islands, Screeching on the sandy sea-coast, Flying to the winds opposing. When his conjuring had ended, Ilmarinen joined his snow-sledge, Whipped his steed upon a gallop, Hastened to his ancient smithy, To his home in Kalevala.

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Comes to meet him on the highway, Speaks these words to the magician: “Ilmarinen, worthy brother, Wherefore comest heavy-hearted From the dismal Sariola? Does Pohyola live and prosper?” Spake the minstrel, Ilmarinen: “Why should not Pohyola prosper? There the Sampo grinds unceasing, Noisy rocks the lid in colors; Grinds one day the flour for eating, Grinds the second flour for selling, Grinds the third day flour for keeping; Thus it is Pohyola prospers. While the Sampo is in Northland, There is plowing, there is sowing, There is growth of every virtue, There is welfare never-ending.” Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “Ilmarinen, artist-brother, Where then is the Northland-daughter, Far renowned and beauteous maiden, For whose hand thou hast been absent?” These the words of Ilmarinen: “I have changed the hateful virgin To a sea-gull on the ocean; Now she calls above the waters, Screeches from the ocean-islands; On the rocks she calls and murmurs, Vainly calling for a suitor.”

RUNE XXXIX. WAINAMOINEN’S SAILING.

Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: “O thou wonder-working brother, Let us go to Sariola, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to see the lid in colors.” Ilmarinen gave this answer: “Hard indeed to seize the Sampo, Neither can the lid be captured From the never-pleasant Northland, From the dismal Sariola. Louhi took away the Sampo, Carried off the lid in colors To the stone-mount of Pohyola; Hid it in the copper mountain, Where nine locks secure the treasure. Many young roots sprout around it, Grow nine fathoms deep in sand-earth, One great root beneath the mountain, In the cataract a second, And a third beneath the castle Built upon the mount of ages.” Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “Brother mine, and wonder-worker, Let us go to Sariola, That we may secure the Sampo; Let us build a goodly vessel, Bring the Sampo to Wainola, Bring away the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain. Where the miracle lies anchored.” Ilmarinen thus made answer: “By the land the way is safer, Lempo travels on the ocean, Ghastly Death upon his shoulder; On the sea the waves will drift us, And the storm-winds wreck our vessel; Then our hands must do the rowing, And our feet must steer us homeward.” Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “Safe indeed by land to journey, But the way is rough and trying, Long the road and full of turnings; Lovely is the ship on ocean, Beautiful to ride the billows, Journey easy o’er the waters, Sailing in a trusty vessel; Should the West-wind cross our pathway, Will the South-wind drive us northward. Be that as it may, my brother, Since thou dost not love the water, By the land then let us journey. Forge me now the sword of battle, Forge for me the mighty fire-sword, That I may destroy the wild-beasts, Frighten all the Northland people, As we journey for the Sampo To the cold and dismal village, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola.”

Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal forger-artist, Laid the metals in the furnace, In the fire laid steel and iron, In the hot-coals, gold and silver, Rightful measure of the metals; Set the workmen at the furnace, Lustily they plied the bellows. Like the wax the iron melted, Like the dough the hard steel softened, Like the water ran the silver, And the liquid gold flowed after.

Then the minstrel, Ilmarinen, The eternal wonder-forger, Looks within his magic furnace, On the border of his oven, There beholds the fire-sword forming, Sees the blade with golden handle; Takes the weapon from the furnace, Lays it on his heavy anvil For the falling of the hammer; Forges well the blade of magic, Well the heavy sword he tempers, Ornaments the hero-weapon With the finest gold and silver.

Wainamoinen, the magician, Comes to view the blade of conquest, Lifts admiringly the fire-sword, Then these words the hero utters: “Does the weapon match the soldier, Does the handle suit the bearer? Yea, the blade and hilt are molded To the wishes of the minstrel.”

On the sword-point gleams the moonlight, On the blade the sun is shining, On the hilt the bright stars twinkle, On the edge a horse is neighing, On the handle plays a kitten, On the sheath a dog is barking.

Wainamoinen wields his fire-sword, Tests it on the iron-mountain, And these words the hero utters: “With this broadsword I could quickly Cleave in twain the mount of Pohya, Cut the flinty rocks asunder.” Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: “Wherewith shall I guard from danger, How protect myself from evil, From the ills by land and water? Shall I wear an iron armor, Belt of steel around my body? Stronger is a man in armor, Safer in a mail of copper.”

Now the time has come to journey To the never-pleasant Northland; Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, And his brother, Ilmarinen, Hasten to the field and forest, Searching for their fiery coursers, In each shining belt a bridle, With a harness on their shoulders. In the woods they find a race; In the glen a steed of battle, Ready for his master’s service. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Throw the harness on the courser, Hitch him to the sledge of conquest, Hasten on their journey northward; Drive along the broad-sea’s margin Till they hear some one lamenting, On the strand hear something wailing Near the landing-place of vessels.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Speaks these words in wonder, guessing: “This must be some maiden weeping, Some fair daughter thus lamenting; Let us journey somewhat nearer, To discover whence this wailing.”

Drew they nearer, nearer, nearer, Hoping thus to find a maiden Weeping on the sandy sea-shore. It was not a maiden weeping, But a vessel, sad, and lonely, Waiting on the shore and wailing. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “Why art weeping, goodly vessel, What the cause of thy lamenting? Art thou mourning for thy row-locks, Is thy rigging ill-adjusted? Dost thou weep since thou art anchored On the shore in times of trouble?” Thus the war-ship spake in answer: “To the waters would this vessel Haste upon the well-tarred rollers, As a happy maiden journeys To the cottage of her husband. I, alas! a goodly vessel, Weep because I lie at anchor, Weep and wail because no hero Sets me free upon the waters, Free to ride the rolling billows. It was said when I was fashioned, Often sung when I was building, That this bark should be for battle, Should become a mighty war-ship, Carry in my hull great treasures, Priceless goods across the ocean. Never have I sailed to conquest, Never have I carried booty; Other vessels not as worthy To the wars are ever sailing, Sailing to the songs of battle. Three times in the summer season Come they home with treasures laden, In their hulls bring gold and silver; I, alas! a worthy vessel, Many months have lain at anchor, I, a war-ship well constructed, Am decaying in the harbor, Never having sailed to conquest; Worms are gnawing at my vitals, In my hull their dwelling-places, And ill-omened birds of heaven Build their nests within my rigging; Frogs and lizards of the forest Play about my oars and rudder; Three times better for this vessel Were he but a valley birch-tree, Or an aspen on the heather, With the squirrels in his branches, And the dogs beneath them barking!”

Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Thus addressed the ship at anchor: “Weep no more, thou goodly vessel, Man-of-war, no longer murmur; Thou shalt sail to Sariola, Sing the war-songs of the Northland, Sail with us to deadly combat. Wert thou built by the Creator, Thou canst sail the roughest waters, Sidewise journey o’er the ocean; Dost not need the hand to touch thee, Dost not need the foot to turn thee, Needing nothing to propel thee.” Thus the weeping boat made answer: “Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail unaided o’er the waters, Sail across the waves undriven.” Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “Should I lead thee to the broad-sea, Wilt thou journey north unaided, Sail without the help of rowers, Sail without the aid of south-winds, Sail without the helm to guide thee?” Thus the wailing ship replying: “Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail without the aid of rowers, Sail without the help of south-winds, Nor without the helm to guide them.” These the words of Wainamoinen: “Wilt thou run with aid of oarsmen When the south-winds give assistance, Guided by a skillful pilot?” This the answer of the war-ship: “Quickly can I course these waters, When my oars are manned by rowers, When my sails are filled with south-winds, All my goodly brother-vessels Sail the ocean with assistance, When the master holds the rudder.”

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Left the racer on the sea-side, Tied him to the sacred birch-tree, Hung the harness on a willow, Rolled the vessel to the waters, Sang the ship upon the broad-sea, Asked the boat this simple question: “O thou vessel, well-appearing From the mighty oak constructed, Art thou strong to carry treasures As in view thou art commanding?” Thus the goodly ship made answer: “Strong am I to carry treasures, In my hull a golden cargo; I can bear a hundred oarsmen, And of warriors a thousand.”

Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began his wondrous singing. On one side the magic vessel, Sang he youth with golden virtues, Bearded youth with strength of heroes, Sang them into mail of copper. On the other side the vessel, Sang he silver-tinselled maidens, Girded them with belts of copper, Golden rings upon their fingers. Sings again the great magician, Fills the magic ship with heroes, Ancient heroes, brave and mighty; Sings them into narrow limits, Since the young men came before them.

At the helm himself he seated, Near the last beam of the vessel, Steered his goodly boat in joyance, Thus addressed the willing war-ship: “Glide upon the trackless waters, Sail away, my ship of magic, Sail across the waves before thee, Speed thou like a dancing bubble, Like a flower upon the billows!”

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Set the young men to the rowing, Let the maidens sit in waiting. Eagerly the youthful heroes Bend the oars and try the row-locks, But the distance is not lessened. Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Set the maidens to the rowing, Let the young men rest in waiting. Eagerly the merry maidens Bend the aspen-oars in rowing, But the distance is not lessened. Then the master, Wainamoinen, Set the old men to the rowing, Let the youth remain in waiting. Lustily the aged heroes Bend and try the oars of aspen, But the distance is not lessened.

Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Grasped the oars with master-magic, And the boat leaped o’er the surges, Swiftly sped across the billows; Far and wide the oars resounded, Quickly was the distance lessened. With a rush and roar of waters Ilmarinen sped his vessel, Benches, ribs, and row-locks creaking, Oars of aspen far resounding; Flap the sails like wings of moor-cocks, And the prow dips like a white-swan; In the rear it croaks like ravens, Loud the oars and rigging rattle.

Straightway ancient Wainamoinen, Sitting by the bending rudder, Turns his magic vessel landward, To a jutting promontory, Where appears a Northland-village. On the point stands Lemminkainen, Kaukomieli, black magician, Ahti, wizard of Wainola, Wishing for the fish of Pohya, Weeping for his fated dwelling, For his perilous adventures, Hard at work upon a vessel, On the sail-yards of a fish-boat, Near the hunger-point and island, Near the village-home deserted. Good the ears of the magician, Good the wizard’s eyes for seeing; Casts his vision to the South-east, Turns his eyes upon the sunset, Sees afar a wondrous rainbow, Farther on, a cloudlet hanging; But the bow was a deception, And the cloudlet a delusion; ’Tis a vessel swiftly sailing, ’Tis a war-ship flying northward, O’er the blue-back of the broad-sea, On the far-extending waters, At the helm the master standing, At the oars a mighty hero. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: “Do not know this wondrous vessel, Not this well-constructed war-ship, Coming from the distant Suomi, Rowing for the hostile Pohya.”

Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Called aloud in tones of thunder O’er the waters to the vessel; Made the distant hills re-echo With the music of his calling: “Whence this vessel on the waters, Whose the war-ship sailing hither?”

Spake the master of the vessel To the reckless Lemminkainen: “Who art thou from fen or forest, Senseless wizard from the woodlands, That thou dost not know this vessel, Magic war-ship of Wainola? Dost not know him at the rudder, Nor the hero at the row-locks?” Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen: “Well I know the helm-director, And I recognize the rower; Wainamoinen, old and trusty, At the helm directs the vessel; Ilmarinen does the rowing. Whither is the vessel sailing, Whither wandering, my heroes?” Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “We are sailing to the Northland, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to get the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain.” Spake the evil Lemminkainen: “O, thou good, old Wainamoinen, Take me with thee to Pohyola, Make me third of magic heroes, Since thou goest for the Sampo, Goest for the lid in colors; I shall prove a valiant soldier, When thy wisdom calls for fighting; I am skilled in arts of warfare!”

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Gave assent to Ahti’s wishes; Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Hastened to Wainola’s war-ship, Bringing floats of aspen-timber, To the ships of Wainamoinen.

Thus the hero of the Northland Speaks to reckless Lemminkainen: “There is aspen on my vessel, Aspen-floats in great abundance, And the boat is heavy-laden. Wherefore dost thou bring the aspen To the vessel of Wainola?” Lemminkainen gave this answer: “Not through caution sinks a vessel, Nor a hay-stack by its proppings; Seas abound in hidden dangers, Heavy storms arise and threaten Fell destruction to the sailor That would brave the angry billows.” Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: “Therefore is this warlike vessel Built of trusty steel and copper, Trimmed and bound in toughest iron, That the winds may not destroy it, May not harm my ship of magic.”

RUNE XL. BIRTH OF THE HARP.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Onward steered his goodly vessel, From the isle of Lemminkainen, From the borders of the village; Steered his war-ship through the waters, Sang it o’er the ocean-billows, Joyful steered it to Pohyola.

On the banks were maidens standing, And the daughters spake these measures: “List the music on the waters! What this wonderful rejoicing, What this singing on the billows? Far more beautiful this singing, This rejoicing on the waters, Than our ears have heard in Northland.”

Wainamoinen, the magician, Steered his wonder-vessel onward, Steered one day along the sea-shore, Steered the next through shallow waters, Steered the third day through the rivers.

Then the reckless Lemminkainen Suddenly some words remembered, He had heard along the fire-stream Near the cataract and whirlpool, And these words the hero uttered: “Cease, O cataract, thy roaring, Cease, O waterfall, thy foaming! Maidens of the foam and current, Sitting on the rocks in water, On the stone-blocks in the river, Take the foam and white-capped billows In your arms and still their anger, That our ships may pass in safety! Aged dame beneath the eddy, Thou that livest in the sea-foam, Swimming, rise above the waters, Lift thy head above the whirlpool, Gather well the foam and billows In thine arms and still their fury, That our ship may pass in safety! Ye, O rocks beneath the current, Underneath the angry waters, Lower well your heads of danger, Sink below our magic vessel, That our ship may pass in safety!

“Should this prayer prove inefficient, Kimmo, hero son of Kammo, Bore an outlet with thine auger, Cut a channel for this vessel Through the rocks beneath the waters, That our ship may pass in safety! Should all this prove unavailing, Hostess of the running water, Change to moss these rocky ledges, Change this vessel to an air-bag, That between these rocks and billows It may float, and pass in safety!

“Virgin of the sacred whirlpool, Thou whose home is in the river, Spin from flax of strongest fiber, Spin a thread of crimson color, Draw it gently through the water, That the thread our ship may follow, And our vessel pass in safety! Goddess of the helm, thou daughter Of the ocean-winds and sea-foam, Take thy helm endowed with mercy, Guide our vessel through these dangers, Hasten through these floods enchanted, Passing by the house of envy, By the gates of the enchanters, That our ship may pass in safety!

“Should this prayer prove inefficient, Ukko, Ruler of creation, Guide our vessel with thy fire-sword, Guide it with thy blade of lightning, Through the dangers of these rapids, Through the cataract and whirlpool, That our ship may pass in safety!”

Thereupon old Wainamoinen Steered his boat through winds and waters, Through the rocky chinks and channels, Through the surges wildly tossing; And the vessel passed in safety Through the dangers of the current, Through the sacred stream and whirlpool. As it gains the open waters, Gains at length the broad-lake’s bosom, Suddenly its motion ceases, On some object firmly anchored. Thereupon young Ilmarinen, With the aid of Lemminkainen, Plunges in the lake the rudder, Struggles with the aid of magic; But he cannot move the vessel, Cannot free it from its moorings.

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Thus addresses his companion: “O thou hero, Lemminkainen, Stoop and look beneath this war-ship, See on what this boat is anchored, See on what our craft is hanging, In this broad expanse of water, In the broad-lake’s deepest soundings, If upon some rock or tree-snag, Or upon some other hindrance.”

Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Looked beneath the magic vessel, Peering through the crystal waters, Spake and these the words he uttered: “Does not rest upon a sand-bar, Nor upon a rock, nor tree-snag, But upon the back and shoulders Of the mighty pike of Northland, On the fin-bones of the monster.”

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Spake these words to Lemminkainen: “Many things we find in water, Rocks, and trees, and fish, and sea-duck; Are we on the pike’s broad shoulders, On the fin-bones of the monster, Pierce the waters with thy broadsword, Cut the monster into pieces.”

Thereupon wild Lemminkainen, Reckless wizard, filled with courage, Pulls his broadsword from his girdle, From its sheath, the bone-divider, Strikes with might of magic hero, Headlong falls into the water; And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Lifts the wizard from the river, Speaks these words to dripping Ahti: “Accidents will come to mortals, Accidents will come to heroes, By the hundreds, by the thousands, Even to the gods above us!”

Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Drew his broadsword from his girdle, From its sheath his blade of honor, Tried to slay the pike of Northland With the weapon of his forging; But he broke his sword in pieces, Did not harm the water-monster.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Thus addresses his companions: “Poor apologies for heroes! When occasion calls for victors, When we need some great magician, Need a hero filled with valor, Then the arm that comes is feeble, And the mind insane or witless, Strength and reason gone to others!”

Straightway ancient Wainamoinen, Miracle of strength and wisdom, Draws his fire-sword from his girdle, Wields the mighty blade of magic, Strikes the waters as the lightning, Strikes the pike beneath the vessel, And impales the mighty monster; Raises him above the surface, In the air the pike he circles, Cuts the monster into pieces; To the water falls the pike-tail, To the ship the head and body; Easily the ship moves onward.

Wainamoinen, old and faithful, To the shore directs his vessel, On the strand the boat he anchors, Looks in every nook and corner For the fragments of the monster; Gathers well the parts together, Speaks these words to those about him: “Let the oldest of the heroes Slice for me the pike of Northland, Slice the fish to fitting morsels.”

Answered all the men and heroes, And the maidens spake, assenting: “Worthier the catcher’s fingers, Wainamoinen’s hands are sacred!”

Thereupon the wise magician Drew a fish-knife from his girdle, Sliced the pike to fitting morsels, Spake again to those about him: “Let the youngest of the maidens Cook for me the pike of Northland, Set for me a goodly dinner!”

All the maidens quick responded, All the virgins vied in cooking; Neither could outdo the other, Thus the pike was rendered toothsome. Feasted all the old magicians, Feasted all the younger heroes, Feasted all the men and maidens; On the rocks were left the fish-bones, Only relics of their feasting.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Looked upon the pile of fragments, On the fish-bones looked and pondered, Spake these words in meditation: “Wondrous things might be constructed From the relics of this monster, Were they in the blacksmith’s furnace, In the hands of the magician, In the hands of Ilmarinen.” Spake the blacksmith of Wainola: “Nothing fine can be constructed From the bones and teeth of fishes By the skillful forger-artist, By the hands of the magician.” These the words of Wainamoinen: “Something wondrous might be builded From these jaws, and teeth, and fish-bones; Might a magic harp be fashioned, Could an artist be discovered That could shape them to my wishes.”

But he found no fish-bone artist That could shape the harp of joyance From the relics of their feasting, From the jaw-bones of the monster, To the will of the magician. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Set himself at work designing; Quick became a fish-bone artist, Made a harp of wondrous beauty, Lasting joy and pride of Suomi. Whence the harp’s enchanting arches? From the jaw-bones of the monster. Whence the necessary harp-pins? From the pike-teeth firmly fastened. Whence the sweetly singing harp-strings? From the tail of Lempo’s stallion. Thus was born the harp of magic From the mighty pike of Northland, From the relies from the feasting Of the heroes of Wainola. All the young men came to view it, All the aged with their children, Mothers with their beauteous daughters, Maidens with their golden tresses; All the people on the islands Came to view the harp of joyance, Pride and beauty of the Northland.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Let the aged try the harp-strings, Gave it to the young magicians, To the dames and to their daughters, To the maidens, silver-tinselled, To the singers of Wainola. When the young men touched the harp-strings, Then arose the notes of discord; When the aged played upon it, Dissonance their only music. Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen: “O ye witless, worthless children, O ye senseless, useless maidens, O ye wisdom-lacking heroes, Cannot play this harp of magic, Cannot touch the notes of concord! Give to me this thing of beauty, Hither bring the harp of fish-bones, Let me try my skillful fingers.” Lemminkainen touched the harp-strings, Carefully the strings adjusted, Turned the harp in all directions, Fingered all the strings in sequence, Played the instrument of wonder, But it did not speak in concord, Did not sing the notes of joyance. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “There is none among these maidens, None among these youthful heroes, None among the old magicians That can play the harp of magic, Touch the notes of joy and pleasure. Let us take the harp to Pohya, There to find a skillful player That can touch the strings in concord.”

Then they sailed to Sariola, To Pohyola took the wonder, There to find the harp a master. All the heroes of Pohyola, All the boys and all the maidens, Ancient dames, and bearded minstrels, Vainly touched the harp of beauty.

Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Took the harp-strings in her fingers; All the youth of Sariola, Youth of every tribe and station, Vainly touched the harp of fish-bone; Could not find the notes of joyance, Dissonance their only pleasure; Shrieked the harp-strings like the whirlwinds, All the tones wore harsh and frightful.

In a corner slept a blind man, Lay a gray-beard on the oven, Rousing from his couch of slumber, Murmured thus within his corner: “Cease at once this wretched playing, Make an end of all this discord; It benumbs mine ears for hearing, Racks my brain, despoils my senses, Robs me of the sweets of sleeping. If the harp of Suomi’s people True delight cannot engender, Cannot bring the notes of pleasure, Cannot sing to sleep the aged, Cast the thing upon the waters, Sink it in the deeps of ocean, Take it back to Kalevala, To the home of him that made it, To the hands of its creator.”

Thereupon the harp made answer, To the blind man sang these measures: “Shall not fall upon the waters, Shall not sink within the ocean; I will play for my creator, Sing in melody and concord In the fingers of my master.”

Carefully the harp was carried To the artist that had made it, To the hands of its creator, To the feet of Wainamoinen.

RUNE XLI. WAINAMOINEN’S HARP-SONGS.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song he settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored; Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled: “Hither come, ye Northland people, Come and listen to my playing, To the harp’s entrancing measures, To my songs of joy and gladness.”

Then the singer of Wainola Took the harp of his creation, Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, Deftly plied his skillful fingers To the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, And the harmony of pleasure Echoed from the hills and mountains: Added singing to his playing, Out of joy did joy come welling, Now resounded marvelous music, All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. Leaped the squirrels from the branches, Merrily from birch to aspen; Climbed the ermines on the fences, O’er the plains the elk-deer bounded, And the lynxes purred with pleasure; Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands, Bounded o’er the marsh and heather, And the bear his den deserted, Left his lair within the pine-wood, Settled by a fence to listen, Leaned against the listening gate-posts, But the gate-posts yield beneath him; Now he climbs the fir-tree branches That he may enjoy and wonder, Climbs and listens to the music Of the harp of Wainamoinen.

Tapiola’s wisest senior, Metsola’s most noble landlord, And of Tapio, the people, Young and aged, men and maidens, Flew like red-deer up the mountains There to listen to the playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola’s wisest mistress, Hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, Bound her limbs with silken ribbons, Sat upon the woodland summit, On the branches of a birch-tree, There to listen to the playing, To the high-born hero’s harping, To the songs of Wainamoinen.

All the birds that fly in mid-air Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens, Flew to hear the minstrel’s playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles in their lofty eyrie Heard the songs of the enchanter; Swift they left their unfledged young ones, Flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, From the clouds down swooped the falcon, Ducks arose from inland waters, Swans came gliding from the marshes; Tiny finches, green and golden, Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, Came in myriads to listen, Perched upon the head and shoulders Of the charming Wainamoinen, Sweetly singing to the playing Of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, Nature’s well-beloved daughters, Listened all in rapt attention; Some were seated on the rainbow, Some upon the crimson cloudlets, Some upon the dome of heaven.

In their hands the Moon’s fair daughters Held their weaving-combs of silver; In their hands the Sun’s sweet maidens Grasped the handles of their distaffs, Weaving with their golden shuttles, Spinning from their silver spindles, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Quick they drop their combs of silver, Drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken, Broken are the threads of silver.

All the fish in Suomi-waters Heard the songs of the magician, Came on flying fins to listen To the harp of Wainamoinen. Came the trout with graceful motions, Water-dogs with awkward movements, From the water-cliffs the salmon, From the sea-caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves the bill-fish; Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, Little fish with eyes of scarlet, Leaning on the reeds and rushes, With their heads above the surface; Came to bear the harp of joyance, Hear the songs of the enchanter.

Ahto, king of all the waters, Ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows, In a boat of water-lilies, Glided to the coast in silence, Listened to the wondrous singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered: “Never have I heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the sea was fashioned, As the songs of this enchanter, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen.”

Satko’s daughters from the blue-deep, Sisters of the wave-washed ledges, On the colored strands were sitting, Smoothing out their sea-green tresses With the combs of molten silver, With their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Fall their brushes on the billows, Fall their combs with silver handles To the bottom of the waters, Unadorned their heads remaining, And uncombed their sea-green tresses.

Came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, Rising from her deep sea-castle, Swimming to the shore in wonder, Listened to the minstrel’s playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, As the singer’s song out-circled, Sank the hostess into slumber, On the rocks of many colors, On her watery couch of joyance, Deep the sleep that settled o’er her.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Played one day and then a second, Played the third from morn till even. There was neither man nor hero, Neither ancient dame, nor maiden, Not in Metsola a daughter, Whom he did not touch to weeping; Wept the young, and wept the aged, Wept the mothers, wept the daughters Wept the warriors and heroes At the music of his playing, At the songs of the magician.

Wainamoinen’s tears came flowing, Welling from the master’s eyelids, Pearly tear-drops coursing downward, Larger than the whortle-berries, Finer than the pearls of ocean, Smoother than the eggs of moor-hens, Brighter than the eyes of swallows. From his eyes the tear-drops started, Flowed adown his furrowed visage, Falling from his beard in streamlets, Trickled on his heaving bosom, Streaming o’er his golden girdle, Coursing to his garment’s border, Then beneath his shoes of ermine, Flowing on, and flowing ever, Part to earth for her possession, Part to water for her portion. As the tear-drops fall and mingle, Form they streamlets from the eyelids Of the minstrel, Wainamoinen, To the blue-mere’s sandy margin, To the deeps of crystal waters, Lost among the reeds and rushes. Spake at last the ancient minstrel: “Is there one in all this concourse, One in all this vast assembly That can gather up my tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters?”

Thus the younger heroes answered, Answered thus the bearded seniors: “There is none in all this concourse, None in all this vast assembly, That can gather up thy tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters.” Spake again wise Wainamoinen: “He that gathers up my tear-drops From the deeps of crystal waters Shall receive a beauteous plumage.”

Came a raven, flying, croaking, And the minstrel thus addressed him: “Bring, O raven, bring my tear-drops From the crystal lake’s abysses; I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.” But the raven failed his master.

Came a duck upon the waters, And the hero thus addressed him: “Bring, O water-bird, my tear-drops; Often thou dost dive the deep-sea, Sink thy bill upon the bottom Of the waters thou dost travel; Dive again my tears to gather, I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.”

Thereupon the duck departed, Hither, thither, swam, and circled, Dived beneath the foam and billow, Gathered Wainamoinen’s tear-drops From the blue-sea’s pebbly bottom, From the deep, pellucid waters; Brought them to the great magician, Beautifully formed and colored, Glistening in the silver sunshine, Glimmering in the golden moonlight, Many-colored as the rainbow, Fitting ornaments for heroes, Jewels for the maids of beauty. This the origin of sea-pearls, And the blue-duck’s beauteous plumage.

RUNE XLII. CAPTURE OF THE SAMPO.

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, With the reckless son of Lempo, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, On the sea’s smooth plain departed, On the far-extending waters, To the village, cold and dreary, To the never-pleasant Northland, Where the heroes fall and perish. Ilmarinen led the rowers On one side the magic war-ship, And the reckless Lemminkainen Led the rowers on the other. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Laid his hand upon the rudder, Steered his vessel o’er the waters, Through the foam and angry billows To Pohyola’s place of landing, To the cylinders of copper, Where the war-ships lie at anchor.

When they had arrived at Pohya, When their journey they had ended, On the land they rolled their vessel, On the copper-banded rollers, Straightway journeyed to the village, Hastened to the halls and hamlets Of the dismal Sariola.

Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Thus addressed the stranger-heroes: “Magic heroes of Wainola, What the tidings ye are bringing To the people of my village?”

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Gave this answer to the hostess: “All the hosts of Kalevala Are inquiring for the Sampo, Asking for the lid in colors; Hither have these heroes journeyed To divide the priceless treasure.” Thus the hostess spake in answer: “No one would divide a partridge, Nor a squirrel, with three heroes; Wonderful the magic Sampo, Plenty does it bring to Northland; And the colored lid re-echoes From the copper-bearing mountains, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, To the joy of its possessors.”

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: “If thou wilt not share the Sampo, Give to us an equal portion, We will take it to Wainola, With its lid of many colors, Take by force the hope of Pohya.”

Thereupon the Northland hostess Angry grew and sighed for vengeance; Called her people into council, Called the hosts of Sariola, Heroes with their trusted broadswords, To destroy old Wainamoinen With his people of the Northland.

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Hastened to his harp of fish-bone, And began his magic playing; All of Pohya stopped and listened, Every warrior was silenced By the notes of the magician; Peaceful-minded grew the soldiers, All the maidens danced with pleasure, While the heroes fell to weeping, And the young men looked in wonder.

Wainamoinen plays unceasing, Plays the maidens into slumber, Plays to sleep the young and aged, All of Northland sleeps and listens. Wise and wondrous Wainamoinen, The eternal bard and singer, Searches in his pouch of leather, Draws therefrom his slumber-arrows, Locks the eyelids of the sleepers, Of the heroes of Pohyola, Sings and charms to deeper slumber All the warriors of the Northland. Then the heroes of Wainola Hasten to obtain the Sampo, To procure the lid in colors From the copper-bearing mountains. From behind nine locks of copper, In the stone-berg of Pohyola.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Then began his wondrous singing, Sang in gentle tones of magic, At the entrance to the mountain, At the border of the stronghold; Trembled all the rocky portals, And the iron-banded pillars Fell and crumbled at his singing.

Ilmarinen, magic blacksmith, Well anointed all the hinges, All the bars and locks anointed, And the bolts flew back by magic, All the gates unlocked in silence, Opened for the great magician. Spake the minstrel Wainamoinen: “O thou daring Lemminkainen, Friend of mine in times of trouble, Enter thou within the mountain, Bring away the wondrous Sampo, Bring away the lid in colors!”

Quick the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Ever ready for a venture, Hastens to the mountain-caverns, There to find the famous Sampo, There to get the lid in colors; Strides along with conscious footsteps, Thus himself he vainly praises: “Great am I and full of glory, Wonder-hero, son of Ukko, I will bring away the Sampo, Turn about the lid in colors, Turn it on its magic hinges!”

Lemminkainen finds the wonder, Finds the Sampo in the mountain, Labors long with strength heroic, Tugs with might and main to turn it; Motionless remains the treasure, Deeper sinks the lid in colors, For the roots have grown about it, Grown nine fathoms deep in sand-earth.

Lived a mighty ox in Northland, Powerful in bone and sinew, Beautiful in form and color, Horns the length of seven fathoms, Mouth and eyes of wondrous beauty.

Lemminkainen, reckless hero, Harnesses the ox in pasture, Takes the master-plow of Pohya, Plows the roots about the Sampo, Plows around the lid in colors, And the sacred Sampo loosens, Falls the colored lid in silence. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Brings the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Brings the daring Lemminkainen, Lastly brings the magic Sampo, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain, Hides it in his waiting vessel, In the war-ship of Wainola.

Wainamoinen called his people, Called his crew of men and maidens, Called together all his heroes, Rolled his vessel to the water, Into billowy deeps and dangers. Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: “Whither shall we take the Sampo, Whither take the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From this evil spot of Northland?”

Wainamoinen, wise and faithful, Gave this answer to the question: “Thither shall we take the Sampo, Thither take the lid in colors, To the fog-point on the waters, To the island forest-covered; There the treasure may be hidden, May remain in peace for ages, Free from trouble, free from danger, Where the sword will not molest it.”

Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Joyful, left the Pohya borders, Homeward sailed, and happy-hearted, Spake these measures on departing: “Turn, O man-of-war, from Pohya, Turn thy back upon the strangers, Turn thou to my distant country! Rock, O winds, my magic vessel, Homeward drive my ship, O billows, Lend the rowers your assistance, Give the oarsmen easy labor, On this vast expanse of waters! Give me of thine oars, O Ahto, Lend thine aid, O King of sea-waves, Guide as with thy helm in safety, Lay thy hand upon the rudder, And direct our war-ship homeward; Let the hooks of metal rattle O’er the surging of the billows, On the white-capped waves’ commotion.”