Chapter IV: Part 4

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 in 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 he 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 he 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 lock 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 he 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; I 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. Where 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 words he vowed and uttered: ‘Many trees that I shall injure, Shall devour the hearts of mountains, Shall not slay my nearest kindred, Shall not kill the best of heroes, Shall not wound my dearest brother; Better live in civil freedom, Happier would be my life-time, Should I serve my fellow-beings, Serve as tools for their convenience, Than as implements of warfare, Slay my friends and nearest kindred, Wound the children of my mother.’

“Now the master, Ilmarinen, The renowned and skilful blacksmith, From the fire removes the iron, Places it upon the anvil, Hammers well until it softens, Hammers many fine utensils, Hammers spears, and swords, and axes, Hammers knives, and forks, and hatchets, Hammers tools of all descriptions.

“Many things the blacksmith needed, Many things he could not fashion, Could not make the tongue of iron, Could not hammer steel from iron, Could not make the iron harden. Well considered Ilmarinen, Deeply thought and long reflected. Then he gathered birchen ashes, Steeped the ashes in the water, Made a lye to harden iron, Thus to form the steel most needful. With his tongue he tests the mixture, Weighs it long and well considers, And the blacksmith speaks as follows: ‘All this labor is for nothing, Will not fashion steel from iron, Will not make the soft ore harden.’

“Now a bee flies from the meadow, Blue-wing coming from the flowers, Flies about, then safely settles Near the furnace of the smithy.

“Thus the smith the bee addresses, These the words of Ilmarinen: ‘Little bee, thou tiny birdling, Bring me honey on thy winglets, On thy tongue, I pray thee, bring me Sweetness from the fragrant meadows, From the little cups of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, That we thus may aid the water To produce the steel from iron.’

“Evil Hisi’s bird, the hornet, Heard these words of Ilmarinen, Looking from the cottage gable, Flying to the bark of birch-trees, While the iron bars were heating, While the steel was being tempered; Swiftly flew the stinging hornet, Scattered all the Hisi horrors, Brought the blessing of the serpent, Brought the venom of the adder, Brought the poison of the spider, Brought the stings of all the insects, Mixed them with the ore and water, While the steel was being tempered.

“Ilmarinen, skilful blacksmith, First of all the iron-workers, Thought the bee had surely brought him Honey from the fragrant meadows, From the little cups of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, And he spake the words that follow: ‘Welcome, welcome, is thy coming, Honeyed sweetness from the flowers Thou hast brought to aid the water, Thus to form the steel from iron!’

“Ilmarinen, ancient blacksmith, Dipped the iron into water, Water mixed with many poisons, Thought it but the wild bee’s honey; Thus he formed the steel from iron. When he plunged it into water, Water mixed with many poisons, When he placed it in the furnace, Angry grew the hardened iron, Broke the vow that he had taken, Ate his words like dogs and devils, Mercilessly cut his brother, Madly raged against his kindred, Caused the blood to flow in streamlets From the wounds of man and hero. This, the origin of iron, And of steel of light blue color.”

From the hearth arose the gray-beard, Shook his heavy locks and answered: “Now I know the source of iron, Whence the steel and whence its evils; Curses on thee, cruel iron, Curses on the steel thou givest, Curses on thee, tongue of evil, Cursed be thy life forever! Once thou wert of little value, Having neither form nor beauty, Neither strength nor great importance, When in form of milk thou rested, When for ages thou wert hidden In the breasts of God’s three daughters, Hidden in their heaving bosoms, On the borders of the cloudlets, In the blue vault of the heavens.

“Thou wert once of little value, Having neither form nor beauty, Neither strength nor great importance, When like water thou wert resting On the broad back of the marshes, On the steep declines of mountains, When thou wert but formless matter, Only dust of rusty color.

“Surely thou wert void of greatness, Having neither strength nor beauty, When the moose was trampling on thee, When the roebuck trod upon thee, When the tracks of wolves were in thee, And the bear-paws scratched thy body. Surely thou hadst little value When the skilful Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Brought thee from the blackened swamp-lands, Took thee to his ancient smithy, Placed thee in his fiery furnace. Truly thou hadst little vigor, Little strength, and little danger, When thou in the fire wert hissing, Rolling forth like seething water, From the furnace of the smithy, When thou gavest oath the strongest, By the furnace, by the anvil, By the tongs, and by the hammer, By the dwelling of the blacksmith, By the fire within the furnace.

“Now forsooth thou hast grown mighty, Thou canst rage in wildest fury; Thou hast broken all thy pledges, All thy solemn vows hast broken, Like the dogs thou shamest honor, Shamest both thyself and kindred, Tainted all with breath of evil. Tell who drove thee to this mischief, Tell who taught thee all thy malice, Tell who gavest thee thine evil! Did thy father, or thy mother, Did the eldest of thy brothers, Did the youngest of thy sisters, Did the worst of all thy kindred Give to thee thine evil nature? Not thy father, nor thy mother, Not the eldest of thy brothers, Not the youngest of thy sisters, Not the worst of all thy kindred, But thyself hast done this mischief, Thou the cause of all our trouble. Come and view thine evil doings, And amend this flood of damage, Ere I tell thy gray-haired mother, Ere I tell thine aged father. Great indeed a mother’s anguish, Great indeed a father’s sorrow, When a son does something evil, When a child runs wild and lawless.

“Crimson streamlet, cease thy flowing From the wounds of Wainamoinen; Blood of ages, stop thy coursing From the veins of the magician; Stand like heaven’s crystal pillars, Stand like columns in the ocean, Stand like birch-trees in the forest, Like the tall reeds in the marshes, Like the high-rocks on the sea-coast, Stand by power of mighty magic!

“Should perforce thy will impel thee, Flow thou on thine endless circuit, Through the veins of Wainamoinen, Through the bones, and through the muscles, Through the lungs, and heart, and liver, Of the mighty sage and singer; Better be the food of heroes, Than to waste thy strength and virtue, On the meadows and the woodlands, And be lost in dust and ashes. Flow forever in thy circle; Thou must cease this crimson out-flow; Stain no more the grass and flowers, Stain no more these golden hill-tops, Pride and beauty of our heroes. In the veins of the magician, In the heart of Wainamoinen, Is thy rightful home and storehouse. Thither now withdraw thy forces, Thither hasten, swiftly flowing; Flow no more as crimson currents, Fill no longer crimson lakelets, Must not rush like brooks in spring-tide, Nor meander like the rivers.

“Cease thy flow, by word of magic, Cease as did the falls of Tyrya, As the rivers of Tuoni, When the sky withheld her rain-drops, When the sea gave up her waters, In the famine of the seasons, In the years of fire and torture. If thou heedest not this order, I shall offer other measures, Know I well of other forces; I shall call the Hisi irons, In them I shall boil and roast thee, Thus to check thy crimson flowing, Thus to save the wounded hero.

“If these means be inefficient, Should these measures prove unworthy, I shall call omniscient Ukko, Mightiest of the creators, Stronger than all ancient heroes, Wiser than the world-magicians; He will check the crimson out-flow, He will heal this wound of hatchet.

“Ukko, God of love and mercy, God and Master of the heavens, Come thou hither, thou art needed, Come thou quickly I beseech thee, Lend thy hand to aid thy children, Touch this wound with healing fingers, Stop this hero’s streaming life-blood, Bind this wound with tender leaflets, Mingle with them healing flowers, Thus to check this crimson current, Thus to save this great magician, Save the life of Wainamoinen.”

Thus at last the blood-stream ended, As the magic words were spoken. Then the gray-beard, much rejoicing, Sent his young son to the smithy, There to make a healing balsam, From the herbs of tender fibre, From the healing plants and flowers, From the stalks secreting honey, From the roots, and leaves, and blossoms.

On the way he meets an oak-tree, And the oak the son addresses: “Hast thou honey in thy branches, Does thy sap run full of sweetness?” Thus the oak-tree wisely answers: “Yea, but last night dripped the honey Down upon my spreading branches, And the clouds their fragrance sifted, Sifted honey on my leaflets, From their home within the heavens.”

Then the son takes oak-wood splinters, Takes the youngest oak-tree branches, Gathers many healing grasses, Gathers many herbs and flowers, Rarest herbs that grow in Northland, Places them within the furnace In a kettle made of copper; Lets them steep and boil together, Bits of bark chipped from the oak-tree, Many herbs of healing virtues; Steeps them one day, then a second, Three long days of summer weather, Days and nights in quick succession; Then he tries his magic balsam, Looks to see if it is ready, If his remedy is finished; But the balsam is unworthy.

Then he added other grasses, Herbs of every healing virtue, That were brought from distant nations, Many hundred leagues from Northland, Gathered by the wisest minstrels, Thither brought by nine enchanters. Three days more he steeped the balsam, Three nights more the fire he tended, Nine the days and nights he watched it, Then again he tried the ointment, Viewed it carefully and tested, Found at last that it was ready, Found the magic balm was finished.

Near by stood a branching birch-tree, On the border of the meadow, Wickedly it had been broken, Broken down by evil Hisi; Quick he takes his balm of healing, And anoints the broken branches, Rubs the balsam in the fractures, Thus addresses then the birch-tree: “With this balsam I anoint thee, With this salve thy wounds I cover, Cover well thine injured places; Now the birch-tree shall recover, Grow more beautiful than ever.”

True, the birch-tree soon recovered, Grew more beautiful than ever, Grew more uniform its branches, And its bole more strong and stately. Thus it was he tried the balsam, Thus the magic salve he tested, Touched with it the splintered sandstone, Touched the broken blocks of granite, Touched the fissures in the mountains, And the broken parts united, All the fragments grew together.

Then the young boy quick returning With the balsam he had finished, To the gray-beard gave the ointment, And the boy these measures uttered: “Here I bring the balm of healing, Wonderful the salve I bring thee; It will join the broken granite, Make the fragments grow together, Heat the fissures in the mountains, And restore the injured birch-tree.”

With his tongue the old man tested, Tested thus the magic balsam, Found the remedy effective, Found the balm had magic virtues; Then anointed he the minstrel, Touched the wounds of Wainamoinen, Touched them with his magic balsam, With the balm of many virtues; Speaking words of ancient wisdom, These the words the gray-beard uttered: “Do not walk in thine own virtue, Do not work in thine own power, Walk in strength of thy Creator; Do not speak in thine own wisdom, Speak with tongue of mighty Ukko. In my mouth, if there be sweetness, It has come from my Creator; If my hands are filled with beauty, All the beauty comes from Ukko.”

When the wounds had been anointed, When the magic salve had touched them, Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Suffered fearful pain and anguish, Sank upon the floor in torment, Turning one way, then another, Sought for rest and found it nowhere, Till his pain the gray-beard banished, Banished by the aid of magic, Drove away his killing torment To the court of all our trouble, To the highest hill of torture, To the distant rocks and ledges, To the evil-bearing mountains, To the realm of wicked Hisi. Then he took some silken fabric, Quick he tore the silk asunder, Making equal strips for wrapping, Tied the ends with silken ribbons, Making thus a healing bandage; Then he wrapped with skilful fingers Wainamoinen’s knee and ankle, Wrapped the wounds of the magician, And this prayer the gray-beard uttered “Ukko’s fabric is the bandage, Ukko’s science is the surgeon, These have served the wounded hero, Wrapped the wounds of the magician. Look upon us, God of mercy, Come and guard us, kind Creator, And protect us from all evil! Guide our feet lest they may stumble, Guard our lives from every danger, From the wicked wilds of Hisi.”

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Felt the mighty aid of magic, Felt the help of gracious Ukko, Straightway stronger grew in body, Straightway were the wounds united, Quick the fearful pain departed. Strong and hardy grew the hero, Straightway walked in perfect freedom, Turned his knee in all directions, Knowing neither pain nor trouble.

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Raised his eyes to high Jumala, Looked with gratitude to heaven, Looked on high, in joy and gladness, Then addressed omniscient Ukko, This the prayer the minstrel uttered: “O be praised, thou God of mercy, Let me praise thee, my Creator, Since thou gavest me assistance, And vouchsafed me thy protection, Healed my wounds and stilled mine anguish, Banished all my pain and trouble, Caused by Iron and by Hisi. O, ye people of Wainola, People of this generation, And the folk of future ages, Fashion not in emulation, River boat, nor ocean shallop, Boasting of its fine appearance; God alone can work completion, Give to cause its perfect ending, Never hand of man can find it, Never can the hero give it, Ukko is the only Master.”

RUNE X. ILMARINEN FORGES THE SAMPO.

Wainamoinen, the magician, Takes his steed of copper color, Hitches quick his fleet-foot courser, Puts his racer to the snow-sledge, Straightway springs upon the cross-seat, Snaps his whip adorned with jewels. Like the winds the steed flies onward, Like a lightning flash, the racer Makes the snow-sledge creak and rattle, Makes the highway quickly vanish, Dashes on through fen and forest, Over hills and through the valleys, Over marshes, over mountains, Over fertile plains and meadows; Journeys one day, then a second, So a third from morn till evening, Till the third day evening brings him To the endless bridge of Osmo, To the Osmo-fields and pastures, To the plains of Kalevala; When the hero spake as follows: “May the wolves devour the dreamer, Eat the Laplander for dinner, May disease destroy the braggart, Him who said that I should never See again my much-loved home-land, Nevermore behold my kindred, Never during all my life-time, Never while the sunshine brightens, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala.”

Then began old Wainamoinen, Ancient bard and famous singer, To renew his incantations; Sang aloft a wondrous pine-tree, Till it pierced the clouds in growing With its golden top and branches, Till it touched the very heavens, Spread its branches in the ether, In the ever-shining sunlight.

Now he sings again enchanting, Sings the Moon to shine forever In the fir-tree’s emerald branches; In its top he sings the Great Bear. Then he quickly journeys homeward, Hastens to his golden portals, Head awry and visage wrinkled, Crooked cap upon his forehead, Since as ransom he had promised Ilmarinen, magic artist, Thus to save his life from torture On the distant fields of Northland, In the dismal Sariola.

When his stallion he had halted On the Osmo-field and meadow, Quickly rising in his snow-sledge, The magician heard one knocking, Breaking coal within the smithy, Beating with a heavy hammer. Wainamoinen, famous minstrel, Entering the smithy straightway, Found the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Knocking with his copper hammer. Ilmarinen spake as follows: “Welcome, brother Wainamoinen, Old and worthy Wainamoinen! Why so long hast thou been absent, Where hast thou so long been hiding?”

Wainamoinen then made answer, These the words of the magician: “Long indeed have I been living, Many dreary days have wandered, Many cheerless nights have lingered, Floating on the cruel ocean, Weeping in the fens and woodlands Of the never-pleasant Northland, In the dismal Sariola; With the Laplanders I’ve wandered, With the people filled with witchcraft.”

Promptly answers Ilmarinen, These the words the blacksmith uses: “O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Famous and eternal singer, Tell me of thy journey northward, Of thy wanderings in Lapland, Of thy dismal journey homeward.” Spake the minstrel, Wainamoinen: “I have much to tell thee, brother, Listen to my wondrous story: In the Northland lives a virgin, In a village there, a maiden, That will not accept a lover, That a hero’s hand refuses, That a wizard’s heart disdaineth; All of Northland sings her praises, Sings her worth and magic beauty, Fairest maiden of Pohyola, Daughter of the earth and ocean. From her temples beams the moonlight, From her breast, the gleam of sunshine, From her forehead shines the rainbow, On her neck, the seven starlets, And the Great Bear from her shoulder.

“Ilmarinen, worthy brother, Thou the only skilful blacksmith, Go and see her wondrous beauty, See her gold and silver garments, See her robed in finest raiment, See her sitting on the rainbow, Walking on the clouds of purple. Forge for her the magic Sampo, Forge the lid in many colors, Thy reward shall be the virgin, Thou shalt win this bride of beauty; Go and bring the lovely maiden To thy home in Kalevala.” Spake the brother, Ilmarinen: “O thou cunning Wainamoinen, Thou hast promised me already To the ever-darksome Northland, Thy devoted head to ransom, Thus to rescue thee from trouble. I shall never visit Northland, Shall not go to see thy maiden, Do not love the Bride of Beauty; Never while the moonlight glimmers, Shall I go to dreary Pohya, To the plains of Sariola, Where the people eat each other, Sink their heroes in the ocean, Not for all the maids of Lapland.” Spake the brother, Wainamoinen: “I can tell thee greater wonders, Listen to my wondrous story: I have seen the fir-tree blossom, Seen its flowers with emerald branches, On the Osmo-fields and woodlands; In its top, there shines the moonlight, And the Bear lives in its branches.” Ilmarinen thus made answer: “I cannot believe thy story, Cannot trust thy tale of wonder, Till I see the blooming fir-tree, With its many emerald branches, With its Bear and golden moonlight.” This is Wainamoinen’s answer: “Wilt thou not believe my story? Come with me and I will show thee If my lips speak fact or fiction.”

Quick they journey to discover, Haste to view the wondrous fir-tree; Wainamoinen leads the journey, Ilmarinen closely follows. As they near the Osmo-borders, Ilmarinen hastens forward That he may behold the wonder, Spies the Bear within the fir-top, Sitting on its emerald branches, Spies the gleam of golden moonlight.

Spake the ancient Wainamoinen:, These the words the singer uttered: “Climb this tree, dear Ilmarinen, And bring down the golden moonbeams, Bring the Moon and Bear down with thee From the fir-tree’s lofty branches.”

Ilmarinen, full consenting, Straightway climbed the golden fir-tree, High upon the bow of heaven, Thence to bring the golden moonbeams, Thence to bring the Bear of heaven, From the fir-tree’s topmost branches.

Thereupon the blooming fir-tree Spake these words to Ilmarinen: “O thou senseless, thoughtless hero, Thou hast neither wit nor instinct; Thou dost climb my golden branches, Like a thing of little judgment, Thus to get my pictured moonbeams, Take away my silver starlight, Steal my Bear and blooming branches.”

Quick as thought old Wainamoinen Sang again in magic accents, Sang a storm-wind in the heavens, Sang the wild winds into fury, And the singer spake as follows: “Take, O storm-wind, take the forgeman, Carry him within thy vessel, Quickly hence, and land the hero On the ever-darksome Northland, On the dismal Sariola.”

Now the storm-wind quickly darkens, Quickly piles the air together, Makes of air a sailing vessel, Takes the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Fleetly from the fir-tree branches, Toward the never-pleasant Northland, Toward the dismal Sariola. Through the air sailed Ilmarinen, Fast and far the hero travelled, Sweeping onward, sailing northward, Riding in the track of storm-winds, O’er the Moon, beneath the sunshine, On the broad back of the Great Bear, Till he neared Pohyola’s woodlands, Neared the homes of Sariola, And alighted undiscovered, Was not noticed by the hunters, Was not scented by the watch-dogs.

Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, toothless dame of Northland, Standing in the open court-yard, Thus addresses Ilmarinen, As she spies the hero-stranger: “Who art thou of ancient heroes, Who of all the host of heroes, Coming here upon the storm-wind, O’er the sledge-path of the ether, Scented not by Pohya’s watch-dogs?” This is Ilmarinen’s answer: “I have surely not come hither To be barked at by the watch-dogs, At these unfamiliar portals, At the gates of Sariola.”

Thereupon the Northland hostess Asks again the hero-stranger: “Hast thou ever been acquainted With the blacksmith of Wainola, With the hero, Ilmarinen, With the skilful smith and artist? Long I’ve waited for his coming, Long this one has been expected, On the borders of the Northland, Here to forge for me the Sampo.” Spake the hero, Ilmarinen: “Well indeed am I acquainted With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, I myself am Ilmarinen, I, the skilful smith and artist.”

Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Toothless dame of Sariola, Straightway rushes to her dwelling, These the words that Louhi utters: “Come, thou youngest of my daughters, Come, thou fairest of my maidens, Dress thyself in finest raiment, Deck thy hair with rarest jewels, Pearls upon thy swelling bosom, On thy neck, a golden necklace, Bind thy head with silken ribbons, Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, And thy visage fair and winsome, Since the artist, Ilmarinen, Hither comes from Kalevala, Here to forge for us the Sampo, Hammer us the lid in colors.”

Now the daughter of the Northland, Honored by the land and water, Straightway takes her choicest raiment, Takes her dresses rich in beauty, Finest of her silken wardrobe, Now adjusts her silken fillet, On her brow a band of copper, Round her waist a golden girdle, Round her neck a pearly necklace, Shining gold upon her bosom, In her hair the threads of silver. From her dressing-room she hastens, To the hall she hastes and listens, Full of beauty, full of joyance, Ears erect and eyes bright-beaming, Ruddy cheeks and charming visage, Waiting for the hero-stranger.

Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Leads the hero, Ilmarinen, To her dwelling-rooms in Northland, To her home in Sariola, Seats him at her well-filled table, Gives to him the finest viands, Gives him every needed comfort, Then addresses him as follows: “O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Master of the forge and smithy, 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? Thou shalt have my fairest daughter, Recompense for this thy service.” These the words of Ilmarinen: “I will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee 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, Since I forged the arch of heaven, Forged the air a concave cover, Ere the earth had a beginning.”

Thereupon the magic blacksmith Went to forge the wondrous Sampo, Went to find a blacksmith’s workshop, Went to find the tools to work with; But he found no place for forging, Found no smithy, found no bellows, Found no chimney, found no anvil, Found no tongs, and found no hammer.

Then the artist, Ilmarinen. Spake these words, soliloquizing: “Only women grow discouraged, Only knaves leave work unfinished, Not the devils, nor the heroes, Nor the Gods of greater knowledge.”

Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Sought a place to build a smithy, Sought a place to plant a bellows, On the borders of the Northland, On the Pohya-hills and meadows; Searched one day, and then a second; Ere the evening of the third day, Came a rock within his vision, Came a stone with rainbow-colors. There the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Set at work to build his smithy, Built a fire and raised a chimney; On the next day laid his bellows, On the third day built his furnace, And began to forge the Sampo.

The eternal magic artist, Ancient blacksmith, Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Mixed together certain metals, Put the mixture in the caldron, Laid it deep within the furnace, Called the hirelings to the forging. Skilfully they work the bellows, Tend the fire and add the fuel, Three most lovely days of summer, Three short nights of bright midsummer, Till the rocks begin to blossom, In the foot-prints of the workmen, From the magic heat and furnace.

On the first day, Ilmarinen Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of his furnace, Thus to see what might be forming From the magic fire and metals. From the fire arose a cross-bow, With the brightness of the moonbeams, Golden bow with tips of silver; On the shaft was shining copper, And the bow was strong and wondrous, But alas! it was ill-natured, Asking for a hero daily, Two the heads it asked on feast-days.

Ilmarinen, skilful artist, Was not pleased with this creation, Broke the bow in many pieces, Threw them back within the furnace, Kept the workmen at the bellows, Tried to forge the magic Sampo.

On the second day, the blacksmith Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of the furnace; From the fire, a skiff of metals, Came a boat of purple color, All the ribs were colored golden, And the oars were forged from copper; Thus the skiff was full of beauty, But alas! a thing of evil; Forth it rushes into trouble, Hastens into every quarrel, Hastes without a provocation Into every evil combat.

Ilmarinen, metal artist, Is not pleased with this creation, Breaks the skiff in many fragments, Throws them back within the furnace, Keeps the workmen at the bellows, Thus to forge the magic Sampo.

On the third day, Ilmarinen, First of all the metal-workers, Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of the furnace; There he saw a heifer rising, Golden were the horns of Kimmo, On her head the Bear of heaven, On her brow a disc of sunshine, Beautiful the cow of magic; But alas! she is ill-tempered, Rushes headlong through the forest, Rushes through the swamps and meadows, Wasting all her milk in running.

Ilmarinen, the magician, Is not pleased with this creation, Cuts the magic cow in pieces, Throws them in the fiery furnace, Sets the workmen at the bellows, Thus to forge the magic Sampo.

On the fourth day, Ilmarinen Downward bent and well examined, To the bottom of the furnace; There beheld a plow in beauty Rising from the fire of metals, Golden was the point and plowshare, And the beam was forged from copper, And the handles, molten silver, Beautiful the plow and wondrous; But alas! it is ill-mannered, Plows up fields of corn and barley, Furrows through the richest meadows.

Ilmarinen, metal artist, Is not pleased with this creation, Quickly breaks the plow in pieces, Throws them back within the furnace, Lets the winds attend the bellows, Lets the storm-winds fire the metals. Fiercely vie the winds of heaven, East-wind rushing, West-wind roaring, South-wind crying, North-wind howling, Blow one day and then a second, Blow the third from morn till even, When the fire leaps through the windows, Through the door the sparks fly upward, Clouds of smoke arise to heaven; With the clouds the black smoke mingles, As the storm-winds ply the bellows.

On the third night Ilmarinen, Bending low to view his metals, On the bottom of the furnace, Sees the magic Sampo rising, Sees the lid in many colors. Quick the artist of Wainola Forges with the tongs and anvil, Knocking with a heavy hammer, Forges skilfully the Sampo; On one side the flour is grinding, On another salt is making, On a third is money forging, And the lid is many-colored. Well the Sampo grinds when finished, To and fro the lid in rocking, Grinds one measure at the day-break, Grinds a measure fit for eating, Grinds a second for the market, Grinds a third one for the store-house.

Joyfully the dame of Northland, Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Takes away the magic Sampo, To the hills of Sariola, To the copper-bearing mountains, Puts nine locks upon the wonder, Makes three strong roots creep around it; In the earth they grow nine fathoms, One large root beneath the mountain, One beneath the sandy sea-bed, One beneath the mountain-dwelling.

Modestly pleads Ilmarinen For the maiden’s willing answer, These the words of the magician: “Wilt thou come with me, fair maiden, Be my wife and queen forever? I have forged for thee the Sampo, Forged the lid in many colors.”

Northland’s fair and lovely daughter Answers thus the metal-worker: “Who will in the coming spring-time, Who will in the second summer, Guide the cuckoo’s song and echo? Who will listen to his calling, Who will sing with him in autumn, Should I go to distant regions, Should this cheery maiden vanish From the fields of Sariola, From Pohyola’s fens and forests, Where the cuckoo sings and echoes? Should I leave my father’s dwelling, Should my mother’s berry vanish, Should these mountains lose their cherry, Then the cuckoo too would vanish, All the birds would leave the forest, Leave the summit of the mountain, Leave my native fields and woodlands, Never shall I, in my life-time, Say farewell to maiden freedom, Nor to summer cares and labors, Lest the harvest be ungarnered, Lest the berries be ungathered, Lest the song-birds leave the forest, Lest the mermaids leave the waters, Lest I sing with them no longer.”

Ilmarinen, the magician, The eternal metal-forger, Cap awry and head dejected, Disappointed, heavy-hearted, Empty-handed, well considers, How to reach his distant country, Reach his much-loved home and kinded, Gain the meadows of Wainola, From the never-pleasant Northland, From the darksome Sariola. Louhi thus addressed the suitor: “O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Why art thou so heavy-hearted, Why thy visage so dejected? Hast thou in thy mind to journey From the vales and hills of Pohya, To the meadows of Wainola, To thy home in Kalevala?” This is Ilmarinen’s answer: “Thitherward my mind is tending, To my home-land let me journey, With my kindred let me linger, Be at rest in mine own country.”

Straightway Louhi, dame of Northland, Gave the hero every comfort, Gave him food and rarest viands, Placed him in a boat of copper, In a copper-banded vessel, Called the winds to his assistance, Made the North-wind guide him homeward. Thus the skilful Ilmarinen Travels toward his native country, On the blue back of the waters, Travels one day, then a second, Till the third day evening brings him To Wainola’s peaceful meadows, To his home in Kalevala.

Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Thus addresses Ilmarinen: “O my brother, metal-artist, Thou eternal wonder-worker, Didst thou forge the magic Sampo, Forge the lid in many colors?”

Spake the brother, Ilmarinen, These the words the master uttered: “Yea, I forged the magic Sampo, Forged the lid in many colors; To and fro the lid in rocking Grinds one measure at the day-dawn, Grinds a measure fit for eating, Grinds a second for the market, Grinds a third one for the store-house. Louhi has the wondrous Sampo, I have not the Bride of Beauty.”

RUNE XI. LEMMINKAINEN’S LAMENT.

This the time to sing of Ahti, Son of Lempo, Kaukomieli, Also known as Lemminkainen. Ahti was the king of islands, Grew amid the island-dwellings, At the site of his dear mother, On the borders of the ocean, On the points of promontories. Ahti fed upon the salmon, Fed upon the ocean whiting, Thus became a mighty hero, In his veins the blood of ages, Head erect and form commanding, Growth of mind and body perfect; But alas! he had his failings, Bad indeed his heart and morals, Roaming in unworthy places, Staying days and nights in sequence At the homes of merry maidens, At the dances of the virgins, With the maids of braided tresses.

Up in Sahri lived a maiden, Lived the fair and winsome Kulli, Lovely as a summer-flower, From a kingly house descended, Grew to perfect form and beauty, Living in her father’s cottage, Home of many ancient heroes; Beautiful was she and queenly, Praised throughout the whole of Ehstland; From afar men came to woo her, To the birthplace of the virgin, To the household of her mother.

For his son the Day-star wooes her, But she will not go to Sun-land, Will not shine beside the Day-star, In his haste to bring the summer. For her son, the bright Moon wooes her, But she will not go to Moon-land, By the bright Moon will not glimmer, Will not run through boundless ether.

For his son the Night-star wooes her, But she will not go to Star-land, Will not twinkle in the starlight, Through the dreary nights in winter.

Lovers come from distant Ehstland, Others come from far-off Ingern, But they cannot win the maiden, This the answer that she gives them “Vainly are your praises lavished Vainly is your silver offered, Wealth and praise are no temptation; Never shall I go to Ehstland, Never shall I go a-rowing On the waters of the Ingern, Shall not cross the Sahri-waters, Never eat the fish of Ehstland, Never taste the Ehstland viands. Ingerland shall never see me, Will not row upon her rivers, Will not step within her borders; Hunger there, and fell starvation, Wood is absent, fuel wanting, Neither water, wheat, nor barley, Even rye is not abundant.”

Lemminkainen of the islands, Warlike hero, Kaukomieli, Undertakes to win the maiden, Woo and win the Sahri-flower, Win a bride so highly honored, Win the maid with golden tresses, Win the Sahri maid of beauty; But his mother gives him warning: “Nay,” replies his gray-haired mother, “Do not woo, my son beloved, Maiden of a higher station; She will never make thee happy With her lineage of Sahri.”

Spake the hero, Lemminkainen, These the words of Kaukomieli: “Should I come from lowly station, Though my tribe is not the highest, I shall woo to please my fancy, Woo the maiden fair and lovely, Choose a wife for worth and beauty.” This the anxious mother’s answer: “Lemminkainen, son beloved, Listen to advice maternal: Do not go to distant Sahri, To her tribe of many branches; All the maidens there will taunt thee, All the women will deride thee.”

Lemminkainen, little hearing, Answers thus his mother’s pleading: “I will still the sneers of women, Silence all the taunts of maidens, I will crush their haughty bosoms, Smite the hands and cheeks of infants; Surely this will check their insults, Fitting ending to derision!” This the answer of the mother: “Woe is me, my son beloved! Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Shouldst thou taunt the Sahri daughters, Or insult the maids of virtue, Shouldst thou laugh them to derision, There will rise a great contention, Fierce the battle that will follow. All the hosts of Sahri-suitors, Armed in thousands will attack thee, And will slay thee for thy folly.”

Nothing listing, Lemminkainen, Heeding not his mother’s warning, Led his war-horse from the stables, Quickly hitched the fiery charger, Fleetly drove upon his journey, To the distant Sahri-village, There to woo the Sahri-flower, There to win the Bride of Beauty.

All the aged Sahri-women, All the young and lovely maidens Laughed to scorn the coming stranger Driving careless through the alleys, Wildly driving through the court-yard, Now upsetting in the gate-way, Breaking shaft, and hame, and runner.

Then the fearless Lemminkainen, Mouth awry and visage wrinkled, Shook his sable locks and answered: “Never in my recollection Have I heard or seen such treatment, Never have I been derided, Never suffered sneers of women, Never suffered scorn of virgins, Not in my immortal life-time. Is there any place befitting On the Sahri-plains and pastures, Where to join in songs and dances? Is there here a hall for pleasure, Where the Sahri-maidens linger, Merry maids with braided tresses?”

Thereupon the Sahri-maidens Answered from their promontory: “Room enough is there in Sahri, Room upon the Sahri-pastures, Room for pleasure-halls and dances; Sing and dance upon our meadows, Be a shepherd on the mountains, Shepherd-boys have room for dancing; Indolent the Sahri-children, But the colts are fat and frisky.”

Little caring, Lemminkainen Entered service there as shepherd, In the daytime on the pastures, In the evening, making merry At the games of lively maidens, At the dances with the virgins, With the maids with braided tresses. Thus it was that Lemminkainen, Thus the shepherd, Kaukomieli, Quickly hushed the women’s laughter, Quickly quenched the taunts of maidens, Quickly silenced their derision. All the dames and Sahri-daughters Soon were feasting Lemminkainen, At his side they danced and lingered. Only was there one among them, One among the Sahri-virgins, Harbored neither love nor wooers, Favored neither gods nor heroes, This the lovely maid Kyllikki, This the Sahri’s fairest flower. Lemminkainen, full of pleasure, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Rowed a hundred boats in pieces, Pulled a thousand oars to fragments, While he wooed the Maid of Beauty, Tried to win the fair Kyllikki.

Finally the lovely maiden, Fairest daughter of the Northland, Thus addresses Lemminkainen: “Why dost linger here, thou weak one, Why dost murmur on these borders, Why come wooing at my fireside, Wooing me in belt of copper? Have no time to waste upon thee, Rather give this stone its polish, Rather would I turn the pestle In the heavy sandstone mortar; Rather sit beside my mother In the dwellings of my father. Never shall I heed thy wooing, Neither wights nor whisks I care for, Sooner have a slender husband Since I have a slender body; Wish to have him fine of figure, Since perchance I am well-shapen; Wish to have him tall and stately, Since my form perchance is queenly; Never waste thy time in wooing Sahri’s maid and favored flower.”