Chapter IX: Part 9

“If thou goest to the store-house To obtain the flour of barley, Do not tarry on thy journey, On the threshold do not linger, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, That the meal thou hast divided With the women of the village.

“If thou goest to the river, There to wash thy birchen platters, There to cleanse thy pans and buckets, Lest thy work be done in neatness, Rinse the sides, and rinse the handles, Rinse thy pitchers to perfection, Spoons, and forks, and knives, and goblets, Rinse with care thy cooking-vessels, Closely watch the food-utensils, That the dogs may not deface them, That the kittens may not mar them, That the eagles may not steal them, That the children may not break them; Many children in the village, Many little heads and fingers, That will need thy careful watching, Lest they steal the things of value.

“When thou goest to thy bathing, Have the brushes ready lying In the bath-room clean and smokeless; Do not, linger in the water, At thy bathing do not tarry, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, Thou art sleeping on the benches, Rolling in the laps of comfort.

“From thy bath, when thou returnest, To his bathing tempt the father, Speak to him the words that follow: ‘Father of my hero-husband, Clean are all the bath-room benches, Everything in perfect order; Go and bathe for thine enjoyment, Pour the water all-sufficient, I will lend thee needed service.’

“When the time has come for spinning, When the hours arrive for weaving, Do not ask the help of others, Look not in the stream for knowledge, For advice ask not the servants, Nor the spindle from the sisters, Nor the weaving-comb from strangers. Thou thyself must do the spinning, With thine own hand ply the shuttle, Loosely wind the skeins of wool-yarn, Tightly wind the balls of flax-thread, Wind them deftly in the shuttle; Fit the warp upon the rollers, Beat the woof and warp together, Swiftly ply the weaver’s shuttle, Weave good cloth for all thy vestments, Weave of woolen, webs for dresses From the finest wool of lambkins, One thread only in thy weaving.

“Hear thou what I now advise thee: Brew thy beer from early barley, From the barley’s new-grown kernels, Brew it with the magic virtues, Malt it with the sweets of honey, Do not stir it with the birch-rod, Stir it with thy skilful fingers; When thou goest to the garners, Do not let the seed bring evil, Keep the dogs outside the brew-house, Have no fear of wolves in hunger, Nor the wild-beasts of the mountains, When thou goest to thy brewing, Shouldst thou wander forth at midnight.

“Should some stranger come to see thee, Do not worry for his comfort; Ever does the worthy household Have provisions for the stranger, Bits of meat, and bread, and biscuit, Ample for the dinner-table; Seat the stranger in thy dwelling, Speak with him in friendly accents, Entertain the guest with kindness, While his dinner is preparing. When the stranger leaves thy threshold, When his farewell has been spoken, Lead him only to the portals, Do not step without the doorway, That thy husband may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, Thou hast interest in strangers.

“Shouldst thou ever make a journey To the centre of the village, There to gain some needed object, While thou speakest in the hamlet, Let thy words be full of wisdom, That thou shamest not thy kindred, Nor disgrace thy husband’s household.

“Village-maidens oft will ask thee, Mothers of the hamlet question: ‘Does thy husband’s mother greet thee As in childhood thou wert greeted, In thy happy home in Pohya?’ Do not answer in negation, Say that she has always given Thee the best of her provisions, Given thee the kindest greetings, Though it be but once a season.

“Listen well to what I tell thee: As thou goest from thy father To thy husband’s distant dwelling, Thou must not forget thy mother, Her that gave thee life and beauty, Her that nurtured thee in childhood, Many sleepless nights she nursed thee; Often were her wants neglected, Numberless the times she rocked thee; Tender, true, and ever faithful, Is the mother to her daughter. She that can forget her mother, Can neglect the one that nursed her, Should not visit Mana’s castle, In the kingdom of Tuoni; In Manala she would suffer, Suffer frightful retribution, Should her mother be forgotten; Should her dear one be neglected, Mana’s daughters will torment her, And Tuoni’s sons revile her, They will ask her much as follows: ‘How couldst thou forget thy mother, How neglect the one that nursed thee? Great the pain thy mother suffered, Great the trouble that thou gavest When thy loving mother brought thee Into life for good or evil, When she gave thee earth-existence, When she nursed thee but an infant, When she fed thee in thy childhood, When she taught thee what thou knowest, Mana’s punishments upon thee, Since thy mother is forgotten!’”

On the floor a witch was sitting, Near the fire a beggar-woman, One that knew the ways of people, These the words the woman uttered: “Thus the crow calls in the winter: ‘Would that I could be a singer, And my voice be full of sweetness, But, alas! my songs are worthless, Cannot charm the weakest creature; I must live without the singing, Leave the songs to the musicians, Those that live in golden houses, In the homes of the beloved; Homeless therefore I must wander, Like a beggar in the corn-fields, And with none to do me honor.’

“Hear now, sister, what I tell thee, Enter thou thy husband’s dwelling, Follow not his mind, nor fancies, As my husband’s mind I followed; As a flower was I when budding, Sprouting like a rose in spring-time, Growing like a slender maiden, Like the honey-gem of glory, Like the playmates of my childhood, Like the goslings of my father, Like the blue-ducks of my mother, Like my brother’s water-younglings, Like the bullfinch of my sister; Grew I like the heather-flower, Like the berry of the meadow, Played upon the sandy sea-shore, Rocked upon the fragrant upland, Sang all day adown the valley, Thrilled with song the hill and mountain, Filled with mirth the glen and forest, Lived and frolicked in the woodlands.

“Into traps are foxes driven By the cruel pangs of hunger, Into traps, the cunning ermine; Thus are maidens wooed and wedded, In their hunger for a husband. Thus created is the virgin, Thus intended is the daughter, Subject to her hero-husband, Subject also to his mother.

“Then to other fields I hastened, Like a berry from the border, Like a cranberry for roasting, Like a strawberry for dinner; All the elm-trees seemed to wound me, All the aspens tried to cut me, All the willows tried to seize me, All the forest tried to slay me. Thus I journeyed to my husband, Thus I travelled to his dwelling, Was conducted to his mother. Then there were, as was reported, Six compartments built of pine-wood, Twelve the number of the chambers, And the mansion filled with garrets, Studding all the forest border, Every by-way filled with flowers; Streamlets bordered fields of barley, Filled with wheat and corn, the islands, Grain in plenty in the garners, Rye unthrashed in great abundance, Countless sums of gold and silver, Other treasures without number. When my journey I had ended, When my hand at last was given, Six supports were in his cabin, Seven poles as rails for fencing. Filled with anger were the bushes, All the glens disfavor showing, All the walks were lined with trouble, Evil-tempered were the forests, Hundred words of evil import, Hundred others of unkindness. Did not let this bring me sorrow, Long I sought to merit praises, Long I hoped to find some favor, Strove most earnestly for kindness; When they led me to the cottage, There I tried some chips to gather, Knocked my head against the portals Of my husband’s lowly dwelling.

“At the door were eyes of strangers, Sable eyes at the partition, Green with envy in his cabin, Evil heroes in the back-ground, From each mouth the fire was streaming, From each tongue the sparks out-flying, Flying from my second father, From his eyeballs of unkindness. Did not let this bring me trouble, Tried to live in peace and pleasure, In the homestead of my husband; In humility I suffered, Skipped about with feet of rabbit, Flew along with steps of ermine, Late I laid my head to slumber, Early rose as if a servant, Could not win a touch of kindness, Could not merit love nor honor, Though I had dislodged the mountains, Though the rocks had I torn open.

“Then I turned the heavy millstone, Ground the flour with care and trouble, Ground the barley-grains in patience, That the mother might be nourished, That her fury-throat might swallow What might please her taste and fancy, From her gold-enamelled platters, From the corner of her table.

“As for me, the hapless daughter, All my flour was from the siftings On the table near the oven, Ate I from the birchen ladle; Oftentimes I brought the mosses Gathered in the lowland meadows, Baked them into loaves for eating; Brought the water from the river, Thirsty, sipped it from the dipper, Ate of fish the worst in Northland, Only smelts, and worthless swimmers, Rocking in my boat of birch-bark; Never ate I fish or biscuit From my second mother’s fingers.

“Blades I gathered in the summers, Twisted barley-stalks in winter, Like the laborers of heroes, Like the servants sold in bondage. In the thresh-house of my husband, Evermore to me was given Flail the heaviest and longest, And to me the longest lever, On the shore the strongest beater, And the largest rake in haying; No one thought my burden heavy, No one thought that I could suffer, Though the best of heroes faltered, And the strongest women weakened.

“Thus did I, a youthful housewife, At the right time, all my duties, Drenched myself in perspiration, Hoped for better times to follow; But I only rose to labor, Knowing neither rest nor pleasure. I was blamed by all the household, With ungrateful tongues derided, Now about my awkward manners, Now about my reputation, Censuring my name and station. Words unkind were heaped upon me, Fell like hail on me unhappy, Like the frightful flash of lightning, Like the heavy hail of spring-time. I did not despair entirely, Would have lived to labor longer Underneath the tongue of malice, But the old-one spoiled my temper, Roused my deepest ire and hatred; Then my husband grew a wild-bear, Grew a savage wolf of Hisi.

“Only then I turned to weeping, And reflected in my chamber, Thought of all my former pleasures Of the happy days of childhood, Of my father’s joyful firesides, Of my mother’s peaceful cottage, Then began I thus to murmur: ‘Well thou knowest, ancient mother, How to make thy sweet bud blossom, How to train thy tender shootlet; Did not know where to ingraft it, Placed, alas! the little scion In the very worst of places, On an unproductive hillock, In the hardest limb of cherry, Where it could not grow and flourish, There to waste its life, in weeping, Hapless in her lasting sorrow. Worthier had been my conduct, In the regions that are better, In the court-yards that are wider, In compartments that are larger, Living with a loving husband, Living with a stronger hero. Shoe of birch-bark was my suitor, Shoe of Laplanders, my husband; Had the body of a raven, Voice and visage like the jackdaw, Mouth and claws were from the black-wolf, The remainder from the wild-bear. Had I known that mine affianced Was a fount of pain and evil, To the hill-side I had wandered, Been a pine-tree on the highway, Been a linden on the border, Like the black-earth made my visage, Grown a beard of ugly bristles, Head of loam and eyes of lightning, For my ears the knots of birches, For my limbs the trunks of aspens.’

“This the manner of my singing In the hearing of my husband, Thus I sang my cares and murmurs Thus my hero near the portals Heard the wail of my displeasure, Then he hastened to my chamber; Straightway knew I by his footsteps, Well concluded he was angry, Knew it by his steps implanted; All the winds were still in slumber, Yet his sable locks stood endwise, Fluttered round his head in fury, While his horrid mouth stood open; To and fro his eyes were rolling, In one hand a branch of willow, In the other, club of alder; Struck at me with might of malice, Aimed the cudgel at my forehead.

“When the evening had descended, When my husband thought of slumber Took he in his hand a whip-stalk, With a whip-lash made of deer-skin, Was not made for any other, Only made for me unhappy.

“When at last I begged for mercy, When I sought a place for resting, By his side I courted slumber, Merciless, my husband seized me, Struck me with his arm of envy, Beat me with the whip of torture, Deer-skin-lash and stalk of birch-wood. From his couch I leaped impulsive, In the coldest night of winter, But the husband fleetly followed, Caught me at the outer portals, Grasped me by my streaming tresses, Tore my ringlets from my forehead, Cast in curls upon the night-winds To the freezing winds of winter. What the aid that I could ask for, Who could free me from my torment? Made I shoes of magic metals, Made the straps of steel and copper, Waited long without the dwelling, Long I listened at the portals, Hoping he would end his ravings, Hoping he would sink to slumber, But he did not seek for resting, Did not wish to still his fury. Finally the cold benumbed me; As an outcast from his cabin, I was forced to walk and wander, When I, freezing, well reflected, This the substance of my thinking: ‘I will not endure this torture, Will not bear this thing forever, Will not bear this cruel treatment, Such contempt I will not suffer In the wicked tribe of Hisi, In this nest of evil Piru.’

“Then I said, ‘Farewell forever!’ To my husband’s home and kindred, To my much-loved home and husband; Started forth upon a journey To my father’s distant hamlet, Over swamps and over snow-fields, Wandered over towering mountains, Over hills and through the valleys, To my brother’s welcome meadows, To my sister’s home and birthplace.

“There were rustling withered pine-trees, Finely-feathered firs were fading, Countless ravens there were cawing, All the jackdaws harshly singing, This the chorus of the ravens: ‘Thou hast here a home no longer, This is not the happy homestead Of thy merry days of childhood.’

“Heeding not this woodland chorus, Straight I journeyed to the dwelling Of my childhood’s friend and brother, Where the portals spake in concord, And the hills and valleys answered, This their saddened song and echo: ‘Wherefore dost thou journey hither, Comest thou for joy or sorrow, To thy father’s old dominions? Here unhappiness awaits thee, Long departed is thy father, Dead and gone to visit Ukko, Dead and gone thy faithful mother, And thy brother is a stranger, While his wife is chill and heartless!’

“Heeding not these many warnings, Straightway to my brother’s cottage Were my weary feet directed, Laid my hand upon the door-latch Of my brother’s dismal cottage, But the latch was cold and lifeless. When I wandered to the chamber, When I waited at the doorway, There I saw the heartless hostess, But she did not give me greeting, Did not give her hand in welcome; Proud, alas! was I unhappy, Did not make the first advances, Did not offer her my friendship, And my hand I did not proffer; Laid my hand upon the oven, All its former warmth departed! On the coal I laid my fingers, All the latent heat had left it. On the rest-bench lay my brother, Lay outstretched before the fire-place, Heaps of soot upon his shoulders, Heaps of ashes on his forehead. Thus the brother asked the stranger, Questioned thus his guest politely: ‘Tell me what thy name and station, Whence thou comest o’er the waters!’ “This the answer that I gave him: ‘Hast thou then forgot thy sister, Does my brother not remember, Not recall his mother’s daughter? We are children of one mother, Of one bird were we the fledgelings, In one nest were hatched and nurtured.’”

“Then the brother fell to weeping, From his eyes great tear-drops flowing, To his wife the brother whispered, Whispered thus unto the housewife: ‘Bring thou beer to give my sister, Quench her thirst and cheer her spirits.’

“Full of envy, brought the sister Only water filled with evil, Water for the infant’s eyelids, Soap and water from the bath-room.

“To his wife the brother whispered, Whispered thus unto the housewife: ‘Bring thou salmon for my sister, For my sister so long absent, Thus to still her pangs of hunger.’

“Thereupon the wife obeying, Brought, in envy, only cabbage That the children had been eating, And the house-dogs had been licking, Leavings of the black-dog’s breakfast.

“Then I left my brother’s dwelling, Hastened to the ancient homestead, To my mother’s home deserted; Onward, onward did I wander, Hastened onward by the cold-sea, Dragged my body on in anguish, To the cottage-doors of strangers, To the unfamiliar portals, For the care of the neglected, For the needy of the village, For the children poor and orphaned.

“There are many wicked people, Many slanderers of women, Many women evil-minded, That malign their sex through envy. Many they with lips of evil, That belie the best of maidens, Prove the innocent are guilty Of the worst of misdemeanors, Speak aloud in tones unceasing, Speak, alas! with wicked motives, Spread the follies of their neighbors Through the tongues of self-pollution. Very few, indeed, the people That will feed the poor and hungry, That will bid the stranger welcome; Very few to treat her kindly, Innocent, and lone, and needy, Few to offer her a shelter From the chilling storms of winter, When her skirts with ice are stiffened, Coats of ice her only raiment!

“Never in my days of childhood, Never in my maiden life-time, Never would believe the story, Though a hundred tongues had told it, Though a thousand voices sang it, That such evil things could happen, That such misery could follow, Such misfortune could befall one Who has tried to do her duty, Who has tried to live uprightly, Tried to make her people happy.”

Thus the young bride was instructed, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Thus by Osmotar, the teacher.

RUNE XXIV. THE BRIDE’S FAREWELL.

Osmotar, the bride-instructor, Gives the wedding-guests this counsel, Speaks these measures to the bridegroom: “Ilmarinen, artist-brother, Best of all my hero-brothers, Of my mother’s sons the dearest, Gentlest, truest, bravest, grandest, Listen well to what I tell thee Of the Maiden of the Rainbow, Of thy beauteous life-companion: Bridegroom, praise thy fate hereafter, Praise forever thy good fortune; If thou praisest, praise sincerely, Good the maiden thou hast wedded, Good the bride that Ukko gives thee, Graciously has God bestowed her. Sound her praises to thy father, Praise her virtues to thy mother, Let thy heart rejoice in secret, That thou hast the Bride of Beauty, Lovely Maiden of the Rainbow!

“Brilliant near thee stands the maiden, At thy shoulder thy companion, Happy under thy protection, Beautiful as golden moonlight, Beautiful upon thy bosom, Strong to do thy kindly bidding, Labor with thee as thou wishest, Rake the hay upon thy meadows, Keep thy home in full perfection, Spin for thee the finest linen, Weave for thee the richest fabrics, Make for thee the softest raiment, Make thy weaver’s loom as merry As the cuckoo of the forest; Make the shuttle glide in beauty Like the ermine of the woodlands; Make the spindle twirl as deftly As the squirrel spins the acorn; Village-maidens will not slumber While thy young bride’s loom is humming, While she plies the graceful shuttle.

“Bridegroom of the Bride of Beauty, Noblest of the Northland heroes, Forge thyself a scythe for mowing, Furnish it with oaken handle, Carve it in thine ancient smithy, Hammer it upon thine anvil, Have it ready for the summer, For the merry days of sunshine; Take thy bride then to the lowlands, Mow the grass upon thy meadows, Rake the hay when it is ready, Make the reeds and grasses rustle, Toss the fragrant heads of clover, Make thy hay in Kalevala When the silver sun is shining.

“When the time has come for weaving, To the loom attract the weaver, Give to her the spools and shuttles, Let the willing loom be worthy, Beautiful the frame and settle; Give to her what may be needed, That the weaver’s song may echo, That the lathe may swing and rattle, May be heard within the village, That the aged may remark it, And the village-maidens question: ‘Who is she that now is weaving, What new power now plies the shuttle?’ “Make this answer to the question: ‘It is my beloved weaving, My young bride that plies the shuttle.’

“Shall the weaver’s weft be loosened, Shall the young bride’s loom be tightened? Do not let the weft be loosened, Nor the weaver’s loom be tightened; Such the weaving of the daughters Of the Moon beyond the cloudlets; Such the spinning of the maidens Of the Sun in high Jumala, Of the daughters of the Great Bear, Of the daughters of the Evening.

“Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, Brave descendant of thy fathers, When thou goest on a journey, When thou drivest on the highway, Driving with the Rainbow-daughter, Fairest bride of Sariola, Do not lead her as a titmouse, As a cuckoo of the forest, Into unfrequented places, Into copses of the borders, Into brier-fields and brambles, Into unproductive marshes; Let her wander not, nor stumble On opposing rocks and rubbish. Never in her father’s dwelling, Never in her mother’s court-yard, Has she fallen into ditches, Stumbled hard against the fences, Run through brier-fields, nor brambles, Fallen over rocks, nor rubbish.

“Magic bridegroom of Wainola, Wise descendant of the heroes, Never let thy young wife suffer, Never let her be neglected, Never let her sit in darkness, Never leave her unattended. Never in her father’s mansion, In the chambers of her mother, Has she sat alone in darkness, Has she suffered for attention; Sat she by the crystal window, Sat and rocked, in peace and plenty, Evenings for her father’s pleasure, Mornings for her mother’s sunshine. Never mayest thou, O bridegroom, Lead the Maiden of the Rainbow To the mortar filled with sea-grass, There to grind the bark for cooking, There to bake her bread from stubble, There to knead her dough from tan-bark Never in her father’s dwelling, Never in her mother’s mansion, Was she taken to the mortar, There to bake her bread from sea-grass. Thou shouldst lead the Bride of Beauty To the garner’s rich abundance, There to draw the till of barley, Grind the flour and knead for baking, There to brew the beer for drinking, Wheaten flour for honey-biscuits.

“Hero-bridegroom of Wainola, Never cause thy Bride of Beauty To regret her day of marriage; Never make her shed a tear-drop, Never fill her cup with sorrow. Should there ever come an evening When thy wife shall feel unhappy, Put the harness on thy racer, Hitch the fleet-foot to the snow-sledge, Take her to her father’s dwelling, To the household of her mother; Never in thy hero-lifetime, Never while the moonbeams glimmer, Give thy fair spouse evil treatment, Never treat her as thy servant; Do not bar her from the cellar, Do not lock thy best provisions; Never in her father’s mansion, Never by her faithful mother Was she treated as a hireling.

“Honored bridegroom of the Northland, Proud descendant of the fathers, If thou treatest well thy young wife, Worthily wilt thou be treated; When thou goest to her homestead, When thou visitest her father, Thou shalt meet a cordial welcome.

“Censure not the Bride of Beauty, Never grieve thy Rainbow-maiden, Never say in tones reproachful, She was born in lowly station, That her father was unworthy; Honored are thy bride’s relations, From an old-time tribe, her kindred; When of corn they sowed a measure, Each one’s portion was a kernel; When they sowed a cask of flax-seed, Each received a thread of linen. Never, never, magic husband, Treat thy beauty-bride unkindly, Teach her not with lash of servants, Strike her not with thongs of leather; Never has she wept in anguish From the birch-whip of her mother. Stand before her like a rampart, Be to her a strong protection, Do not let thy mother chide her, Let thy father not upbraid her, Never let thy guests offend her; Should thy servants bring annoyance, They may need the master’s censure; Do not harm the Bride of Beauty, Never injure her thou lovest; Three long years hast thou been wooing, Hoping every mouth to win her.

“Counsel with the bride of heaven, To thy young wife give instruction, Kindly teach thy bride in secret, In the long and dreary evenings, When thou sittest at the fireside; Teach one year, in words of kindness, Teach with eyes of love a second, In the third year teach with firmness. If she should not heed thy teaching, Should not hear thy kindly counsel After three long years of effort, Cut a reed upon the lowlands, Cut a nettle from the border, Teach thy wife with harder measures. In the fourth year, if she heed not, Threaten her with sterner treatment, With the stalks of rougher edges, Use not yet the thongs of leather, Do not touch her with the birch-whip. If she does not heed this warning, Should she pay thee no attention, Cut a rod upon the mountains, Or a willow in the valleys, Hide it underneath thy mantle, That the stranger may not see it, Show it to thy wife in secret, Shame her thus to do her duty, Strike not yet, though disobeying. Should she disregard this warning, Still refuse to heed thy wishes, Then instruct her with the willow, Use the birch-rod from the mountains In the closet of thy dwelling, In the attic of thy mansion; Strike, her not upon the common, Do not conquer her in public, Lest the villagers should see thee, Lest the neighbors hear her weeping, And the forests learn thy troubles. Touch thy wife upon the shoulders, Let her stiffened back be softened. Do not touch her on the forehead, Nor upon the ears, nor visage; If a ridge be on her forehead, Or a blue mark on her eyelids, Then her mother would perceive it, And her father would take notice, All the village-workmen see it, And the village-women ask her ‘Hast thou been in heat of battle, Hast thou struggled in a conflict, Or perchance the wolves have torn thee, Or the forest-bears embraced thee, Or the black-wolf be thy husband, And the bear be thy protector?’”

By the fire-place lay a gray-beard, On the hearth-stone lay a beggar, And the old man spake as follows: “Never, never, hero-husband, Follow thou thy young wife’s wishes, Follow not her inclinations, As, alas! I did, regretful; Bought my bride the bread of barley, Veal, and beer, and best of butter, Fish and fowl of all descriptions, Beer I bought, home-brewed and sparkling, Wheat from all the distant nations, All the dainties of the Northland; All of this was unavailing, Gave my wife no satisfaction, Often came she to my chamber, Tore my sable locks in frenzy, With a visage fierce and frightful, With her eyeballs flashing anger, Scolding on and scolding ever, Ever speaking words of evil, Using epithets the vilest, Thought me but a block for chopping. Then I sought for other measures, Used on her my last resources, Cut a birch-whip in the forest, And she spake in tones endearing; Cut a juniper or willow, And she called me ‘hero-darling’; When with lash my wife I threatened, Hung she on my neck with kisses.”

Thus the bridegroom was instructed, Thus the last advices given.

Then the Maiden of the Rainbow, Beauteous bride of Ilmarinen, Sighing heavily and moaning, Fell to weeping, heavy-hearted, Spake these words from depths of sorrow: “Near, indeed, the separation, Near, alas! the time for parting, Near the time for my departure; O the anguish of the parting, O the pain of separation, From these walls renowned and ancient, From this village of the Northland, From these scenes of peace and plenty, Where my faithful mother taught me, Where my father gave instruction To me in my happy childhood, When my years were few and tender! As a child I did not fancy, Never thought of separation From the confines of this cottage, From these dear old hills and mountains, But, alas! I now must journey, Since I now cannot escape it; Empty is the bowl of parting, All the farewell-beer is taken, And my husband’s sledge is waiting, With the break-board looking southward, Looking from my father’s dwelling.

“How shall I give compensation, How repay, on my departure, All the kindness of my mother, All the counsel of my father, All the friendship of my brother, All my sister’s warm affection? Gratitude to thee, dear father, For my former-life and blessings, For the comforts of thy table, For the pleasures of my childhood! Gratitude to thee, dear mother, For thy tender care and guidance, For my birth and for my culture, Nurtured by thy purest life-blood! Gratitude to thee, dear brother, Gratitude to thee, sweet sister, To the servants of my childhood, To my many friends and playmates!

“Never, never, aged father, Never, thou, beloved mother, Never, ye, my kindred spirits, Never harbor care, nor sorrow, Never fall to bitter weeping, Since thy child has gone to others, To the distant home of strangers, To the meadows of Wainola, From her father’s fields and firesides. Shines the Sun of the Creator, Shines the golden Moon of Ukko, Glitter all the stars of heaven, In the firmament of ether, Full as bright on other homesteads; Not upon my father’s uplands, Not upon my home in childhood, Shines the Star of Joyance only.

“Now the time has come for parting From my father’s golden firesides, From my brother’s welcome hearth-stone, From the chambers of my sister, From my mother’s happy dwelling; Now I leave the swamps and lowlands, Leave the grassy vales and mountains, Leave the crystal lakes and rivers, Leave the shores and sandy shallows, Leave the white-capped surging billows, Where the maidens swim and linger, Where the mermaids sing and frolic; Leave the swamps to those that wander, Leave the corn-fields to the plowman, Leave the forests to the weary, Leave the heather to the rover, Leave the copses to the stranger, Leave the alleys to the beggar, Leave the court-yards to the rambler, Leave the portals to the servant, Leave the matting to the sweeper, Leave the highways to the roebuck, Leave the woodland-glens to lynxes, Leave the lowlands to the wild-geese, And the birch-tree to the cuckoo. Now I leave these friends of childhood, Journey southward with my husband, To the arms of Night and Winter, O’er the ice-grown seas of Northland.

“Should I once again, returning, Pay a visit to my tribe-folk, Mother would not hear me calling, Father would not see me weeping, Calling at my mother’s grave-stone, Weeping o’er my buried father, On their graves the fragrant flowers, Junipers and mournful willows, Verdure from my mother’s tresses, From the gray-beard of my father.

“Should I visit Sariola, Visit once again these borders, No one here would bid me welcome. Nothing in these hills would greet me, Save perchance a few things only, By the fence a clump of osiers, And a land-mark at the corner, Which in early youth I planted, When a child of little stature.

“Mother’s kine perhaps will know me, Which so often I have watered, Which I oft have fed and tended, Lowing now at my departure, In the pasture cold and cheerless; Sure my mother’s kine will welcome Northland’s daughter home returning. Father’s steeds may not forget me, Steeds that I have often ridden, When a maiden free and happy, Neighing now for me departing, In the pasture of my brother, In the stable of my father; Sure my father’s steeds will know me, Bid Pohyola’s daughter welcome. Brother’s faithful dogs may know me, That I oft have fed and petted, Dogs that I have taught to frolic, That now mourn for me departing, In their kennels in the court-yard, In their kennels cold and cheerless; Sure my brother’s dogs will welcome Pohya’s daughter home returning. But the people will not know me, When I come these scenes to visit, Though the fords remain as ever, Though unchanged remain the rivers, Though untouched the flaxen fish-nets On the shores await my coming.

“Fare thou well, my dear old homestead, Fare ye well, my native bowers; It would give me joy unceasing Could I linger here forever. Now farewell, ye halls and portals, Leading to my father’s mansion; It would give me joy unceasing Could I linger here forever. Fare ye well, familiar gardens Filled with trees and fragrant flowers; It would give me joy unceasing, Could I linger here forever. Send to all my farewell greetings, To the fields, and groves, and berries; Greet the meadows with their daisies, Greet the borders with their fences, Greet the lakelets with their islands, Greet the streams with trout disporting, Greet the hills with stately pine-trees, And the valleys with their birches. Fare ye well, ye streams and lakelets, Fertile fields, and shores of ocean, All ye aspens on the mountains, All ye lindens of the valleys, All ye beautiful stone-lindens, All ye shade-trees by the cottage, All ye junipers and willows, All ye shrubs with berries laden, Waving grass and fields of barley, Arms of elms, and oaks, and alders, Fare ye well, dear scenes of childhood, Happiness of days departed!”

Ending thus, Pohyola’s daughter Left her native fields and fallows, Left the darksome Sariola, With her husband, Ilmarinen, Famous son of Kalevala.

But the youth remained for singing, This the chorus of the children: “Hither came a bird of evil, Flew in fleetness from the forest, Came to steal away our virgin, Came to win the Maid of Beauty; Took away our fairest flower, Took our mermaid from the waters, Won her with his youth and beauty, With his keys of ancient wisdom. Who will lead us to the sea-beach, Who conduct us to the rivers? Now the buckets will be idle, On the hooks will rest the fish-poles, Now unswept will lie the matting, And unswept the halls of birch-wood, Copper goblets be unburnished, Dark the handles of the pitchers, Fare thou well, dear Rainbow Maiden.”

Ilmarinen, happy bridegroom, Hastened homeward with the daughter Of the hostess of Pohyola, With the beauty of the Northland; Fleetly flew the hero’s snow-sledge, Loudly creaked, and roared, and rattled Down the banks of Northland waters, By the side of Honey-inlet, On the back of Sandy Mountain. Stones went rolling from the highway, Like the winds the sledge flew onward, On the yoke rang hoops of iron, Loud the spotted wood resounded, Loudly creaked the bands of willow, All the birchen cross-bars trembled, And the copper-bells rang music, In the racing of the fleet-foot, In the courser’s gallop homeward; Journeyed one day, then a second, Journeyed still the third day onward, In one hand the reins of magic, While the other grasped the maiden, One foot resting on the cross-bar, And the other in the fur-robes. Merrily the steed flew homeward, Quickly did the highways shorten, Till at last upon the third day, As the sun was fast declining, There appeared the blacksmith’s furnace, Nearer, Ilmarinen’s dwelling, Smoke arising high in ether, Clouds of smoke to lofty heaven, From the village of Wainola, From the suitor’s forge and smithy, From the chimneys of the hero, From the home of the successful.

BOOK II

RUNE XXV. WAINAMOINEN’S WEDDING-SONGS.

At the home of Ilmarinen Long had they been watching, waiting, For the coming of the blacksmith, With his bride from Sariola. Weary were the eyes of watchers, Waiting from the father’s portals, Looking from the mother’s windows; Weary were the young knees standing At the gates of the magician; Weary grew the feet of children, Tramping to the walls and watching; Worn and torn, the shoes of heroes, Running on the shore to meet him.

Now at last upon a morning Of a lovely day in winter, Heard they from the woods the rumble Of a snow-sledge swiftly bounding. Lakko, hostess of Wainola, She the lovely Kalew-daughter, Spake these words in great excitement: “’Tis the sledge of the magician, Comes at last the metal-worker From the dismal Sariola, By his side the Bride of Beauty! Welcome, welcome, to this hamlet, Welcome to thy mother’s hearth-stone, To the dwelling of thy father, By thine ancestors erected!”

Straightway came great Ilmarinen To his cottage drove the blacksmith, To the fireside of his father, To his mother’s ancient dwelling. Hazel-birds were sweetly singing On the newly-bended collar; Sweetly called the sacred cuckoos From the summit of the break-board; Merry, jumped the graceful squirrel On the oaken shafts and cross-bar.

Lakko, Kalew’s fairest hostess, Beauteous daughter of Wainola, Spake these words of hearty welcome: “For the new moon hopes the village, For the sun, the happy maidens, For the boat, the swelling water; I have not the moon expected, For the sun have not been waiting, I have waited for my hero, Waited for the Bride of Beauty; Watched at morning, watched at evening, Did not know but some misfortune, Some sad fate had overtaken Bride and bridegroom on their journey; Thought the maiden growing weary, Weary of my son’s attentions, Since he faithfully had promised To return to Kalevala, Ere his foot-prints had departed From the snow-fields of his father. Every morn I looked and listened, Constantly I thought and wondered When his sledge would rumble homeward, When it would return triumphant To his home, renowned and ancient. Had a blind and beggared straw-horse Hobbled to these shores awaiting, With a sledge of but two pieces, Well the steed would have been lauded, Had it brought my son beloved, Had it brought the Bride of Beauty. Thus I waited long, impatient, Looking out from morn till even, Watching with my head extended, With my tresses streaming southward, With my eyelids widely opened, Waiting for my son’s returning To this modest home of heroes, To this narrow place of resting. Finally am I rewarded, For the sledge has come triumphant, Bringing home my son and hero, By his side the Rainbow maiden, Red her cheeks, her visage winsome, Pride and joy of Sariola.

“Wizard-bridegroom of Wainola, Take thy courser to the stable, Lead him to the well-filled manger, To the best of grain and clover; Give to us thy friendly greetings, Greetings send to all thy people. When thy greetings thou hast ended, Then relate what has befallen To our hero in his absence. Hast thou gone without adventure To the dark fields of Pohyola, Searching for the Maid of Beauty? Didst thou scale the hostile ramparts, Didst thou take the virgin’s mansion, Passing o’er her mother’s threshold, Visiting the halls of Louhi?

“But I know without the asking, See the answer to my question: Comest from the North a victor, On thy journey well contented; Thou hast brought the Northland daughter, Thou hast razed the hostile portals, Thou hast stormed the forts of Louhi, Stormed the mighty walls opposing, On thy journey to Pohyola, To the village of the father. In thy care the bride is sitting, In thine arms, the Rainbow-maiden, At thy side, the pride of Northland, Mated to the highly-gifted. Who has told the cruel story, Who the worst of news has scattered, That thy suit was unsuccessful, That in vain thy steed had journeyed? Not in vain has been thy wooing, Not in vain thy steed has travelled To the dismal homes of Lapland; He has journeyed heavy laden, Shaken mane, and tail, and forelock, Dripping foam from lips and nostrils, Through the bringing of the maiden, With the burden of the husband.

“Come, thou beauty, from the snow-sledge, Come, descend thou from the cross-bench, Do not linger for assistance, Do not tarry to be carried; If too young the one that lifts thee, If too proud the one in waiting, Rise thou, graceful, like a young bird, Hither glide along the pathway, On the tan-bark scarlet-colored, That the herds of kine have evened, That the gentle lambs have trodden, Smoothened by the tails of horses. Haste thou here with gentle footsteps, Through the pathway smooth and tidy, On the tiles of even surface, On thy second father’s court-yard, To thy second mother’s dwelling, To thy brother’s place of resting, To thy sister’s silent chambers. Place thy foot within these portals, Step across this waiting threshold, Enter thou these halls of joyance, Underneath these painted rafters, Underneath this roof of ages. During all the winter evenings, Through the summer gone forever, Sang the tiling made of ivory, Wishing thou wouldst walk upon it; Often sang the golden ceiling, Hoping thou wouldst walk beneath it, And the windows often whistled, Asking thee to sit beside them; Even on this merry morning, Even on the recent evening, Sat the aged at their windows, On the sea-shore ran the children, Near the walls the maidens waited, Ran the boys upon the highway, There to watch the young bride’s coming, Coming with her hero-husband.

“Hail, ye courtiers of Wainola, With the heroes of the fathers, Hail to thee, Wainola’s hamlet, Hail, ye halls with heroes peopled, Hail, ye rooms with all your inmates, Hail to thee, sweet golden moonlight, Hail to thee, benignant Ukko, Hail companions of the bridegroom! Never has there been in Northland Such a wedding-train of honor, Never such a bride of beauty.

“Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, Now untie the scarlet ribbons, And remove the silken muffler, Let us see the honey-maiden, See the Daughter of the Rainbow. Seven years hast thou been wooing, Hast thou brought the maid affianced, Hast thou sought a sweeter cuckoo, Sought one fairer than the moonlight, Sought a mermaid from the ocean? But I know without the asking, See the answer to my question: Thou hast brought the sweet-voiced cuckoo, Thou hast found the swan of beauty, Plucked the sweetest flower of Northland, Culled the fairest of the jewels, Gathered Pohya’s sweetest berry!”

Sat a babe upon the matting, And the young child spake as follows: “Brother, what is this thou bringest, Aspen-log or trunk of willow, Slender as the mountain-linden? Bridegroom, well dost thou remember, Thou hast hoped it all thy life-time, Hoped to bring the Maid of Beauty, Thou a thousand times hast said it, Better far than any other, Not one like the croaking raven, Nor the magpie from the border, Nor the scarecrow from the corn-fields, Nor the vulture from the desert. What has this one done of credit, In the summer that has ended? Where the gloves that she has knitted, Where the mittens she has woven? Thou hast brought her empty-handed, Not a gift she brings thy father; In thy chests the mice are nesting, Long-tails feeding on thy vestments, And thy bride cannot repair them.”

Lakko, hostess of Wainola, She the faithful Kalew-daughter, Hears the young child’s speech in wonder, Speaks these words of disapproval: “Silly prattler, cease thy talking, Thou hast spoken in dishonor; Let all others be astonished, Heap thy malice on thy kindred, must not harm the Bride of Beauty, Rainbow-daughter of the Northland. False indeed is this thy prattle, All thy words are full of evil, Fallen from thy tongue of mischief, From the lips of one unworthy. Excellent the hero’s young bride, Best of all in Sariola, Like the strawberry in summer, Like the daisy from the meadow, Like the cuckoo from the forest, Like the bluebird from the aspen, Like the redbreast from the heather, Like the martin from the linden; Never couldst thou find in Ehstland Such a virgin as this daughter, Such a graceful beauteous maiden, With such dignity of carriage, With such arms of pearly whiteness, With a neck so fair and lovely. Neither is she empty-handed, She has brought us furs abundant, Brought us many silken garments, Richest weavings of Pohyola. Many beauteous things the maiden, With the spindle has accomplished, Spun and woven with her fingers; Dresses of the finest texture She in winter has upfolded, Bleached them in the days of spring-time, Dried them at the hour of noon-day, For our couches finest linen, For our heads the softest pillows, For our comfort woollen blankets, For our necks the silken ribbons.” To the bride speaks gracious Lakko: “Goodly wife, thou Maid of Beauty, Highly wert thou praised as daughter, In thy father’s distant country; Here thou shalt be praised forever By the kindred of thy husband; Thou shalt never suffer sorrow, Never give thy heart to grieving; In the swamps thou wert not nurtured, Wert not fed beside the brooklets; Thou wert born ’neath stars auspicious, Nurtured from the richest garners, Thou wert taken to the brewing Of the sweetest beer in Northland.

“Beauteous bride from Sariola, Shouldst thou see me bringing hither Casks of corn, or wheat, or barley, Bringing rye in great abundance, They belong to this thy household; Good the plowing of thy husband, Good his sowing and his reaping.

“Bride of Beauty from the Northland, Thou wilt learn this home to manage, Learn to labor with thy kindred; Good the home for thee to dwell in, Good enough for bride and daughter. At thy hand will rest the milk-pail, And the churn awaits thine order; It is well here for the maiden, Happy will the young bride labor, Easy are the resting-benches; Here the host is like thy father, Like thy mother is the hostess, All the sons are like thy brothers, Like thy sisters are the daughters.

“Shouldst thou ever have a longing For the whiting of the ocean, For thy father’s Northland salmon, For thy brother’s hazel-chickens, Ask them only of thy husband, Let thy hero-husband bring them. There is not in all of Northland, Not a creature of the forest, Not a bird beneath the ether, Not a fish within the waters, Not the largest, nor the smallest, That thy husband cannot capture. It is well here for the maiden, Here the bride may live in freedom, Need not turn the heavy millstone, Need not move the iron pestle; Here the wheat is ground by water, For the rye, the swifter current, While the billows wash the vessels And the surging waters rinse them. Thou hast here a lovely village, Finest spot in all of Northland, In the lowlands sweet the verdure, In the uplands, fields of beauty, With the lake-shore near the hamlet, Near thy home the running water, Where the goslings swim and frolic, Water-birds disport in numbers.”

Thereupon the bride and bridegroom Were refreshed with richest viands, Given food and drink abundant, Fed on choicest bits of reindeer, On the sweetest loaves of barley, On the best of wheaten biscuits, On the richest beer of Northland. Many things were on the table, Many dainties of Wainola, In the bowls of scarlet color, In the platters deftly painted, Many cakes with honey sweetened, To each guest was butter given, Many bits of trout and whiting, Larger salmon carved in slices, With the knives of molten silver, Rimmed with gold the silver handles, Beer of barley ceaseless flowing, Honey-drink that was not purchased, In the cellar flows profusely, Beer for all, the tongues to quicken, Mead and beer the minds to freshen. Who is there to lead the singing, Lead the songs of Kalevala?

Wainamoinen, old and truthful, The eternal, wise enchanter, Quick begins his incantations, Straightway sings the songs that follow. “Golden brethren, dearest kindred, Ye, my loved ones, wise and worthy Ye companions, highly-gifted, Listen to my simple sayings: Rarely stand the geese together, Sisters do not mate each other, Not together stand the brothers, Nor the children of one mother, In the countries of the Northland.

“Shall we now begin the singing, Sing the songs of old tradition? Singers can but sing their wisdom, And the cuckoo call the spring-time, And the goddess of the heavens Only dyes the earth in beauty; So the goddesses of weaving Can but weave from dawn till twilight, Ever sing the youth of Lapland In their straw-shoes full of gladness, When the coarse-meat of the roebuck, Or of blue-moose they have eaten. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children not be chanting Of the biscuits of Wainola, Of the bread of Kalew-waters? Even sing the lads of Lapland In their straw-shoes filled with joyance, Drinking but a cup of water, Eating but the bitter tan-bark. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children not be chanting Of the beer of Kalevala, Brewed from barley in perfection, Dressed in quaint and homely costume, As they sit beside their hearth-stones. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children too be chanting Underneath these painted rafters, In these halls renowned and ancient? This the place for men to linger, This the court-room for the maidens, Near the foaming beer of barley, Honey-brewed in great abundance, Very near, the salmon-waters, Near, the nets for trout and whiting, Here where food is never wanting, Where the beer is ever brewing. Here Wainola’s sons assemble, Here Wainola’s daughters gather, Here they never eat in trouble, Here they live without regretting, In the life-time of the landlord, While the hostess lives and prospers.

“Who shall first be sung and lauded? Shall it be the bride or bridegroom? Let us praise the bridegroom’s father, Let the hero-host be chanted, Him whose home is in the forest, Him who built upon the mountains, Him who brought the trunks of lindens, With their tops and slender branches, Brought them to the best of places, Joined them skilfully together, For the mansion of the nation, For this famous hero-dwelling, Walls procured upon the lowlands, Rafters from the pine and fir-tree, From the woodlands beams of oak-wood, From the berry-plains the studding, Bark was furnished by the aspen, And the mosses from the fenlands. Trimly builded is this mansion, In a haven warmly sheltered; Here a hundred men have labored, On the roof have stood a thousand, As this spacious house was building, As this roof was tightly jointed. Here the ancient mansion-builder, When these rafters were erected, Lost in storms his locks of sable, Scattered by the winds of heaven. Often has the hero-landlord On the rocks his gloves forgotten, Left his hat upon the willows, Lost his mittens in the marshes; Oftentimes the mansion-builder, In the early hours of morning, Ere his workmen had awakened, Unperceived by all the village, Has arisen from his slumber, Left his cabin the snow-fields, Combed his locks among the branches, Bathed his eyes in dews of morning.

“Thus obtained the pleasant landlord Friends to fill his spacious dwelling, Fill his benches with magicians, Fill his windows with enchanters, Fill his halls with wizard-singers, Fill his floors with ancient speakers, Fill his ancient court with strangers, Fill his hurdles with the needy; Thus the Kalew-host is lauded.

“Now I praise the genial hostess, Who prepares the toothsome dinner, Fills with plenty all her tables, Bakes the honeyed loaves of barley, Kneads the dough with magic fingers, With her arms of strength and beauty, Bakes her bread in copper ovens, Feeds her guests and bids them welcome, Feeds them on the toothsome bacon, On the trout, and pike, and whiting, On the rarest fish in ocean, On the dainties of Wainola.

“Often has the faithful hostess Risen from her couch in silence, Ere the crowing of the watcher, To prepare the wedding-banquet, Make her tables look attractive, Brew the honey-beer of wedlock. Excellently has the housewife, Has the hostess filled with wisdom, Brewed the beer from hops and barley, From the corn of Kalevala, From the wheat-malt honey-seasoned, Stirred the beer with graceful fingers, At the oven in the penthouse, In the chamber swept and polished. Neither did the prudent hostess, Beautiful, and full of wisdom, Let the barley sprout too freely, Lest the beer should taste of black-earth, Be too bitter in the brewing; Often went she to the garners, Went alone at hour of midnight, Was not frightened by the black-wolf, Did not fear the beasts of woodlands.