Kalevala : the Epic Poem of Finland — Complete. Anonymous

of Ilmarinen,

       From the sword of Kaukomieli,

       From the bow of Youkahainen,

       From the pastures of the Northland,

       From the meads of Kalevala.

       These my dear old father sang me

       When at work with knife and hatchet

       These my tender mother taught me

       When she twirled the flying spindle,

       When a child upon the matting

       By her feet I rolled and tumbled.

       Incantations were not wanting

       Over Sampo and o'er Louhi,

       Sampo growing old in singing,

       Louhi ceasing her enchantment.

       In the songs died wise Wipunen,

       At the games died Lemminkainen.

       There are many other legends,

       Incantations that were taught me,

       That I found along the wayside,

       Gathered in the fragrant copses,

       Blown me from the forest branches,

       Culled among the plumes of pine-trees,

       Scented from the vines and flowers,

       Whispered to me as I followed

       Flocks in land of honeyed meadows,

       Over hillocks green and golden,

       After sable-haired Murikki,

       And the many-colored Kimmo.

       Many runes the cold has told me,

       Many lays the rain has brought me,

       Other songs the winds have sung me;

       Many birds from many forests,

       Oft have sung me lays n concord

       Waves of sea, and ocean billows,

       Music from the many waters,

       Music from the whole creation,

       Oft have been my guide and master.

       Sentences the trees created,

       Rolled together into bundles,

       Moved them to my ancient dwelling,

       On the sledges to my cottage,

       Tied them to my garret rafters,

       Hung them on my dwelling-portals,

       Laid them in a chest of boxes,

       Boxes lined with shining copper.

       Long they lay within my dwelling

       Through the chilling winds of winter,

       In my dwelling-place for ages.

       Shall I bring these songs together

       From the cold and frost collect them?

       Shall I bring this nest of boxes,

       Keepers of these golden legends,

       To the table in my cabin,

       Underneath the painted rafters,

       In this house renowned and ancient?

       Shall I now these boxes open,

       Boxes filled with wondrous stories?

       Shall I now the end unfasten

       Of this ball of ancient wisdom,

       These ancestral lays unravel?

       Let me sing an old-time legend,

       That shall echo forth the praises

       Of the beer that I have tasted,

       Of the sparkling beer of barley.

       Bring to me a foaming goblet

       Of the barley of my fathers,

       Lest my singing grow too weary,

       Singing from the water only.

       Bring me too a cup of strong-beer,

       It will add to our enchantment,

       To the pleasure of the evening,

       Northland's long and dreary evening,

       For the beauty of the day-dawn,

       For the pleasure of the morning,

       The beginning of the new-day.

       Often I have heard them chanting,

       Often I have heard them singing,

       That the nights come to us singly,

       That the Moon beams on us singly,

       That the Sun shines on us singly;

       Singly also, Wainamoinen,

       The renowned and wise enchanter,

       Born from everlasting Ether

       Of his mother, Ether's daughter.

RUNE I.

       Table of Contents

BIRTH OF WAINAMOINEN.

       Table of Contents

      In primeval times, a maiden,

       Beauteous Daughter of the Ether,

       Passed for ages her existence

       In the great expanse of heaven,

       O'er the prairies yet enfolded.

       Wearisome the maiden growing,

       Her existence sad and hopeless,

       Thus alone to live for ages

       In the infinite expanses

       Of the air above the sea-foam,

       In the far outstretching spaces,

       In a solitude of ether,

       She descended to the ocean,

       Waves her coach, and waves her pillow.

       Thereupon the rising storm-wind

       Flying from the East in fierceness,

       Whips the ocean into surges,

       Strikes the stars with sprays of ocean

       Till the waves are white with fervor.

       To and fro they toss the maiden,

       Storm-encircled, hapless maiden;

       With her sport the rolling billows,

       With her play the storm-wind forces,

       On the blue back of the waters;

       On the white-wreathed waves of ocean,

       Play the forces of the salt-sea,

       With the lone and helpless maiden;

       Till at last in full conception,

       Union now of force and beauty,

       Sink the storm-winds into slumber;

       Overburdened now the maiden

       Cannot rise above the surface;

       Seven hundred years she wandered,

       Ages nine of man's existence,

       Swam the ocean hither, thither,

       Could not rise above the waters,

       Conscious only of her travail;

       Seven hundred years she labored

       Ere her first-born was delivered.

       Thus she swam as water-mother,