Kalevala : the Epic Poem of Finland — Complete. Anonymous

Sampsa, in his childhood.

       Soon the fertile seeds were sprouting,

       Soon the forest trees were growing,

       Soon appeared the tops of fir-trees,

       And the pines were far outspreading;

       Birches rose from all the marshes,

       In the loose soil grew the alders,

       In the mellow soil the lindens;

       Junipers were also growing,

       Junipers with clustered berries,

       Berries on the hawthorn branches.

       Now the hero, Wainamoinen,

       Stands aloft to look about him,

       How the Sampsa-seeds are growing,

       How the crop of Pellerwoinen;

       Sees the young trees thickly spreading,

       Sees the forest rise in beauty;

       But the oak-tree has not sprouted,

       Tree of heaven is not growing,

       Still within the acorn sleeping,

       Its own happiness enjoying.

       Then he waited three nights longer,

       And as many days he waited,

       Waited till a week had vanished,

       Then again the work examined;

       But the oak-tree was not growing,

       Had not left her acorn-dwelling.

       Wainamoinen, ancient hero,

       Spies four maidens in the distance,

       Water-brides, he spies a fifth-one,

       On the soft and sandy sea-shore,

       In the dewy grass and flowers,

       On a point extending seaward,

       Near the forests of the island.

       Some were mowing, some were raking,

       Raking what was mown together,

       In a windrow on the meadow.

       From the ocean rose a giant,

       Mighty Tursas, tall and hardy,

       Pressed compactly all the grasses,

       That the maidens had been raking,

       When a fire within them kindles,

       And the flames shot up to heaven,

       Till the windrows burned to ashes,

       Only ashes now remaining

       Of the grasses raked together.

       In the ashes of the windrows,

       Tender leaves the giant places,

       In the leaves he plants an acorn,

       From the acorn, quickly sprouting,

       Grows the oak-tree, tall and stately,

       From the ground enriched by ashes,

       Newly raked by water-maidens;

       Spread the oak-tree's many branches,

       Rounds itself a broad corona,

       Raises it above the storm-clouds;

       Far it stretches out its branches,

       Stops the white-clouds in their courses,

       With its branches hides the sunlight,

       With its many leaves, the moonbeams,

       And the starlight dies in heaven.

       Wainamoinen, old and trusty,

       Thought awhile, and well considered,

       How to kill the mighty oak-tree,

       First created for his pleasure,

       How to fell the tree majestic,

       How to lop its hundred branches.

       Sad the lives of man and hero,

       Sad the homes of ocean-dwellers,

       If the sun shines not upon them,

       If the moonlight does not cheer them

       Is there not some mighty hero,

       Was there never born a giant,

       That can fell the mighty oak-tree,

       That can lop its hundred branches?

       Wainamoinen, deeply thinking,

       Spake these words soliloquizing:

       "Kape, daughter of the Ether,

       Ancient mother of my being,

       Luonnotar, my nurse and helper,

       Loan to me the water-forces,

       Great the powers of the waters;

       Loan to me the strength of oceans,

       To upset this mighty oak-tree,

       To uproot this tree of evil,

       That again may shine the sunlight,

       That the moon once more may glimmer."

       Straightway rose a form from oceans,

       Rose a hero from the waters,

       Nor belonged he to the largest,

       Nor belonged he to the smallest,

       Long was he as man's forefinger,

       Taller than the hand of woman;

       On his head a cap of copper,

       Boots upon his feet were copper,

       Gloves upon his hands were copper,

       And its stripes were copper-colored,

       Belt around him made of copper,

       Hatchet in his belt was copper;

       And the handle of his hatchet

       Was as long as hand of woman,

       Of a finger's breadth the blade was.

       Then the trusty Wainamoinen

       Thought awhile and well considered,

       And his measures are as follow:

       "Art thou, sir, divine or human?

       Which of these thou only knowest;

       Tell me what thy name and station.

       Very like a man thou lookest,

       Hast the bearing of a hero,

       Though the length of man's first finger,

       Scarce as tall as hoof of reindeer."

       Then again spake Wainamoinen

       To the form from out the ocean:

       "Verily I think thee human,

       Of the race of pigmy-heroes,

       Might as well be dead or dying,

       Fit for nothing but to perish."

       Answered thus the pigmy-hero,

       Spake the small one from the ocean

       To the valiant Wainamoinen

       "Truly am I god and hero,

       From the tribes that rule the ocean;

       Come I here to fell the oak-tree,

       Lop its branches with my hatchet."

       Wainamoinen, old and trusty,

       Answers thus the sea-born hero:

       "Never hast thou force sufficient,

       Not to thee has strength been given,

       To uproot this mighty oak-tree,

       To upset this thing of evil,

       Nor to lop its hundred branches."

       Scarcely