Kalevala : the Epic Poem of Finland — Complete. Anonymous

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 be 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.

       Table of Contents

ORIGIN OF IRON.

       Table of Contents

      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;

       f can tell bow steel is fashioned.