Kitabı oku: «Kalevala : the Epic Poem of Finland – Volume 02», sayfa 14

RUNE XLIX
RESTORATION OF THE SUN AND MOON

 
  Thus has Fire returned to Northland
  But the gold Moon is not shining,
  Neither gleams the silver sunlight
  In the chambers of Wainola,
  On the plains of Kalevala.
  On the crops the white-frost settled,
  And the cattle died of hunger,
  Even birds grew sick and perished.
  Men and maidens, faint and famished,
  Perished in the cold and darkness,
  From the absence of the sunshine,
  From the absence of the moonlight.
  Knew the pike his holes and hollows,
  And the eagle knew his highway,
  Knew the winds the times for sailing;
  But the wise men of the Northland
  Could not know the dawn of morning,
  On the fog-point in the ocean,
  On the islands forest-covered.
  Young and aged talked and wondered,
  Well reflected, long debated,
  How to live without the moonlight,
  Live without the silver sunshine,
  In the cold and cheerless Northland,
  In the homes of Kalevala.
  Long conjectured all the maidens,
  Orphans asked the wise for counsel.
  Spake a maid to Ilmarinen,
  Running to the blacksmith's furnace:
  "Rise, O artist, from thy slumbers,
  Hasten from thy couch unworthy;
  Forge from gold the Moon for Northland,
  Forge anew the Sun from silver
  Cannot live without the moonlight,
  Nor without the silver sunshine!"
  From his couch arose the artist,
  From his couch of stone, the blacksmith,
  And began his work of forging,
  Forging Sun and Moon for Northland.
  Came the ancient Wainamoinen,
  In the doorway sat and lingered,
  Spake, these Words to Ilmarinen:
  "Blacksmith, my beloved brother,
  Thou the only metal-worker,
  Tell me why thy magic hammer
  Falls so heavy on thine anvil?"
  Spake the youthful Ilmarinen:
  "Moon of gold and Sun of silver,
  I am forging for Wainola;
  I shall swing them into ether,
  Plant them in the starry heavens."
  Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen:
  "Senseless blacksmith of the ages,
  Vainly dost thou swing thy hammer,
  Vainly rings thy mighty anvil;
  Silver will not gleam as sunshine,
  Not of gold is born the moonlight!"
  Ilmarinen, little heeding,
  Ceases not to ply his hammer,
  Sun and Moon the artist forges,
  Wings the Moon of Magic upward,
  Hurls it to the pine-tree branches;
  Does not shine without her master.
  Then the silver Sun he stations
  In an elm-tree on the mountain.
  From his forehead drip the sweat-drops,
  Perspiration from his fingers,
  Through his labors at the anvil
  While the Sun and Moon were forging;
  But the Sun shone not at morning
  From his station in the elm-tree;
  And the Moon shone not at evening
  From the pine-tree's topmost branches.
  Spake the ancient Wainamoinen:
  "Let the Fates be now consulted,
  And the oracles examined;
  Only thus may we discover
  Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden."
  Thereupon old Wainamoinen,
  Only wise and true magician,
  Cut three chips from trunks of alder,
  Laid the chips in magic order,
  Touched and turned them with his fingers,
  Spake these words of master-magic:
  "Of my Maker seek I knowledge,
  Ask in hope and faith the answer
  From the great magician, Ukko:
  Tongue of alder, tell me truly,
  Symbol of the great Creator,
  Where the Sun and Moon are sleeping;
  For the Moon shines not in season,
  Nor appears the Sun at midday,
  From their stations in the sky-vault.
  Speak the truth, O magic alder,
  Speak not words of man, nor hero,
  Hither bring but truthful measures.
  Let us form a sacred compact:
  If thou speakest me a falsehood,
  I will hurl thee to Manala,
  Let the nether fires consume thee,
  That thine evil signs may perish."
  Thereupon the alder answered,
  Spake these words of truthful import:
  "Verily the Sun lies hidden
  And the golden Moon is sleeping
  In the stone-berg of Pohyola,
  In the copper-bearing mountain."
  These the words of Wainamoinen:
  "I shall go at once to Northland,
  To the cold and dark Pohyola,
  Bring the Sun and Moon to gladden
  All Wainola's fields and forests."
  Forth he hastens on his journey,
  To the dismal Sariola,
  To the Northland cold and dreary;
  Travels one day, then a second,
  So the third from morn till evening,
  When appear the gates of Pohya,
  With her snow-clad hills and mountains.
  Wainamoinen, the magician,
  At the river of Pohyola,
  Loudly calls the ferry-maiden:
  Bring a boat, O Pohya-daughter,
  Bring a strong and trusty vessel,
  Row me o'er these chilling waters,
  O'er this rough and rapid river!"
  But the Ferry-maiden heard not,
  Did not listen to his calling.
  Thereupon old Wainamoinen,
  Laid a pile of well-dried brush-wood,
  Knots and needles of the fir-tree,
  Made a fire beside the river,
  Sent the black smoke into heaven
  Curling to the home of Ukko.
  Louhi, hostess of the Northland,
  Hastened to her chamber window,
  Looked upon the bay and river,
  Spake these words to her attendants:
  "Why the fire across the river
  Where the current meets the deep-sea,
  Smaller than the fires of foemen,
  Larger than the flames of hunters?"
  Thereupon a Pohyalander
  Hastened from the court of Louhi
  That the cause he might discover,'
  Bring the sought-for information
  To the hostess of Pohyola;
  Saw upon the river-border
  Some great hero from Wainola.
  Wainamoinen saw the stranger,
  Called again in tones of thunder:
  "Bring a skiff; thou son of Northland,
  For the minstrel, Wainamoinen!
  Thus the Pohyalander answered:
  "Here no skiffs are lying idle,
  Row thyself across the waters,
  Use thine arms, and feet, and fingers,
  To propel thee o'er the river,
  O'er the sacred stream of Pohya."
  Wainamoinen, long reflecting,
  Bravely thus soliloquizes:
  "I will change my form and features,
  Will assume a second body,
  Neither man, nor ancient minstrel,
  Master of the Northland waters!"
  Then the singer, Wainamoinen,
  Leaped, a pike, upon the waters,
  Quickly swam the rapid river,
  Gained the frigid Pohya-border.
  There his native form resuming,
  Walked he as a mighty hero,
  On the dismal isle of Louhi,
  Spake the wicked sons of Northland:
  Come thou to Pohyola's court-room."
  To Pohyola's, court he hastened.
  Spake again the sons of evil:
  Come thou to the halls of Louhi!"
  To Pohyola's halls he hastened.
  On the latch he laid his fingers,
  Set his foot within the fore-hall,
  Hastened to the inner chamber,
  Underneath the painted rafters,
  Where the Northland-heroes gather.
  There he found the Pohya-masters
  Girded with their swords of battle,
  With their spears and battle-axes,
  With their fatal bows and arrows,
  For the death of Wainamoinen,
  Ancient bard, Suwantolainen.
  Thus they asked the hero-stranger.
  "Magic swimmer of the Northland,
  Son of evil, what the message
  That thou bringest from thy people,
  What thy mission to Pohyola?"
  Wainamoinen, old and truthful,
  Thus addressed the hosts of Louhi:
  "For the Sun I come to Northland,
  Come to seek the Moon in Pohya;
  Tell me where the Sun lies hidden,
  Where the golden Moon is sleeping."
  Spake the evil sons of Pohya:
  "Both the Sun and Moon are hidden
  In the rock of many colors,
  In the copper-bearing mountain,
  In a cavern iron-banded,
  In the stone-berg of Pohyola,
  Nevermore to gain their freedom,
  Nevermore to shine in Northland!"
  Spake the hero, Wainamoinen:
  "If the Sun be not uncovered,
  If the Moon leave not her dungeon,
  I will challenge all Pohyola
  To the test of spear or broadsword,
  Let us now our weapons measure!"
  Quick the hero of Wainola
  Drew his mighty sword of magic;
  On its border shone the moonlight,
  On its hilt the Sun was shining,
  On its back, a neighing stallion,
  On its face a cat was mewing,
  Beautiful his magic weapon.
  Quick the hero-swords are tested,
  And the blades are rightly measured
  Wainamoinen's sword is longest
  By a single grain of barley,
  By a blade of straw, the widest.
  To the court-yard rushed the heroes,
  Hastened to the deadly combat,
  On the plains of Sariola.
  Wainamoinen, the magician,
  Strikes one blow, and then a second,
  Strikes a third time, cuts and conquers.
  As the house-maids slice the turnips,
  As they lop the heads of cabbage,
  As the stalks of flax are broken,
  So the heads of Louhi's heroes
  Fall before the magic broadsword
  Of the ancient Wainamoinen.
  Then victor from Wainola,
  Ancient bard and great magician,
  Went to find the Sun in slumber,
  And the golden Moon discover,
  In, the copper-bearing Mountains,
  In the cavern iron-banded,
  In the stone-berg of Pohyola.
  He had gone but little distance,
  When he found a sea-green island;
  On the island stood a birch-tree,
  Near the birch-tree stood a pillar
  Carved in stone of many colors;
  In the pillar, nine large portals
  Bolted in a hundred places;
  In the rock he found a crevice
  Sending forth a gleam of sunlight.
  Quick he drew his mighty broadsword,
  From the pillar struck three colors,
  From the magic of his weapon;
  And the pillar fell asunder,
  Three the number of the fragments.
  Wainamoinen, old and faithful,
  Through the crevice looked and wondered.
  In the center of the pillar,
  From a scarlet-colored basin,
  Noxious serpents beer were drinking,
  And the adders eating spices.
  Spake the ancient Wainamoinen:
  "Therefore has Pohyola's hostess
  Little drink to give to strangers,
  Since her beer is drank by serpents,
  And her spices given to adders."
  Quick he draws his magic fire-blade,
  Cuts the vipers green in pieces,
  Lops the heads off all the adders,
  Speaks these words of master-magic:
  Thus, hereafter, let the serpent
  Drink the famous beer of barley,
  Feed upon the Northland-spices!"
  Wainamoinen, the magician,
  The eternal wizard-singer,
  Sought to open wide the portals
  With the hands and words of magic;
  But his hands had lost their cunning,
  And his magic gone to others.
  Thereupon the ancient minstrel
  Quick returning, heavy-hearted,
  To his native halls and hamlets,
  Thus addressed his brother-heroes:
  "Woman, he without his weapons,
  With no implements, a weakling!
  Sun and Moon have I discovered,
  But I could not force the Portals
  Leading to their rocky cavern
  In the copper bearing mountain.
  Spake the reckless Lemminkainen
  "O thou ancient Wainamoinen,
  Why was I not taken with thee
  To become, thy war-companion?
  Would have been of goodly service,
  Would have drawn the bolts or broken,
  All the portals to the cavern,
  Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden
  In the copper-bearing mountain!"
  Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
  Thus replied to Lemminkainen:
  "Empty Words will break no portals,
  Draw no bolts of any moment;
  Locks and bolts are never broken.
  With the words of little wisdom!
  Greater means than thou commandest
  Must be used to free the sunshine,
  Free the moonlight from her dungeon."
  Wainamoinen, not discouraged,
  Hastened to the forge and smithy,
  Spake these words to Ilmarinen:
  "O thou famous metal-artist,
  Forge for me a magic trident,
  Forge from steel a dozen stout-rings,
  Master-keys, a goodly number,
  Iron bars and heavy hammers,
  That the Sun we may uncover
  In the copper-bearing mountain,
  In the stone-berg of Pohyola."
  Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
  The eternal metal-worker,
  Forged the needs of Wainamoinen,
  Forged for him the magic trident,
  Forged from steel a dozen stout-rings,
  Master-keys a goodly number,
  Iron bars and heavy hammers,
  Not the largest, nor the smallest,
  Forged them of the right dimensions.
  Louhi, hostess of Pohyola,
  Northland's old and toothless wizard,
  Fastened wings upon her shoulders,
  As an eagle, sailed the heavens,
  Over field, and fen, and forest,
  Over Pohya's many, waters,
  To the hamlets of Wainola,
  To the forge of Ilmarinen.
  Quick the famous metal-worker
  Went to see if winds were blowing;
  Found the winds at peace and silent,
  Found an eagle, sable-colored,
  Perched upon his window-casement.
  Spake the artist, Ilmarinen:
  "Magic bird, whom art thou seeking,
  Why art sitting at my window?"
  This the answer of the eagle:
  "Art thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
  The eternal iron-forger,
  Master of the magic metals,
  Northland's wonder-working artist?"
  Ilmarinen gave this answer:
  "There is nothing here of wonder,
  Since I forged the dome of heaven,
  Forged the earth a concave cover!"
  Spake again the magic eagle:
  Why this ringing of thine anvil,
  Why this knocking of thy hammer,
  Tell me what thy hands are forging?"
  This the answer of the blacksmith:
  "'Tis a collar I am forging
  For the neck of wicked Louhi,
  Toothless witch of Sariola,
  Stealer of the silver sunshine,
  Stealer of the golden moonlight;
  With this collar I shall bind her
  To the iron-rock of Ehstland!"
  Louhi, hostess of Pohyola,
  Saw misfortune fast approaching,
  Saw destruction flying over,
  Saw the signs of bad-luck lower;
  Quickly winged her way through ether
  To her native halls and chambers,
  To the darksome Sariola,
  There unlocked the massive portals
  Where the Sun and Moon were hidden,
  In the rock of many colors,
  In the cavern iron-banded,
  In the copper-bearing mountain.
  Then again the wicked Louhi
  Changed her withered form and features,
  And became a dove of good-luck;
  Straightway winged the starry heavens,
  Over field, and fen, and forest,
  To the meadows of Wainola,
  To the plains of Kalevala,
  To the forge of Ilmarinen.
  This the question of the blacksmith
  "Wherefore comest, dove of good-luck,
  What the tidings that thou bringest?"
  Thus the magic bird made answer:
  "Wherefore come I to thy smithy?
  Come to bring the joyful tidings
  That the Sun has left his cavern,
  Left the rock of many colors,
  Left the stone-berg of Pohyola;
  That the Moon no more is hidden
  In the copper-bearing mountains,
  In the caverns iron-banded."
  Straightway hastened Ilmarinen
  To the threshold of his smithy,
  Quickly scanned the far horizon,
  Saw again the silver sunshine,
  Saw once more the golden moonlight,
  Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty,
  To the homes of Kalevala.
  Thereupon the blacksmith hastened
  To his brother, Wainamoinen,
  Spake these words to the magician:
  "O thou ancient bard and minstrel,
  The eternal wizard-singer
  See, the Sun again is shining,
  And the golden Moon is beaming
  From their long-neglected places,
  From their stations in the sky-vault!"
  Wainamoinen, old and faithful,
  Straightway hastened to the court-yard,
  Looked upon the far horizon,
  Saw once more the silver sunshine,
  Saw again the golden moonlight,
  Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty,
  To the people of the Northland,
  And the minstrel spake these measures:
  "Greetings to thee, Sun of fortune,
  Greetings to thee, Moon of good-luck,
  Welcome sunshine, welcome moonlight,
  Golden is the dawn of morning!
  Free art thou, O Sun of silver,
  Free again, O Moon beloved,
  As the sacred cuckoo's singing,
  As the ring-dove's liquid cooings.
  "Rise, thou silver Sun, each Morning,
  Source of light and life hereafter,
  Bring us, daily, joyful greetings,
  Fill our homes with peace and plenty,
  That our sowing, fishing, hunting,
  May be prospered by thy coming.
  Travel on thy daily journey,
  Let the Moon be ever with thee;
  Glide along thy way rejoicing,
  End thy journeyings in slumber;
  Rest at evening in the ocean,
  When the daily cares have ended,
  To the good of all thy people,
  To the pleasure Of Wainoloa,
  To the joy of Kalevala!"
 

RUNE L
MARIATTA—WAINAMOINEN'S DEPARTURE

 
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Grew to maidenhood in Northland,
  In the cabin of her father,
  In the chambers of her mother,
  Golden ringlets, silver girdles,
  Worn against the keys paternal,
  Glittering upon her bosom;
  Wore away the father's threshold
  With the long robes of her garments;
  Wore away the painted rafters
  With her beauteous silken ribbons;
  Wore away the gilded pillars
  With the touching of her fingers;
  Wore away the birchen flooring
  With the tramping of her fur-shoes.
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Magic maid of little stature,
  Guarded well her sacred virtue,
  Her sincerity and honor,
  Fed upon the dainty whiting,
  On the inner bark of birch-wood,
  On the tender flesh of lambkins.
  When she hastened in the evening
  To her milking in the hurdles,
  Spake in innocence as follows:
  "Never will the snow-white virgin
  Milk the kine of one unworthy!"
  When she journeyed over snow-fields,
  On the seat beside her father,
  Spake in purity as follows:
  "Not behind a steed unworthy
  Will I ever ride the snow-sledge!"
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Lived a virgin with her mother,
  As a maiden highly honored,
  Lived in innocence and beauty,
  Daily drove her flocks to pasture,
  Walking with the gentle lambkins.
  When the lambkins climbed the mountains,
  When they gamboled on the hill-tops,
  Stepped the virgin to the meadow,
  Skipping through a grove of lindens,
  At the calling of the cuckoo,
  To the songster's golden measures.
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Looked about, intently listened,
  Sat upon the berry-meadow
  Sat awhile, and meditated
  On a hillock by the forest,
  And soliloquized as follows:
  "Call to me, thou golden cuckoo,
  Sing, thou sacred bird of Northland,
  Sing, thou silver breasted songster,
  Speak, thou strawberry of Ehstland,
  Tell bow long must I unmarried,
  As a shepherdess neglected,
  Wander o'er these bills and mountains,
  Through these flowery fens and fallows.
  Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands,
  Sing to me how many summers
  I must live without a husband,
  As a shepherdess neglected!"
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Lived a shepherd-maid for ages,
  As a virgin with her mother.
  Wretched are the lives of shepherds,
  Lives of maidens still more wretched,
  Guarding flocks upon the mountains;
  Serpents creep in bog and stubble,
  On the greensward dart the lizards;
  But it was no serpent singing,
  Nor a sacred lizard calling,
  It was but the mountain-berry
  Calling to the lonely maiden:
  "Come, O virgin, come and pluck me,
  Come and take me to thy bosom,
  Take me, tinsel-breasted virgin,
  Take me, maiden, copper-belted,
  Ere the slimy snail devours me,
  Ere the black-worm feeds upon me.
  Hundreds pass my way unmindful,
  Thousands come within my hearing,
  Berry-maidens swarm about me,
  Children come in countless numbers,
  None of these has come to gather,
  Come to pluck this ruddy berry."
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Listened to its gentle pleading,
  Ran to pick the berry, calling,
  With her fair and dainty fingers,.
  Saw it smiling near the meadow,
  Like a cranberry in feature,
  Like a strawberry in flavor;
  But be Virgin, Mariatta,
  Could not pluck the woodland-stranger,
  Thereupon she cut a charm-stick,
  Downward pressed upon the berry,
  When it rose as if by magic,
  Rose above her shoes of ermine,
  Then above her copper girdle,
  Darted upward to her bosom,
  Leaped upon the maiden's shoulder,
  On her dimpled chin it rested,
  On her lips it perched a moment,
  Hastened to her tongue expectant
  To and fro it rocked and lingered,
  Thence it hastened on its journey,
  Settled in the maiden's bosom.
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Thus became a bride impregnate,
  Wedded to the mountain-berry;
  Lingered in her room at morning,
  Sat at midday in the darkness,
  Hastened to her couch at evening.
  Thus the watchful mother wonders:
  "What has happened to our Mary,
  To our virgin, Mariatta,
  That she throws aside her girdle,
  Shyly slips through hall and chamber,
  Lingers in her room at morning,
  Hastens to her couch at evening,
  Sits at midday in the darkness?"
  On the floor a babe was playing,
  And the young child thus made answer:
  "This has happened to our Mary,
  To our virgin, Mariatta,
  This misfortune to the maiden:
  She has lingered by the meadows,
  Played too long among the lambkins,
  Tasted of the mountain-berry."
  Long the virgin watched and waited,
  Anxiously the days she counted,
  Waiting for the dawn of trouble.
  Finally she asked her mother,
  These the words of Mariatta:
  "Faithful mother, fond and tender,
  Mother whom I love and cherish,
  Make for me a place befitting,
  Where my troubles may be lessened,
  And my heavy burdens lightened."
  This the answer of the mother:
  "Woe to thee, thou Hisi-maiden,
  Since thou art a bride unworthy,
  Wedded only to dishonor!"
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Thus replied in truthful measures:
  "I am not a maid of Hisi,
  I am not a bride unworthy,
  Am not wedded to dishonor;
  As a shepherdess I wandered
  With the lambkins to the glen-wood,
  Wandered to the berry-mountain,
  Where the strawberry had ripened;
  Quick as thought I plucked the berry,
  On my tongue I gently laid it,
  To and fro it rocked and lingered,
  Settled in my heaving bosom.
  This the source of all my trouble,
  Only cause of my dishonor!"
  As the mother was relentless,
  Asked the maiden of her father,
  This the virgin-mother's pleading:
  O my father, full of pity,
  Source of both my good and evil,
  Build for me a place befitting,
  Where my troubles may be lessened,
  And my heavy burdens lightened."
  This the answer of the father,
  Of the father unforgiving:
  "Go, thou evil child of Hisi,
  Go, thou child of sin and sorrow,
  Wedded only to dishonor,
  To the Great Bear's rocky chamber,
  To the stone-cave of the growler,
  There to lessen all thy troubles,
  There to cast thy heavy burdens!"
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Thus made answer to her father:
  "I am not a child of Hisi,
  I am not a bride unworthy,
  Am not wedded to dishonor;
  I shall bear a noble hero,
  I shall bear a son immortal,
  Who will rule among the mighty,
  Rule the ancient Wainamoinen."
  Thereupon the virgin-mother
  Wandered hither, wandered thither,
  Seeking for a place befitting,
  Seeking for a worthy birth-place
  For her unborn son and hero;
  Finally these words she uttered
  "Piltti, thou my youngest maiden,
  Trustiest of all my servants,
  Seek a place within the village,
  Ask it of the brook of Sara,
  For the troubled Mariatta,
  Child of sorrow and misfortune."
  Thereupon the little maiden,
  Piltti, spake these words in answer:
  "Whom shall I entreat for succor,
  Who will lend me his assistance?
  These the words of Mariatta:
  "Go and ask it of Ruotus,
  Where the reed-brook pours her waters."
  Thereupon the servant, Piltti,
  Ever hopeful, ever willing,
  Hastened to obey her mistress,
  Needing not her exhortation;
  Hastened like the rapid river,
  Like the flying smoke of battle
  To the cabin of Ruotus.
  When she walked the hill-tops tottered,
  When she ran the mountains trembled;
  Shore-reeds danced upon the pasture,
  Sandstones skipped about the heather
  As the maiden, Piltti, hastened
  To the dwelling of Ruotus.
  At his table in his cabin
  Sat Ruotus, eating, drinking,
  In his simple coat of linen.
  With his elbows on the table
  Spake the wizard in amazement:
  "Why hast thou, a maid of evil,
  Come to see me in my cavern,
  What the message thou art bringing?
  Thereupon the servant, Piltti,
  Gave this answer to the wizard:
  "Seek I for a spot befitting,
  Seek I for a worthy birth-place,
  For an unborn child and hero;
  Seek it near the Sara-streamlet,
  Where the reed-brook pours her waters.
  Came the wife of old Ruotus,
  Walking with her arms akimbo,
  Thus addressed the maiden, Piltti:
  "Who is she that asks assistance,
  Who the maiden thus dishonored,
  What her name, and who her kindred?"
  "I have come for Mariatta,
  For the worthy virgin-mother."
  Spake the wife of old Ruotus,
  Evil-minded, cruel-hearted:
  "Occupied are all our chambers,
  All our bath-rooms near the reed-brook;
  in the mount of fire are couches,
  is a stable in the forest,
  For the flaming horse of Hisi;
  In the stable is a manger
  Fitting birth-place for the hero
  From the wife of cold misfortune,
  Worthy couch for Mariatta!"
  Thereupon the servant, Piltti,
  Hastened to her anxious mistress,
  Spake these measures, much regretting.
  "There is not a place befitting,
  on the silver brook of Sara.
  Spake the wife of old Ruotus:
  'Occupied are all the chambers,
  All the bath-rooms near the reed-brook;
  In the mount of fire are couches,
  Is a stable, in the forest,
  For the flaming horse of Hisi;
  In the stable is a manger,
  Fitting birth-place for the hero
  From the wife of cold misfortune,
  Worthy couch for Mariatta.'"
  Thereupon the hapless maiden,
  Mariatta, virgin-mother,
  Fell to bitter tears and murmurs,
  Spake these words in depths of sorrow:
  "I, alas! must go an outcast,
  Wander as a wretched hireling,
  Like a servant in dishonor,
  Hasten to the burning mountain,
  To the stable in the forest,
  Make my bed within a manger,
  Near the flaming steed of Hisi!"
  Quick the hapless virgin-mother,
  Outcast from her father's dwelling,
  Gathered up her flowing raiment,
  Grasped a broom of birchen branches,
  Hastened forth in pain and sorrow
  To the stable in the woodlands,
  On the heights of Tapio's mountains,
  Spake these words in supplication:
  "Come, I pray thee, my Creator,
  Only friend in times of trouble,
  Come to me and bring protection
  To thy child, the virgin-mother,
  To the maiden, Mariatta,
  In this hour of sore affliction.
  Come to me, benignant Ukko,
  Come, thou only hope and refuge,
  Lest thy guiltless child should perish,
  Die the death of the unworthy!"
  When the virgin, Mariatta,
  Had arrived within the stable
  Of the flaming horse of Hisi,
  She addressed the steed as follows:
  "Breathe, O sympathizing fire-horse,
  Breathe on me, the virgin-mother,
  Let thy heated breath give moisture,
  Let thy pleasant warmth surround me,
  Like the vapor of the morning;
  Let this pure and helpless maiden
  Find a refuge in thy manger!"
  Thereupon the horse, in pity,
  Breathed the moisture of his nostrils
  On the body of the virgin,
  Wrapped her in a cloud of vapor,
  Gave her warmth and needed comforts,
  Gave his aid to the afflicted,
  To the virgin, Mariatta.
  There the babe was born and cradled
  Cradled in a woodland-manger,
  Of the virgin, Mariatta,
  Pure as pearly dews of morning,
  Holy as the stars in heaven.
  There the mother rocks her infant,
  In his swaddling clothes she wraps him,
  Lays him in her robes of linen;
  Carefully the babe she nurtures,
  Well she guards her much-beloved,
  Guards her golden child of beauty,
  Her beloved gem of silver.
  But alas! the child has vanished,
  Vanished while the mother slumbered.
  Mariatta, lone and wretched,
  Fell to weeping, broken-hearted,
  Hastened off to seek her infant.
  Everywhere the mother sought him,
  Sought her golden child of beauty,
  Her beloved gem of silver;
  Sought him underneath the millstone,
  In the sledge she sought him vainly,
  Underneath the sieve she sought him,
  Underneath the willow-basket,
  Touched the trees, the grass she parted,
  Long she sought her golden infant,
  Sought him on the fir-tree-mountain,
  In the vale, and hill, and heather;
  Looks within the clumps of flowers,
  Well examines every thicket,
  Lifts the juniper and willow,
  Lifts the branches of the alder.
  Lo! a star has come to meet her,
  And the star she thus beseeches-.
  "O, thou guiding-star of Northland,
  Star of hope, by God created,
  Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me
  Where my darling child has wandered,
  Where my holy babe lies hidden?"
  Thus the star of Northland answers:
  "If I knew, I would not tell thee;
  'Tis thy child that me created,
  Set me here to watch at evening,
  In the cold to shine forever,
  Here to twinkle in the darkness."
  Comes the golden Moon to meet her,
  And the Moon she thus beseeches:
  "Golden Moon, by Ukko fashioned,
  Hope and joy of Kalevala,
  Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me
  Where my darling child has wandered,
  Where my holy babe lies hidden?
  Speaks the golden Moon in answer:
  "If I knew I would not tell thee;
  'Tis thy child that me created,
  Here to wander in the darkness,
  All alone at eve to wander
  On my cold and cheerless journey,
  Sleeping only in the daylight,
  Shining for the good of others."
  Thereupon the virgin-mother
  Falls again to bitter weeping,
  Hastens on through fen and forest,
  Seeking for her babe departed.
  Comes the silver Sun to meet her,
  And the Sun she thus addresses:
  "Silver Sun by Ukko fashioned,
  Source of light and life to Northland,
  Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me
  Where my darling child has wandered,
  Where my holy babe lies hidden?"
  Wisely does the Sun make answer:
  "Well I know thy babe's dominions,
  Where thy holy child is sleeping,
  Where Wainola's light lies hidden;
  'Tis thy child that me created,
  Made me king of earth and ether,
  Made the Moon and Stars attend me,
  Set me here to shine at midday,
  Makes me shine in silver raiment,
  Lets me sleep and rest at evening;
  Yonder is thy golden infant,
  There thy holy babe lies sleeping,
  Hidden to his belt in water,
  Hidden in the reeds and rushes."
  Mariatta, child of beauty,
  Virgin-mother of the Northland,
  Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land,
  Finds him in the reeds and rushes;
  Takes the young child on her bosom
  To the dwelling of her father.
  There the infant grew in beauty,
  Gathered strength, and light, and wisdom,
  All of Suomi saw and wondered.
  No one knew what name to give him;
  When the mother named him, Flower,
  Others named him, Son-of-Sorrow.
  When the virgin, Mariatta,
  Sought the priesthood to baptize him,
  Came an old man, Wirokannas,
  With a cup of holy water,
  Bringing to the babe his blessing;
  And the gray-beard spake as follows:
  "I shall not baptize a wizard,
  Shall not bless a black-magician
  With the drops of holy water;
  Let the young child be examined,
  Let us know that he is worthy,
  Lest he prove the son of witchcraft."
  Thereupon old Wirokannas
  Called the ancient Wainamoinen,
  The eternal wisdom-singer,
  To inspect the infant-wonder,
  To report him good or evil.
  Wainamoinen, old and faithful,
  Carefully the child examined,
  Gave this answer to his people:
  "Since the child is but an outcast,
  Born and cradled in a manger,
  Since the berry is his father;
  Let him lie upon the heather,
  Let him sleep among the rushes,
  Let him live upon the mountains;
  Take the young child to the marshes,
  Dash his head against the birch-tree."
  Then the child of Mariatta,
  Only two weeks old, made answer:
  "O, thou ancient Wainamoinen,
  Son of Folly and Injustice,
  Senseless hero of the Northland,
  Falsely hast thou rendered judgment.
  In thy years, for greater follies,
  Greater sins and misdemeanors,
  Thou wert not unjustly punished.
  In thy former years of trouble,
  When thou gavest thine own brother,
  For thy selfish life a ransom,
  Thus to save thee from destruction,
  Then thou wert not sent to Swamp-land
  To be murdered for thy follies.
  In thy former years of sorrow,
  When the beauteous Aino perished
  In the deep and boundless blue-sea,
  To escape thy persecutions,
  Then thou wert not evil-treated,
  Wert not banished by thy people."
  Thereupon old Wirokannas,
  Of the wilderness the ruler,
  Touched the child with holy water,
  Crave the wonder-babe his blessing,
  Gave him rights of royal heirship,
  Free to live and grow a hero,
  To become a mighty ruler,
  King and Master of Karyala.
  As the years passed Wainamoinen
  Recognized his waning powers,
  Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
  Sang his farewell song to Northland,
  To the people of Wainola;
  Sang himself a boat of copper,
  Beautiful his bark of magic;
  At the helm sat the magician,
  Sat the ancient wisdom-singer.
  Westward, westward, sailed the hero
  O'er the blue-back of the waters,
  Singing as he left Wainola,
  This his plaintive song and echo:
  "Suns may rise and set in Suomi,
  Rise and set for generations,
  When the North will learn my teachings,
  Will recall my wisdom-sayings,
  Hungry for the true religion.
  Then will Suomi need my coming,
  Watch for me at dawn of morning,
  That I may bring back the Sampo,
  Bring anew the harp of joyance,
  Bring again the golden moonlight,
  Bring again the silver sunshine,
  Peace and plenty to the Northland."
  Thus the ancient Wainamoinen,
  In his copper-banded vessel,
  Left his tribe in Kalevala,
  Sailing o'er the rolling billows,
  Sailing through the azure vapors,
  Sailing through the dusk of evening,
  Sailing to the fiery sunset,
  To the higher-landed regions,
  To the lower verge of heaven;
  Quickly gained the far horizon,
  Gained the purple-colored harbor.
  There his bark be firmly anchored,
  Rested in his boat of copper;
  But he left his harp of magic,
  Left his songs and wisdom-sayings,
  To the lasting joy of Suomi.
  EPILOGUE.
  Now I end my measured singing,
  Bid my weary tongue keep silence,
  Leave my songs to other singers.
  Horses have their times of resting
  After many hours of labor;
  Even sickles will grow weary
  When they have been long at reaping;
  Waters seek a quiet haven
  After running long in rivers;
  Fire subsides and sinks in slumber
  At the dawning of the morning
  Therefore I should end my singing,
  As my song is growing weary,
  For the pleasure of the evening,
  For the joy of morn arising.
  Often I have heard it chanted,
  Often heard the words repeated:
  "Worthy cataracts and rivers
  Never empty all their waters."
  Thus the wise and worthy singer
  Sings not all his garnered wisdom;
  Better leave unsung some sayings
  Than to sing them out of season.
  Thus beginning, and thus ending,
  Do I roll up all my legends,
  Roll them in a ball for safety,
  In my memory arrange them,
  In their narrow place of resting,
  Lest the songs escape unheeded,
  While the lock is still unopened,
  While the teeth remain unparted,
  And the weary tongue is silent.
  Why should I sing other legends,
  Chant them in the glen and forest,
  Sing them on the hill and heather?
  Cold and still my golden mother
  Lies beneath the meadow, sleeping,
  Hears my ancient songs no longer,
  Cannot listen to my singing;
  Only will the forest listen,
  Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees,
  Junipers endowed with kindness,
  Alder-trees that love to bear me,
  With the aspens and the willows.
  When my loving mother left me,
  Young was I, and low of stature;
  Like the cuckoo of the forest,
  Like the thrush upon the heather,
  Like the lark I learned to twitter,
  Learned to sing my simple measures,
  Guided by a second mother,
  Stern and cold, without affection;
  Drove me helpless from my chamber
  To the wind-side of her dwelling,
  To the north-side of her cottage,
  Where the chilling winds in mercy
  Carried off the unprotected.
  As a lark I learned to wander,
  Wander as a lonely song-bird,
  Through the forests and the fenlands
  Quietly o'er hill and heather;
  Walked in pain about the marshes,
  Learned the songs of winds and waters,
  Learned the music of the ocean,
  And the echoes of the woodlands.
  Many men that live to murmur,
  Many women live to censure,
  Many speak with evil motives;
  Many they with wretched voices
  Curse me for my wretched singing,
  Blame my tongue for speaking wisdom,
  Call my ancient songs unworthy,
  Blame the songs and curse the singer.
  Be not thus, my worthy people,
  Blame me not for singing badly,
  Unpretending as a minstrel.
  I have never had the teaching,
  Never lived with ancient heroes,
  Never learned the tongues of strangers,
  Never claimed to know much wisdom.
  Others have had language-masters,
  Nature was my only teacher,
  Woods and waters my instructors.
  Homeless, friendless, lone, and needy,
  Save in childhood with my mother,
  When beneath her painted rafters,
  Where she twirled the flying spindle,
  By the work-bench of my brother,
  By the window of my sister,
  In. the cabin of my father,
  In my early days of childhood.
  Be this as it may, my people,
  This may point the way to others,
  To the singers better gifted,
  For the good of future ages,
  For the coming generations,
  For the rising folk of Suomi.