 Rune 17 of the Kalevala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalevala compiled by Elias Lernerot. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 17. Vain Amoyne finds the lost word. Vain Amoyne, old and truthful, did not learn the words of magic into one's gloomy regions in the kingdom of Manala. Thereupon he long debated, well considered, long reflected, where to find the magic sayings, when a shepherd came to meet him, speaking thus to Vain Amoyne. Thou canst find of words a hundred, find a thousand wisdom sayings, in the mouth of wise Vipunan, in the body of the hero, to the spot I know the footpath, to his tomb the magic highway, trodden by a host of heroes. Long the distance thou must travel on the sharpened points of needles. Then a long way thou must journey on the edges of the broadswords. Thirdly thou must travel farther on the edges of the hatchets. Vain Amoyne, an old and trustful, well considered all these journeys, travelled to the forge and smithy, thus addressed the metal worker. Ilmarinen, worthy blacksmith, make a shoe for me of iron, forge me gloves of burnished copper, mould a staff of strongest metal, lay the steel upon the inside, forge within the might of magic. I am going on a journey to procure the magic sayings, find the lost words of the master, from the mouth of the magician, from the tongue of wise Vipunan. Spake the artist Ilmarinen, long ago died wise Vipunan, disappeared these many ages, lays no more his snares of copper, sets no longer traps of iron, cannot learn from him the wisdom, cannot find in him the lost words. Vain Amoyne, an old and hopeful, little heeding, not discouraged in his metal shoes and armour, hastens forward on his journey, runs the first day fleetly onward on the sharpened points of needles. Virily he strides the second, on the edges of the broadswords swings himself the third day forward, on the edges of the hatchets. Wise Vipunan, wisdom singer, ancient bard and great magician, with his magic songs lay yonder, stretched beside him lay his sayings, on his shoulder grew the aspen, on each temple grew the birch tree, on his mighty chin the alder, from his beard grew willow bushes, from his mouth the dark green fir tree, and the oak tree from his forehead. Vain Amoyne, an coming closer draws his sword, lays bare his hatchet from his magic leaven scabbard, fells the aspen from his shoulder, fells the birch tree from his temples, from his chin he fells the alder, from his beard the branching willows, from his mouth the dark green fir tree, fells the oak tree from his forehead. Now he thrusts his staff of iron through the mouth of Wise Vipunan, prize his mighty jaws asunder, speaks these words of master magic, rise thou master of magicians from the sleep of Tuanella, from thine everlasting slumber. Wise Vipunan, ancient singer, quickly wakens from his sleeping, keenly feels the pangs of torture from the cruel staff of iron, bites with mighty force the metal, bites in twain the softer iron, cannot bite the steel asunder, opens wide his mouth in anguish. Vain Amoyne, an of Vainola, in his iron shoes and armour, careless walking headlong stumbles in the spacious mouth and forces of the magic bard Vipunan. Wise Vipunan, full of song charms opens wide his mouth and swallows Vain Amoyne in a dysmagic, shoes and staff and iron armour. Then out speaks the wise Vipunan. Many things before I've eaten, dined on goat and sheep and reindeer, bear and ox and wolf and wild boar, never in my recollection have I tasted sweeter morsels. Spake the ancient Vain Amoyne, now I see the evil symbols, seem his fortune hanging o'er me, in the dark some heezy hurdles, in the catacombs of Kalma. Vain Amoyne long considered how to live and how to prosper, how to conquer this condition. In his belt he wore a poignard, with a handle hewn from birch wood, from the handle builds a vessel, builds a boat through magic science. In this vessel rose he swiftly through the entrails of the hero, rose through every gland and vessel of the wisest of magicians. Old Vipunan, master singer, barely feels the hero's presence, gives no heed to Vain Amoyne. Then the artist of Vainola straightway sets himself to forging, sets at work to hammer metals, makes a smithy from his armour of his sleeves, he makes the bellows, makes the air valve from his fur coat, from his stockings makes the muzzle, uses knees instead of anvil, makes a hammer of his forearm, like the storm wind roars the bellows, like the thunder rings the anvil. Forges one day then a second, forges till the third day closes, in the body of Vipunan, in the sorcerers of Dermon. Old Vipunan full of magic speaks these words in wonder, guessing, Who art thou of ancient heroes? Who of all the host of heroes? Many heroes I have eaten, and of men a countless number have not eaten such as thou art. Smoke arises from my nostrils, from my mouth the fire is streaming, in my throat are iron clinkers. Go, thou monster, hence to wander, flee this place thou plague of Northland, ere I go to seek thy mother, tell the ancient dame thy mischief. She shall bear thine evil conduct, great the burden she shall carry, greater mother's pain and anguish, when her child runs wild and lawless, cannot comprehend the meaning, nor this mystery unravel why thou cameest here, oh monster, cameest here to give me torture. Thou heesee sent from heaven, some calamity from Ukko, art perchance some new creation, ordered here to do me evil. If thou art some evil genius, some calamity from Ukko, sent to me by my Creator, then am I resigned to suffer, God does not forsake the worthy, does not ruin those that trust him, never are the good forsaken. If by man thou word created, if some hero sent the hither, I shall learn thy race of evil, shall destroy thy wicked tribefolk. Thence arose the violation, thence arose the first destruction, thence came all the evil doings, from the neighborhood of wizards, from the home of the magicians, from the eaves of vicious spirits, from the haunts of fortune tellers, from the cabins of the witches, from the castles of Twarney, from the bottom of Manala, from the ground with envy swollen, from ingratitude's dominions, from the rocky shoals and quicksands, from the marshes filled with danger, from the cataract's commotion, from the bear caves in the mountains, from the wolves within the thickets, from the roarings of the pine tree, from the burrows of the fox-dog, from the woodlands of the reindeer, from the eaves and heasy hurdles, from the battles of the giants, from uncultivated pastures, from the billows of the oceans, from the streams of boiling waters, from the waterfalls of Rucha, from the limits of the storm-clouds, from the pathways of the thunders, from the flashings of the lightnings, from the distant plains of Porya, from the fatal stream and whirlpool, from the birthplace of Twarney. Art thou coming from these places? Hast thou, evil, hastened hither, to the heart of sinless hero, to devour my guiltless body, to destroy this wisdom-singer? Get thee hence, thou dog of Lempo, leave thou monster from Manala, flee from my immortal body, leave my liver thing of evil, in my body cease thy forging, cease this torture of my vitals, let me rest in peace and slumber. Should I want in means efficient, should I lack the magic power to outroot thine evil genius, I shall call a better hero, call upon a higher power than this dire misfortune, to annihilate this monster. I shall call the will of woman from the fields, the old-time heroes, mounted heroes from the sand-hills, thus to rescue me from danger, from these pains and ceaseless tortures. If this force prove inefficient, should not drive thee from my body, come, thou forest with thy heroes, come ye junipers and pine trees, with your messengers of power, come ye mountains with your wood-nymphs, come ye lakes with all your mermaids, come ye hundred-ocean spearmen, come torment this son of Hesse, come and kill this evil monster. If this call is inefficient, does not drive thee from my vitals, rise, thou ancient water-mother, with thy blue cap from the ocean, from the seas, the lakes, the rivers, bring protection to thy hero, comfort bring, and full assistance, that I, guiltless, may not suffer, may not perish prematurely. Shouldst thou brave this invocation, capay, daughter of creation, come, thou beautyous golden maiden, oldest of the race of women, come and witness my misfortunes, come and turn away this evil, come, remove this biting torment, take away this plague of Peru. If this call be disregarded, if thou wilt not leave me guiltless, oko, on the arch of heaven, in the thundercloud domain, in the thundercloud dominions, come thou quickly, thou art needed, come, protect thy tortured hero, drive away this magic demon, banish ever his enchantment with his sword and flaming furnace, with his fire in kindling bellows. Go, thou demon, hence to wander, flee, thou plague of Northland heroes, never come again for shelter, never more build thou thy dwelling in the body of Vipunan. Take at once thy habitation to the regions of thy kindred, to thy distant fields and firesides, when thy journey, thou hast ended, gained the borders of thy country, gained the means of thy creator, give a signal of thy coming, rumble like the peels of thunder, glisten like the gleam of lightning, knock upon the outer portals, enter through the open windows, glide about the many chambers, seize the host and seize the hostess, knock their evil beads together, ring their necks and hurl their bodies to the black dogs of the forest. Should this prove of little value, hover like the bird of battle or the dwellings of the master, scare the horses from the mangers, from the troughs of fright the cattle, twist their tails and horns and forlocks, hurl their carcasses to Lempo. If some scourge the winds have sent me, sent me on the air of spring tide, brought me by the frosts of winter, quickly journey whence thou came ast on the air-path of the heavens, perching not upon me. Fly away to copper mountains that the copper winds may nurse thee, waves of ether thy protection. Didst those come from high Umala, from the hems of ragged snow-clouds, quick ascend beyond the cloud-space, quickly journey whence thou came ast, to the snow-clouds, crystal sprinkled, to the twinkling stars of heaven, there thy fire may burn for ever, there may be no fire, there may be no fire, there may be no fire, there may be no fire, there may burn for ever, there may flash thy forked lightnings in the sun's undying furnace. Were't thou sent here by the spring floods, driven here by river torrents, quickly journey whence thou came ast, quickly hasten to the waters, to the borders of the rivers, to the ancient water-mountain, that the floods again may rock thee, and thy water-mother nurse thee. Didst thou come from Calmer's kingdom, from the castles of the death-land, hast thou back to thine own country, to the calmer halls and castles, to the fields with envy swollen, where contending armies perish? Art thou from the heecy woodlands, from ravines in Lempos forest, from the thickets of the pine-wood, from the dwellings of the fir-glen? Quick, retrace thine evil footsteps to the dwellings of thy master, to the thickets of thy kindred. There thou mayest dwell at pleasure till thy house decays about thee, till thy walls, till thy walls, till thy walls shall mould and crumble. Evil genius, thee I banish, get thee hence, thou horrid monster, to the cabins of the white bear, to the deep abyss of serpents, to the veils and swamps and finlands, to the ever-silent waters, to the hot springs of the mountains, to the dead seas of the Northland, to the lifeless lakes and rivers, to the sacred stream and whirlpool. Shouldst thou find no place of resting, I will banish thee still farther, to the Northland's distant borders, to the broad expanse of Lapland, to the ever-lifeless deserts, to the unproductive prairies, sunless, moonless, starless, lifeless in the dark abyss of Northland. This for thee a place be-fitting, pitch thy tents and feast forever on the dead plains of Poyola. Shouldst thou find no means of living, I will banish thee still farther, till thy house decays about thee, shouldst thou find no means of living, I will banish thee still farther, to the cataract of Rutia, to the fire-emitting whirlpool where the furs are ever falling, to the windfalls of the forest. Swim hereafter in the waters of the fire-emitting whirlpool, whirl thou ever in the current of the cataract's commotion in its foam and boiling waters. Should this place be unbefitting, I will drive thee farther onward, to Tuoni's coal-black river, to the stream of Mana, where thou shalt forever linger. Thou canst never leave Manala, should I not thy head deliver, should I never pay thy ransom. Thou canst never safely journey through nine brother rams abutting, through nine brother bulls opposing, through nine brother stallions thwarting. Thou canst not recross Death River, thickly set with iron netting, interlaced with threads of copper. Thou canst never leave Manala, to copper. Shouldst thou ask for steeds, for saddle, shouldst thou need a fleet-foot coarser, I will give thee worthy racers, I will give thee saddle-horses. Evil heesee has a charger, crimson mane and tail and foretop, fire-emitting from his nostrils, as he prances through his pastures. Hoofs are made of strongest iron, legs are made of steel and copper, quickly scales the highest mountains, darts like lightning through the valleys and a skillful master rides him. Should this steed be insufficient, I will give thee lamppost snowshoes, give thee heesee's shoes of elm-wood, give to thee the staff of Piru, that with these thou mayest journey into heesee's courts and castles, to the woods and fields of Uutas. If the rocks should rise before thee, dash the flinty rocks in pieces, hurl the fragments to the heavens. If the branches cross thy pathway, make them turn aside in greeting. If some mighty hero hail thee, hurl him headlong to the woodlands. Hasten, hence, thou thing of evil, heinous monster, leave my body, ere the breaking of the morning, ere the sun awakes from slumber, ere the sinning of the cuckoo. Haste away, thou plague of Northland, haste along the track of moon-beams, wander hence, forever, wander to the darksome fields of Poya. If at once thou dost not leave me, send thee eagles' talons, send thee the beaks of vultures, to devour thine evil body, hurl thy skeleton to heesee. Much more quickly, cruel Lempow left my vitals when commanded, when I called the aid of Ukko, called the help of my creator. Flee, thou motherless offendant, flee, thou fiend of Sariola, flee, thou hound without a master, ere the morning sun arises, ere the moon withdraws to slumber. Vainamoynen, ancient hero, speaks at last to all ripunen. Satisfied am I to linger in these old and spacious caverns, pleasant here my home and dwelling? For my meat I have thy tissues, have thy heart and spleen and liver, for my drink the blood of ages. Goodly home for Vainamoynen! I shall set my forge into bellows deeper, deeper in thy vitals. I shall swing my heavy hammer, swing it with a greater power on thy heart and lungs and liver. I shall never, never leave thee till I learn thine incantations, learn thy many wisdom sayings, learn the lost words of the master. Never must these words be bidden, earth must never lose this wisdom, though the wisdom singers perish. Old ripunen, wise magician, ancient prophet, filled with power, opens fall his store of knowledge, lifts the covers from his cases, filled with old time incantations, filled with songs of times primeval, filled with ancient wit and wisdom, sings the very oldest folk songs, sings the origin of witchcraft, sings of earth and its beginning, sings the first of all creations, sings the source of good and evil, sung alas by youth no longer, only sung in part by heroes in these days of sin and sorrow. Evil days our land befallen, sings the orders of enchantment, how upon the will of Uko, by command of the creator, how the air was first divided, how the water came from ether, how the earth arose from water, how from earth came vegetation, fish and fowl and man and hero, sings again the wise ripunen, how the moon first created, how the sun was set in heaven, whence the colors of the rainbow, whence the ether's crystal pillars, how the skies with stars were sprinkled. Then again sings wise ripunen, sings in miracles of concord, sings in magic tones of wisdom, never was there heard such singing. Songs he sings in countless numbers, swift his notes as tongues of serpents, all the distant hills re-echo, sings one day and then a second, sings a third from dawn till evening, sings from evening till the morning, listen all the stars of heaven and the moon stands still and listens, fall the waves upon the deep sea, in the bay the tides cease rising, stop the rivers in their courses, stops the waterfall of Rucha, even Jordan ceases flowing, and the walks and stops and listens. When the ancient Vainamoin and Well had learned the magic sayings, learned the ancient songs and legends, learned the words of ancient wisdom, learned the lost words of the master, Well had learned the secret doctrine. He prepared to leave the body of the wisdom bad ripunen, leave the bosom of the master, leave the wonderful enchanter, spake the hero Vainamoinen, oh thou antero of ripunen, open wide thy mouth and forces, I have found your magic lost words, I will leave thee now forever, leave thee and thy wondrous singing, will return to Kalevala, to Vainola's fields and firesides. Thus Vipunen spake in answer, many other things I've eaten, eaten bear and elk and reindeer, eaten ox and wolf and wild boar, eaten man and eaten hero, never, never have I eaten such a thing as Vainamoinen. Thou hast found what I desirest, found the three words of the master, going peace and near returning take my blessing on thy going. There upon the bad ripunen opens wide his mouth and wider, and the good old Vainamoinen straightway leaves the wise enchanter, leaves Vipunen's great abdomen. From the mouth he glides and journeys o'er the hills and veils of Northland, swift as red deer or the forest, swift as yellow-breasted Martin, to the firesides of Vainola, to the plains of Kalevala, straightway haste he to the smithy of his brother Ilmarinen, thus the iron artist greets him. Hast thou found the long lost wisdom, hast thou heard the secret doctrine, hast thou learned the master magic, how to fasten in the ledges, how the stern should be completed, how complete the ship's forecastle? Vainamoinen thus made answer, I have learned of words a hundred, learned a thousand incantations, hidden deep for many ages, learned the words of ancient wisdom, found the keys of secret doctrine, found the lost words of the master. Vainamoinen, magic builder, straightway journeys to his vessel, to the spot of magic labour, quickly fastens in the ledges, firmly binds the stern together and completes the boats forecastle. Thus the ancient Vainamoinen built the boat with magic only and with magic launched his vessel, using not the hand to touch it, using not the foot to move it, using not the knee to turn it, using nothing to propel it. Thus the third task was completed, for the hostess of Poyola, dowry for the maid of beauty sitting on the arch of heaven, on the bow of many colours. End of Rune 17 Rune 18 of the Kalevala This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lernerot, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 18 The Rival Suitors Vainamoinen, old and truthful, long considered, long debated how to woo and win the daughter of the hostess of Poyola. How to lead the bride of beauty, fairy maiden of the rainbow to the meadows of Vainola from the dismal Sariola. Now he decks his magic vessel, paints the boat in blue and scarlet, trims in gold the ship's forecastle, decks the prow in molten silver, sings his magic ship down gliding on the cylinders of fir tree. He erects the masts of pinewood on each mast the sails of linen, sails of blue and white and scarlet woven into finest fabric. Vainamoinen, the magician, steps aboard his wondrous vessel, steers the bark across the waters, on the blue back of the broad sea, speaks these words in sailing northward, sailing to the dark Poyola. Come aboard my ship, oh Ukko, come with me, thou god of mercy, to protect thine ancient hero, to support thy trusting servant on the breasts of raging billows, on the far outstretching waters. Rock, oh winds, this wondrous vessel causing not a single ripple, rolling waves bear ye me northward, that the oar may not be needed in my journey to Poyola, o this mighty waste of waters. Ilmarinen's beautist sister, fair and goodly made, Aniki, of the night and dawn, the daughter who awakes each morning early, rises long before the daylight, stood one morning on the seashore, washing in the foam her dresses, mincing out her silken ribbons on the bridge of scarlet colour, on the border of the highway, on a headland jutting seaward, on the forest-covered island. Here Aniki, looking round her, looking through the fog and ether, looking through the clouds of heaven, gazing far out on the blue sea, sees the morning sun arising, looks with eyes of distant vision toward the sunrise on the waters, toward the winding streams of swarmy where the wiener waves were flowing. There she sees on the horizon something darkle in the sunlight, something blue upon the billows, speaks these words in wonder guessing. What is this upon the surges? What this blue upon the waters? What this darkling in the sunlight? It is perhaps a flock of wild geese or perchance the blue duck flying, then upon thy wings arising fly away to highest heaven. Art thou then a shoal of sea-trout or perchance a school of salmon? Dive then to the deep sea-bottom in the waters swim and frolic, art thou then a cliff of granite, or perchance a mighty oak-tree floating on the rough sea-billows? May the floods then wash and beat thee, break thee to a thousand fragments? Fine a moine and sailing northward steers his wondrous ship of magic to the headland jutting sea-wood toward the island forest covered. Now a nicky, goodly made and seized is the magic vessel of a wonderful enchanter, of a mighty bard and hero, and she asks this simple question. Art thou then my father's vessel or my brother's ship of magic? Haste away then to thy harbour, to thy refuge in Vynola, hast thou come a goodly distance? Sail then farther on thy journey, point thy prow to other waters. It was not her father's vessel, not a sailboat from the distance, towards the ship of Vaynamoinen, bark of the eternal singer, sails within a hailing distance, swims still nearer o'er the waters, brings one word and takes another, brings a third of magic import. Speaks the goodly made anicky of the knight and dawn, the daughter to the sailor of the vessel. With a sailest Vaynamoinen, with a bound thou friend of waters, pride and joy of Kalevala. From the vessel, Vaynamoinen gives this answer to the maiden. I have come to catch some sea trout, catch the young and toothsome whiting, hiding in these reeds and rushes. This is the answer of anicky. Do not speak to me in falsehood, know I well the times of fishing. Long ago my honoured father was a fisherman in Northland, came to catch the trout and whiting, fished within these seas and rivers. Very well do I remember how the fisherman disposes, how he rigs his fishing vessel, lines and gaffes and poles and fishnets, has not come a fishing hither. With a goest Vaynamoinen, with a sailest friend of waters, spake the ancient Vaynamoinen, I have come to catch some wild geese, catch the hissing birds of swarmy in these far extending borders in the Saks and Sunds dominions. Good anicky gives this answer, know I well a truthful speaker, easily detectable formerly my aged father often came a hunting hither, came to hunt the hissing wild geese, hunt the red bill of these waters. Very well do I remember how the hunter rigs his vessel, bows and arrows, knives and quiver, dogs enchained within the vessel, pointers hunting on the seashore, setters seeking in the marshes, tell the truth now Vaynamoinen, wither is thy vessel sailing. Spake the hero of the Northland, spake the hero of the Northland, spake the hero of the Northland, to the wars my ship is sailing, to the bloody fields of battle, where the streams run scarlet coloured, where the paths are paved with bodies. These the words of Ferraniki, know I well the paths to battle. Formerly my aged father often sounded war's alarm, often led the hosts to conquest, in each ship a hundred rowers and in arms a thousand heroes, for all the prow a thousand crossbows, swords and spears and battle axes, know I well the ship of battle. Speak no longer fruitless falsehoods, wither salest Vaynamoinen, wither stearest friend of waters. These the words of Vaynamoinen, come, O maiden, to my vessel, in my magic ship be seated, then I'll give thee truthful answer. Thassaniki, silver-tinsled, answers ancient Vaynamoinen, tell the hero of the Northland, to the wars my ship is sailing, to the wars my ship is sailing, old answers ancient Vaynamoinen. With the winds I'll fill thy vessel, to thy bark I'll send the storm winds and capsize thy ship of magic, break in pieces its forecastle, if the truth thou dost not tell me, if thou dost not cease thy falsehoods, if thou dost not tell me truly wither sails thy magic vessel. These the words of Vaynamoinen, now I make thee truthful answer, though at first I spake deception, I am Sailing to the Northland, to the Dismal Sariola, Where the ogres live and flourish, Where they drown the worthy heroes, There to woo the maid of beauty, sitting on the bow of heaven, Woo and win the fairy virgin, bring her to my home, And kindred to the firesides of Vainola. Then Aniki, graceful maiden, of the night and dawn the daughter, As she heard the rightful answer, knew the truth, Was fully spoken, straightway left her coats unbeaten, Left unwashed her linen garments, left unrinced her silks, And ribbons on the highway by the seashore, On the bridge of scarlet colour, On her arm she threw her long robes, hastened off with speed of robuck, To the shops of Ilmarinen, to the iron forger's furnace, To the blacksmith's home and smithy, Here she found the hero artist, Forging out a bench of iron, and adorning it with silver, Sootley thick upon his forehead, Soot and coal upon his shoulders, On the threshold speaks Aniki, these the words his sister uses, Ilmarinen, dearest brother, thou eternal artist forger, Forge me now a loom of silver, golden rings to grace my fingers, Forge me gold and silver earrings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for my bosom, For my head forge golden trinkets, And I'll tell a tale surprising, Tell a story that concerns thee, Truthfully I'll tell the story. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen spake, And these the words he uttered, Thou tell the tale sincerely, I will forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge the gold and silver earrings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom, For thy head forge golden trinkets, But if thou shouldst tell me falsely, I shall break thy beautyous jewels, Break thy ornaments in pieces, Hurl them to the fire and furnace, Never forge the other trinkets. This the answer of Aniki. Ancient blacksmith Ilmarinen, Doesst thou ever think to marry Her already thine afianced? Beautyous maiden of the rainbow, Fairest virgin of the Northland, Chosen bride of Sariola, Shouldst thou wish the maid of beauty Thou must forge, And forge unceasing, Hammering the days and nights through, Forge the summer hooves for horses, Forge the Mayan hooves for winter, In the long nights forge the snow sledge, Gaeli trim it in the daytime, Haste thou then upon thy journey To thy wooing in the Northland, To the dismal Sariola. Thither journey's one more clever, Sales another now before thee, There to woo thy bride afianced, Thence to lead thy chosen virgin, Woo and win the maid of beauty. Three long years thou hast been wooing, Vain a maiden now is sailing On the blue back of the waters, Sitting at his helm of copper. On the prowah, golden carvings, Beautiful his boat of magic, Sailing fleetly o'er the billows, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola. Yilmarinan stood in wonder, Stood a statue at the story, Silent grief had settled o'er him, Settled o'er the iron artist, From one hand the tongs descended, From the other fell the hammer, As the blacksmith made this answer. Good aniki, worthy sister, I shall forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge the golden silver earrings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom, Go and heat for me the bathroom, Fill with heat the honey chambers, Lay the faggots on the fireplace, Lay the smaller woods around them, Pour some water through the ashes, Make a soap of magic virtue, Thus to cleanse my blackened visage, Thus to cleanse the blacksmith's body, Thus remove the soot and ashes. Then aniki, kindly sister, Quickly warmed her brother's bathroom, Warmed it with the knots of fir trees, That the thunder winds had broken. Gathered pebbles from the fire stream, Threw them in the heating waters, Broke the tassels from the birch trees, Steeped the foliage in honey, Made a lie from milk and ashes, Made of these a strong decoction, Mixed it with the fat and marrow of The reindeer of the mountains, Made a soap of magic virtue, Thus to cleanse the iron artist, Thus to beautify the suitor, Thus to make the hero worthy. In marinan ancient blacksmith, The eternal metal worker Forged the wishes of his sister, Ornaments for feraniki, Rings and bracelets, Pins and eardrops, Forged for her six golden girdles, Forged a weaving loom of silver, While the maid prepared the bathroom, Set his toilet room in order. To the maid he gave the trinkets, Gave the loom of molten silver, And the sister thus made answer, I have heated well thy bathroom, Have thy toilet things in order, Everything as thou desire'st, Go prepare thyself the wooing, Lave thy head to flaxen whiteness, Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, Lave thyself in love's aroma, That thy wooing proves successful. Illmarinan magic artist, Quick repairing to his bathroom, Bathed his head to flaxen whiteness, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy, Laved his eyes until they sparkled Like the moonlight on the waters. Wondrous were his formant features, And his cheeks like ruddy berries. These the words of Illmarinan, Ferraniki lovely sister, Bring me now my silk and raiment, Bring my best and richest vesture, Bring me now my softest linen, That my wooing proves successful. Straightway did the helpful sister Bring the finest of his raiment, Bring the softest of his linen, Raymond fashioned by his mother, Brought to him his silk and stockings, Brought him shoes of martin leather, Brought a vest of sky blue colour, Brought him scarlet coloured trousers, Brought a coat with scarlet trimming, Brought a red shawl trimmed in ermine, Fourfold wrapped about his body, Brought a fur coat made of seal skin, Farsened with a thousand bottoms, And adorned with countless jewels. Brought for him his magic godle, Farsened well with golden buckles, That his artist mother fashioned. Brought him gloves with golden wristlets, That the lap-landers had woven for a head of many ringlets. Brought the finest cap in Northland That his ancient father purchased When he first began his wooing. Ilmarinen, blacksmith artist, Clad himself to look his finest When he thus addressed a servant, Hitch for me a fleet-foot racer, Hitch him to my willing snow-sledge, For I start upon a journey To the distant shores of Pohia To the dismal Sariola. Spake the servant thus in answer, Thou hast seven fleet-foot racers Munching grain within their mangers, Which of these shall I make ready? Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Take the fleetest of my courses, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitch him to my sledge of magic, Place six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven blue-birds on the cross-bars, Thus to charm the Northland maidens, Thus to make them look and listen As the cuckoos call and echo. Bring me, too, my largest bare skin, Fold it warm about the crossbench, Bring me then my martin fur-robes As a cover and protection. Straightway then the trusty servant Of the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitch to the racer to the snow-sledge, Place six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven blue-birds on the cross-bars, On the front to sing and twitter. Then he brought the largest bare skin, Folded it upon the crossbench, Brought the finest robes of martin, Warm protection for the master. Ilmarinen, forger-artist, The eternal metal-worker, Ernestly entreated Ukko, Send thy snowflakes, Ukko, father, Let them gently fall from heaven, Let them cover all the heather, Let them hide the berry-bushes, That my sledge may glide in freedom Or the hills to Sariola. Ukko sent the snow from heaven, Gently dropped the crystal snowflakes, Lending thus his kind assistance To the hero Ilmarinen On his journey to the Northland. Reigns in hand, the ancient artist Seats him in his metal snow-sledge, And beseeches thus his master. Good luck to my reins and tracers, Good luck to my shafts and runners, God protect my magic snow-sledge, Be my safeguard on my journey To the dismal Sariola. Now the ancient Ilmarinen Draws the reins upon the racer, Snaps his whip above the coarser, To the grey steed gives this order, And the charger plunges northward, Haced away my flaxen stallion, Haced the onward noble whiteface To the never-pleasant pohia, To the dreary Sariola. Fast and faster flies the fleet-foot On the curving snow-capped sea-coast, On the borders of the lowlands, Or the older hills and mountains. Merrily the steed flies onward, Blue birds singing, cuckoos calling, On the seashore looking northward, Through the sand and falling snowflakes, Blinding winds and snow and seafoam. Cloud the hero, Ilmarinen, as he glides upon his journey, Looking seaward for the vessel Of the ancient Vainamoynen. Travels one day, then a second, Travels all the next day northward. Till the third day Ilmarinen overtakes old Vainamoynen, Rails him in his magic vessel, And addresses thus the minstrel. O thou ancient Vainamoynen, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Fairest daughter of the Northland, Sitting on the bow of heaven, Let each labour long to win her, Let her wed the one she chooses, Him selecting, let her follow. Vainamoynen thus makes answer, I agree to thy proposal, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Not by force nor faithless measures, Shall we woo the maid of beauty? Let her follow him she chooses. Let the unsuccessful suitor Harbour neither wroth nor envy, For the hero that she follows. Thus agreeing on thy journey, Each according to his pleasure, Fleetly does the steed fly onward, Quickly flies the magic vessel, Sailing on the broad sea northward, Ilmarinen's fleet-foot racer Makes the hills of Northland tremble, As he gallops on his journey To the dismal Sariola. Vainamoynen calls the south winds, And they fly to his assistance, Swiftly sails his ship of beauty, Swiftly plows the rough sea-billows In her pathway to Pohiola. Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, ere the dogs began their barking In the mansions of the Northland, In the courts of Sariola. Watch dogs of the court of Louis, Never had they growled so fiercely, Never had they barked so loudly, Never with their tails Had beaten Northland into such an uproar, Spake the master of Pohiola. Go and learn, my worthy daughter, Why the watchdogs have been barking, Why the black dog signals danger. Quickly does the daughter answer, I am occupied, dear father, I have work of more importance, I must tend my flock of lambkins, I must turn the nether millstone, Grind to flower the grains of barley, Run the grindings through the sifter, Only have I time for grinding. Lowly growls the faithful watchdog, Seldom does he growl so strangely, Spake the master of Pohiola. Go and learn, my trusted consort, Why the Northland dogs are barking, Why the black dog signals danger. Thus his aged wife makes answer, Have no time nor inclination, I must feed my hungry household, Must prepare a worthy dinner, I must bake the toothsome biscuit, Need the dough till it is ready, Only have I strength for kneading. Spake the master of Pohiola. Dames are always in a hurry, Maidens too are ever busy, Whether warming at the oven or asleep upon their couches. Go, my son, and learn the danger, Why the black dog growls displeasure. Quickly does the son give answer, Have no time nor inclination, I am in haste to grind my hatchet, I must chop this log to cordwood, For the fire must cut the faggots, I must split the wood in fragments, Large the pile and small the firewood, Only have I strength for chopping. Still the watchdog growls in anger, Growl the whelps within the mansion, Growl the dogs chained in the kennel, Growls the black dog on the hilltop, Setting Northland in an uproar. Spake the master of Pohiola, Never, never does my black dog growl like this without a reason, Never does he bark for nothing, Does not growl at angry billows, Nor the sighing of the pine trees. Then the master of Pohiola went himself To learn the reason for the barking of the watchdogs, Strowed he through the spacious courtyards, Through the open fields beyond it, To the summit of the uplands. Looking toward his black dog barking, He beholds the muzzle pointed To a distant stormy hilltop, To a mound with alders covered. There he learned the rightful reason Why his dogs had barked so loudly, Why had growled the wool-tail-bearer, Why his whelps had signalled danger. At full sail he saw a vessel, And the ship was scarlet-colored, Entering the bay of Lempo, Saw a sledge of magic colors Gliding up the curving seashore, Or the snow-fields of Pohiola. Then the master of the Northland Hastened straightway to his dwelling, Hastened forward to his courtroom, These the accents of the master. Often strangers journey hither On the blue back of the ocean, Sailing in a scarlet vessel Rocking in the bay of Lempo. Often strangers come in sledges To the honey-lands of Louis. Spake the hostess of Pohiola, How shall we obtain a token Why these strangers journey hither? My beloved faithful daughter Lay a branch upon the fireplace, Let it burn with fire of magic, If it trickle drops of scarlet, War and bloodshed do they bring us, If it trickle drops of water, Peace and plenty bring the strangers. Northland's fair and slender maiden, Beautiful and modest daughter, Lays a sorber branch on the fireplace, Lights it with the fire of magic, Does not trickle drops of scarlet, Trickles neither blood nor water, From the wand come drops of honey, From the corner spake soar, Waco, this the language of the wizard. If the wand is dripping honey, Then the strangers that are coming, About worthy friends and suitors. Then the hostess of the Northland, With the daughter of the hostess, Straightway left their work, And hastened from their dwelling To the courtyard, Looked about in all directions, Turned their eyes upon the waters, Saw a magic-coloured vessel Rocking slowly in the harbour, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Triple sails and masts and rigging, Sable was the nether portion, And the upper scarlet coloured, At the helm an ancient hero, Leaning on his oars of copper, Saw a fleet-foot racer running, Saw a red sledge lightly follow, Saw the magic sledge emblazoned, Guided toward the courts of Louis, Saw and heard six golden cuckoos Sitting on the breakboard, Calling seven bluebirds richly coloured, Singing from the yoke and cross-bar. In the sledge a magic hero, Young and strong and proud and handsome, Holding reins upon the coarser, Spake the hostess of Pohiola, Dearest daughter, Winsome maiden, Does thou wish a noble suitor? Should these heroes come to Woody, Wouldst thou leave thy home and country, Be the bride of him that pleases, Be his faithful life companion? He that comes upon the waters, Sailing in a magic vessel, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Is the good old Vain Amoynen. In his ship are countless treasures, Richest presents from Vainola, He that rides here in his snow sledge, In his sledge of magic beauty, With the cuckoos and the bluebirds, Is the blacksmith Ilmarinen. Comet hither, empty-handed, Only brings some wisdom sayings. When they come within the dwelling, Bring a bowl of honeyed viands, Bring a pitcher with two handles, Give to him that thou wouldst follow, Give it to old Vain Amoynen, Him that brings the countless treasures, Costly presents in his vessel, Priceless gems from Kalevala. Spake the Northland's lovely daughter, This the language of the maiden, Good indeed advice maternal, But I will not wed for riches, Wed no man for countless treasures, For his worth I'll choose a husband, For his youth and fine appearance, For his noble form and features. In the olden times the maidens were not Sold by anxious mothers to the suitors That they loved not. I shall choose without his treasures Ilmarinen for his wisdom, For his worth and good behaviour, Him that forged to the wondrous Sampo, Hammered thee the lid in colours. Spake the hostess of Pohiola, Senseless daughter, child of folly, Thus to choose the ancient blacksmith, From whose brow drips perspiration, Evermore to rinse his linen, Lave his hands and eyes and forehead, Keep his ancient house in order, Little use his wit and wisdom When compared with gold and silver. This the answer of the daughter, I will never, never, never Wed the ancient Vain Amoynen With his golden priceless jewels. Never will I be a helpmate To a hero in his dirtage, Little thanks my compensation. Vain Amoynen, safely landing In advance of Ilmarinen, Pulse his gaily covered vessel From the waves upon the sea-beach, On the cylinders of birchwood, On the rollers copper-banded, Straightway hastens to the guest-room Of the hostess of Pohiola, Of the master of the Northland, Speaks these words upon the threshold To the famous maid of beauty. Come with me, thou lovely virgin, Be my bride and life-companion, Share with me my joys and sorrows, Be my honoured wife hereafter. This the answer of the maiden, Hast thou built for me the vessel, Built for me the ship of magic From the fragments of the distaff, From the splinters of the spindle? Vain Amoynen, thus replying, I have built the promised vessel, Built the wondrous ship for sailing. Firmly joined the parts by magic, It will weather roughest billows, Will outlive the winds and waters, Swiftly glide upon the blue back Of the deep and boundless ocean, It will ride the waves in beauty, Like an airy bubble-rising, Like a cork on lake and river, Through the angry seas of Northland, Through Pohiola's peaceful waters. Northland's fair and slender daughter Gives this answer to her suitor, Will not wed a sea-born hero, Do not care to rock the billows, Cannot live with such a husband, Storms would bring us pain and trouble, Winds would rack our hearts and temples, Therefore thee I cannot follow, Cannot keep thy home in order, Cannot be thy life companion, Cannot wed all vain Amoynen. End of Rune 18 Rune 19 of the Kalevala This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lernrot, Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 19 Ilmarinen's wooing Ilmarinen, hero blacksmith, The eternal metal-worker, Hastens forward to the courtroom Of the hostess of Pohiola. Of the master of the Northland, Hastens through the open portals Into Louis' home and presence. Servants come with silver pitchers, Filled with Northland's richest brewing. Honey-drink is brought And offered to the blacksmith of Finola. Ilmarinen thus replying, I shall not, in all my lifetime, Taste the drink that thou hast brought me, Till I see the maid of beauty, Fairy maiden of the rainbow. I will drink with her in gladness, For whose hand I journey hither. Spake the hostess of Pohiola. Trouble does the one selected give To him that woes and watches. Not yet are her feet in sandals. Thine a fiancet is not ready. Only canst thou woo my daughter. Only canst thou win the maiden, When thou hast by aid of magic, Plowed the serpent field of hissy. Plowed the field of hissing vipers, Touching neither beam nor handles. Once this field was plowed by Piru, Lempo furrowed it with horses, With a plowshare made of copper, With a beam of flaming iron. Never since has any hero Brought this field to cultivation. Ilmarinen of Finola, Straightway hastens to the chamber Of the maiden of the rainbow, Speaks these words in hesitation. Thou of night and dawn the daughter, Tell me, dost thou not remember, When for thee I forged the Sampo, Hammered thee the lid in colours? Thou didst square by oath the strongest, By the forge and by the anvil, By the tongs and by the hammer, In the ears of the Almighty, And before Omnisi and Ukko. Thou wouldst follow me hereafter, Be my bride, my life companion, Be my honoured wife forever. Now thy mother is exacting, Will not give to me her daughter, Till by means of magic only I have plowed the field of serpents, Plowed the hissing soil of Isi. The affianced bride of beauty Gives this answer to the suitor. O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, the eternal wonderforger, Forge thyself a golden plowshare, Forge the beam of shining silver, And of copper forge the handles. Then with ease, by aid of magic, Thou canst plow the field of serpents, Plow the hissing soil of Isi. Ilmarinen welcomes suitor, Straightway builds a forge and smithy, Places gold within the furnace, In the forge he lays the silver, Forges then a golden plowshare, Forges too a beam of silver, Forges handles out of copper, Forges boots and gloves of iron, Forges him a mail of metal, For his limbs a safe protection, Safe protection for his body. Then a horse of fire selecting, Harnesses the flaming stallion, Goes to plow the field of serpents, Plow the viperlands of Isi. In the field were countless vipers, Serpents there of every species, Crawling, writhing, hissing, stinging, Harmless all against the hero, Thus he stills the snakes of Lempo. Vipers ye by God created, Neither best nor worst of creatures, Whose wisdom comes from Ukko, And whose venom comes from Isi. Ukko is your greater master, By his will your heads are lifted, Get ye hence before my plowing, Rithe ye through the grass and stubble, Crawl ye to the nearest thicket, Keep your heads beneath the heather, Hunt our holes to Manor's kingdom If your poison heads be lifted, Then will mighty Ukko smite them With his iron pointed arrows, With the lightning of his anger. Thus the blacksmith Ilmarinan Safely plows the field of serpents, Lifts the vipers in his plowing, Berries them beneath the furrow, Harmless all against his magic. When the task had been completed, Ilmarinan quick returning, Thus addressed Pohiola's hostess. I have plowed the field of Isi, Plowed the field of hissing serpents, Stilled and banished all the vipers. Give me ancient dame, Thy daughter, fairest maiden of the Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohiola, Shall not grant to thee, my daughter, Shall not give my lovely virgin, Till Tworney's bear is muzzled, Till Manala's wolf is conquered In the forests of the Deathland, In the boundaries of Manor. Hundreds have been sent to hunt him, No one yet has been successful, All have perished in Manala. Thereupon young Ilmarinan To the maiden's chamber hastens, Thus addresses his effiancèd. Still another test demanded, I must go to Twornella, Bridal there the bear of Manor, Bring him from the Deathland forests, From Tworney's grove and empire. This advice the maiden gives him, O thou artist Ilmarinan, The eternal metal worker, Forge of steel a magic bridle, On a rock beneath the water, In the foaming triple currents. Make the straps of steel and copper, Bridal then the bear of Manor, Lead him from Tworney's forests. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinan, Forged of steel a magic bridle, On a rock beneath the water, In the foam of triple currents. Made the straps of steel and copper, Straightway went the bear to muzzle, In the forests of the Deathland, Spake these words in supplication. Ter Henneta, Ether maiden, Daughter of the fog and snowflake, Sift the fog, And let it settle all the hills, And lowland thickets, Where the wild bear feeds and lingers, That he may not see my coming, May not hear my stealthy footsteps. Ter Henneta hears his praying, Makes the fog and snowflake settle, On the covarts of the wild beasts. Thus the bear he safely bridles, Fetters him in chains of magic, In the forests of Tworney, In the blue groves of Manala. When this task had been completed, Ilmarinan quick returning, Thus addressed the ancient Louis, Give me worthy dame, Thy daughter, Give me now my bride a fiances. I have brought the bear of Manor From Tworney's fields and forests. Spake the hostess of Pohiola To the blacksmith Ilmarinan. I will only give my daughter, Give to thee the maid of beauty, When the monster pike thou catchest In the river of Tworney, In Manala's fatal waters, Using neither hooks nor fishnets, Neither boat nor fishing tackle. Hundreds have been sent to catch him, No one yet has been successful, All have perished in Manala. Much disheartened, Ilmarinan hastened To the maiden's chamber, Thus addressed the rainbow maiden. Now a third test is demanded, Much more difficult than ever. I must catch the pike of Manor In the river of Tworney, And without my fishing tackle Hard the third test of the hero. This advice the maiden gives him, O thou hero Ilmarinan, Never, never be discouraged. In thy furnace forge an eagle From the fire of ancient magic. He will catch the pike of Manor, Catch the monster fish in safety From the death stream of Tworney, From Manala's fatal waters. Then the suitor, Ilmarinan, The eternal artist-forgeman, In the furnace forged an eagle From the fire of ancient wisdom. For this giant bird of magic Forged he talons out of iron, And his beak of steel and copper, Seats himself upon the eagle On his back between the wing-bones, Thus addresses he his creature, Gives the bird of fire this order. Mighty eagle, bird of beauty, Fly thou wither I direct thee To Tworney's coal-black river To the blue deeps of the death stream, Seize the mighty fish of Manor, Catch for me this water monster. Swiftly flies the magic eagle, Giant bird of worth and wonder, To the river of Tworney, There to catch the pike of Manor. One wing brushes on the waters, While the other sweeps the heavens. In the ocean dips his talons, Sweats his beak on mountain ledges. Safely landing, Ilmarinen, The immortal artist-forger, Hunts the monster of the death stream, While the eagle hunts and fishes In the waters of Manala. From the river rose a monster, Grassed the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Tried to drag him to his sea cave. Quick the eagle pounced upon him, With his metal beak he seized him, Wrenched his head and rent his body, Hulled him back upon the bottom Of the deep and fatal river, Freed his master, Ilmarinen. Then arose the pike of Manor, Came the water-dog in silence, Of the pikes was not the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest. Tongue the length of double hatchets, Teeth as long as Fenrake handles, Mouth as broad as triple streamlets, Back as wide as seven sea-boats, Tried to snap the magic blacksmith, Tried to swallow Ilmarinen. Swiftly swoops the mighty eagle, Of the birds was not the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest. Mouth as wide as seven streamlets, Tongue as long as seven javelins, Like five crooked scythe's his talons, Swoops upon the pike of Manor. Quick the giant fish endangered darts, And flounders in the river, Dragging down the mighty eagle, Lashing up the very bottom To the surface of the river. When the mighty bird uprising, Leaves the wounded pike in water, Sores aloft on worsted pinions, To his home in Upper Aether. Sores a while, and sails, and circles, Circles o'er the reddened waters, Swoops again on lightning pinions, Strikes with mighty force his talons Into the shoulder of his victim, Strikes the second of his talons On the flinty mountain ledges, On the rocks with iron hardened. From the cliffs rebound his talons, Slip the flinty rocks o'er hanging, And the monster pike resisting Dives again beneath the surface, To the bottom of the river, From the talons of the eagle. Deep the wounds upon the body Of the monster of Tuoni. Still a third time sores the eagle, Sores and sails and quickly circles, Swoops again upon the monster, Fire out shooting from his pinions, Both his eyeballs flashing lightning, With his beak of steel and copper, Grasps again the pike of mana, Firmly planted are his talons In the rocks and in his victim, Drags the monster from the river, Lifts the pike above the waters, From Tuoni's coal-black river, From the blue back of Manala. Thus the third time does the eagle Bring success from former failures, Thus at last the eagle catches Mana's pike, The worst of fishes, Swiftest swimmer of the waters, From the river of Tuoni. None could see Manala's river For the myriad of fish scales, Hardly could one see through Aether, For the feathers of the eagle, Relics of the mighty contest. Then the bird of copper talons Took the pike with scales of silver, To the pine tree's topmost branches, To the fir tree plumed with needles, Tore the monster fish in pieces, Ate the body of his victim, Left the head for Ilmarinen. Spake the blacksmith to the eagle, O thou bird of evil nature, What thy thought and what thy motive, Thou hast eaten what I needed, Evidence of my successors, Thoughtless eagle, Whittler's instinct, Thus to mar the spoils of conquest. But the bird of metal talons Hastened onward, soaring upward, Rising higher into Aether, Rising, flying, soaring, Sailing to the borders of the long clouds, Made the vault of Aether tremble Split apart the dome of heaven, Broke the coloured bow of Ukko, Tore the moonhorns from their sockets, Disappeared beyond the sunland, To the home of the triumphant. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen Took the pike head to the hostess Of the ever-dismeled Northland, Thus addressed the ancient Louis. Let this head forever serve The as a guest bench for thy dwelling, Evidence of hero triumphs. I have caught the pike of Mana, I have done as thou demandest, Three my victories in Deathland, Three the tests of magic heroes. Milstau give me now thy daughter, Give to me the maid of beauty. Spake the hostess of Pohiola, Badly is the test accomplished, Thou hast torn the pike in pieces, From his neck the head is severed, Of his body thou hast eaten, Brought to me this worthless relic. These the words of Ilmarinen, When the victory is greatest, Do we suffer greatest losses. From the river of Tuoni, From the kingdom of Manala, I have brought to thee this trophy, Thus the third task is completed. Tell me, is the maiden ready, Wilt thou give the bride a fiancet? Spake the hostess of Pohiola, I will give to thee my daughter, Will prepare my snow-white virgin For the suitor Ilmarinen. Thou hast won the maid of beauty, Bride is she of thine hereafter, Fit companion of thy fireside, Help and joy of all thy lifetime. On the floor a child was sitting, And the babe this tale related. There appeared within this dwelling, Came a bird within the castle, From the east came flying hither, From the east a monstrous eagle, One wing touched the vault of heaven, While the other swept the ocean, With his tail upon the waters, Reached his beak beyond the cloudlets, Looked about, and eagle watching, Flew around and sailing, soaring, Flew away to Hero Castle, Knocked three times with beak of copper On the castle roof of iron, But the eagle could not enter. Then the eagle, looking round him, Flew again and sailed and circled, Flew then to the mother's castle, Lovely wrapped with heavy knocking On the mother's roof of copper. But the eagle could not enter. Then the eagle, looking round him, Flew a third time, sailing, soaring, Flew then to the virgin's castle, Knocked again with beak of copper On the virgin's roof of linen. Easy for him there to enter, Flew upon the castle chimney, Quick descending to the chamber, Pulled the clapboards from the studying, Tore the linen from the rafters, Perched upon the chamber window, Near the walls of many colours, On the crossbars gaily feathered, Looked upon the curly-headed, Looked upon their golden ringlets, Looked upon the snow-white of virgins, On the purest of the maidens, On the fairest of the daughters, On the maid with pearly necklace, On the maiden wreathed in flowers, Perched a while and looked admiring, Swooped upon the maid of beauty, On the purest of the virgins, On the whitest, on the fairest, On the stateliest and grandest, Swooped upon the rainbow daughter Of the dismal Sariola. Grasped her in his mighty talons, Bore away the maid of beauty, Made of fairest form and feature, Made adorned with pearly necklace, Decked in feathers iridescent, Fragrant flowers upon her bosom, Scarlet band around her forehead, Golden rings upon her fingers, Fairest maiden of the Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohiola When the baby's tale had ended. Tell me how my child-beloved Thou hast learned about the maiden, Hast obtained the information, How her flaxen ringlets nestled, How the maiden's silver glistened, How the virgin's gold was lauded. Shon the silver sun upon thee, Did the moonbeams bring this knowledge? From the floor the child made answer. Thus I gained the information. Moles of good luck led me hither, To the home of the distinguished, To the guest-room of the maiden. Good name bore her worthy father, He that sailed the magic vessel. Better name enjoyed the mother, She that baked the bread of barley, She that kneaded wheat and biscuits, Fed her many guests in Northland. Thus the information reached me, Thus the distant stranger heard it, Heard the virgin had arisen. Once I walked within the courtyard, Stepping near the virgin's chamber, At an early hour of morning, ere the sun had broken slumber, Whirling rose the soot in cloudlets, Blackened wreaths of smoke came rising From the chamber of the maiden, From thy daughter's lofty chimney. There the maid was busy grinding, Moved the handles of the millstone, Making voices like the cuckoo, Like the ducks the side-holes sounded, And the sifter like the goldfish, Like the sea-pearls sang the grindstones. Then a second time I wandered To the border of the meadow, In the forest was the maiden, Rocking on a fragrant hillock, Dying red in iron vessels, And in copper kettles yellow. Then a third time did I wandered To the lovely maiden's window. There I saw thy daughter weaving, Heard the flying of her shuttle, Heard the beating of her loom-lace, Heard the rattling of her treadles, Heard the whoring of her yarn-reel. Spake the hostess of Pohiola. Now, alas, beloved daughter, I have often taught this lesson, Do not sing among the pine trees, Do not call her down the valleys, Do not hang thy head in walking, Do not bear thine arms nor shoulders, Keep the secrets of thy bosom, Hide thy beauty and thy power. This I told thee in the autumn, Taught thee in the summer season, Sang thee in the budding springtime, Sang thee when the snows were falling. Let us build a place for hiding, Let us build the smallest windows, Where may weave my fairest daughter, Where my maid may ply her shuttle, Where my joy may work unnoticed By the heroes of the Northland, By the suitors of Vynola. From the floor the child maid answer, Fourteen days the young child numbered. Easy it is to hide a war-horse In the Northland fields and stables, Hard indeed to hide a maiden, Having lovely form and features. Build of stone a distant castle In the middle of the ocean, Keep within thy lovely maiden, Train thou there thy winsome daughter. Not long hidden canst thou keep her. Maidens will not grow and flourish, Kept apart from men and heroes, Will not live without their suitors, Will not thrive without their woors. Thou canst never hide a maiden, Neither on the land nor water. Now the ancient Vynomuinen Head down bent and heavy-hearted, Wanders to his native country, To Vynola's peaceful meadows, To the plains of Kalevala, Chanting as he journeys homeward. I have passed the age for wooing. Woe is me, rejected suitor, Woe is me, a witless minstrel That I did not woo and marry, When my face was young and winsome, When my hand was warm and welcome. Youth dethrones my age and station, Wealth is nothing, wisdom worthless, When a hero goes a wooing With a poor but younger brother. Fatal error that a hero Does not wed in early manhood, In his youth does not be master Of a worthy wife and household. Thus the ancient Vynomuinen Sends the edict to his people. Old men must not go a wooing, Must not swim the sea of anger, Must not row upon a wager, Must not run a race for glory With the younger sons of Northland. End of Rune 19 Now we sing the wondrous legends, Songs of wedding feasts and dances, Sing the melodies of wedlock, Sing the songs of old tradition, Sing a Vilmarine's marriage To the maiden of the rainbow, First daughter of the Northland, Sing the drinking songs of Poya, Long prepared they for the wedding In Poyola's halls and chambers, In the Kotsasariola, Many things that Louis ordered, Great indeed the preparations For the marriage of the daughter, For the feasting of the heroes, For the drinking of the strangers, For the feeding of the poor folk, For the people's entertainment Grew an ox in Fargarhara. Not the largest nor the smallest Was the ox that grew in Suomi, But his size was all sufficient, For his tail was sweeping the almond, And his head was over Kemi, Horns in length a hundred fathoms, Longer than the horns his mouth was, Seven days it took a weasel To encircle neck and shoulders, One whole day a swallow journeyed From one horn tip to the other, Did not stop between for resting. Thirty days the squirrel traveled From the tail to reach the shoulders, But he could not gain the horn tip Till the moon had long passed over. This young ox of huge dimensions, This great calf of distant Suomi, Was conducted from Karhala To the meadows of Boyola, At each horn a hundred heroes, At his head and neck a thousand, When the mighty ox was lassoed, Led away to Northland pastures, Peacefully the monster journeyed By the bays of Sariola, Ate the pasture on the borders, To the clouds arose his shoulders, And his horns to highest heaven. Not in all of Sariola Could a butcher be discovered That could kill the ox furloughy. None of all the sons of Northland, In her hosts of giant people, In her rising generation, In the hosts of those grown older, Came a hero from a distance, Very conus from Karellen, And these words the graybeard uttered, Wait, oh wait, Thou ox of Suomi, Till I bring My ancient war club, Than our Smitey on thy forehead. Break thy skull, Thou winning victim. Nevermore wilt thou in summer, Browse the woods of Sariola, Bear our pastures, fields and forests, Thou ox will feed no longer Through the length and breadth Of Northland, On the borders of this ocean. When the ancient Viracanus Started out the ox to slaughter, When Paul Voinan swung his war club, Quit the victim turned his forehead, Flashed his flaming eyes upon him, To the fir tree leaped the hero, In the thicket hid Paul Voinan, Hid the gray-haired Viracanus. Everywhere they seek a butcher, One to kill the ox of Suomi, In the country of Karellen, And among the Suomi giants, In the quiet fields of Estland, On the battlefields of Sweden, Mid the mountaineers of Lapland, In the magic fens of Turia, Seek him in Twoney's empire, In the death-courts of Manala, Long the search and unsuccessful On the blue-back of the ocean, On the far-out-stretching pastures, There arose from out the sea waves, Rows a hero from the waters, On the white-capped roaring breakers, From the waters broad expanses, Nor belonged he to the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest, Made his bed within a seashell, Stood erect beneath a flower-sive, Hero old with hands of iron, And his face was copper-colored, Quick the hero full unfolded, Like the full corn from the kernel, On his head a hat of flint-stone, On his feet were sand-stone sandals, In his hand a golden cleaver, And the blade was copper-handled, Thus at last they found a butcher, Found the magic ox a slayer, Nothing has been found so mighty That it has not found a master. As the sea-god saw his booty, Quickly rushed he on his victim, Hurled him to his knees before him, Quickly felled the calf of Swarmy, Fell the young ox of Corralyn, Bountifully meat was furnished, Filled at least a thousand hogs-heads Of his blood were seven boat-fulls, And a thousand weight of suet For the banquet of Poyala, For the marriage-feast of Northland. In Poyala was a guest-room, Ample was the hall of Louis, Was in length a hundred furlongs, And in breadth was nearly fifty. When upon the roof a rooster Crowed his break of early morning, No one on the earth could hear him, When the dog barked at one entrance, None could hear him at the other. Louis, hostess of Poyala, Hastens to the hall and courtroom, In the center speaks as follows, Once indeed will come the liquor, Who will brew me beer from barley, Who will make the mead abundant For the people of the Northland, Coming to my daughter's marriage, To her drinking-feast and nuptials, Cannot comprehend the malting, Never have I learned the secret, Nor the origin of brewing. Spake an old man from his corner, Beer arises from the barley, Comes from barley, hops and water, And the fire gives no assistance, Hop-vine was the son of Ramu, Small the seed in earth was planted, Cultivated in the loose soil, Scattered like the evil serpents, On the break of color of waters, On the osmophiles and boulders, There the young plant grew and flourished, There arose the climbing hop-vine, Clinging to the rocks and alders, Man of good luck sold the barley, On the osmophiles and lowlands, And the barley grew and flourished, Grew and spread in rich abundance, Fed upon the air and water, On the osmophiles and highlands, On the fields of Cali of heroes. Time had traveled little distance, There the hops and trees were humming, Barley in the fields was singing, And from Cali as well the water, This the language of the trio. Let us join our triple forces, Join to each the other's powers, Sad alone to live and struggle, Little use in working singly, Better we should toil together, As motar the beer prepared, Brewer of the drink refreshing, Takes the golden grains of barley, Taking six of barley kernels, Taking seven tips of hop-fruit, Filling seven cups with water, On the fire she sets the cauldron, Boils the barley hops and water, Let's them steep and sieve and bubble, Brewing thus the beer delicious, And the hottest days of summer, On the foggy promontory, On the island forest covered, Poured in two birch wood barrels, Into hogs heads made of oak wood, Thus did Osmotor of Caliv, Blew together hops and barley, Could not generate the ferment. Thinking long and long debating, Thus she spake in trouble accents, What will bring the effervescence, Who will add the needed factor, That the beer may foam in sparkle, May ferment and be delightful? Calivatar magic maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Swiftly moving lightly stepping, In her trimly buckled sandals, Steps upon the birch wood bottom, Turns one way and then another. In the center of the cauldron finds within, A splinter lying from the bottom lifts the fragment, Turns it in her fingers musing. What may come of this I know not, In the hands of magic maidens, In the virgin hands of Kapo, Snowy virgin of the Northland. Calivatar took the splinter to the magic virgin Kapo, Who by unknown force and insight Rubbed her hands and knees together, And produced a snow-white squirrel. Thus instructed she her creature, Gave the squirrel these directions, Snow-white squirrel, Mountain jewel, flower of the field, And forest, hasty wither I would send thee, Into Metzola's wide limits, Into Tapu's seat of wisdom, Hastened through the heavy treetops, Wisely through the thickest branches, That the eagle may not seize thee, Thus escape the bird of heaven, Bring me ripe cones from the fir tree, From the pine tree bring me seedlings, Bring them to the hands of Kapo, For the Bureau of Osmo's daughter. Quickly hasten forth the squirrel, Quickly sped the nibbled broad tail, Swiftly hopping on its journey, From one thicket to another, From the birch tree to the aspen, From the pine tree to the willow, From the soab tree to the alder, Jumping here and there with method, Crossed the eagle woods in safety, Into Metzola's wide limits, Into Tapu's seat of wisdom. There perceived three magic pine trees, There perceived three smaller fir trees. Quickly climbed the dark green branches, Was not captured by the eagle, Was not mangled in his talons, Broke the young cones from the fir tree, Cut the shoots of pine tree branches, Hid the cones within his pouches, Wrapped them in his fir-grown mittens, Brought them to the hands of Kapo, To the magic virgin's fingers. Kapo took the cone selected, Lay them in the beer for ferment, But it brought no effervescence, And the beer was cold and lifeless. Osmo tar, the beer-prepare, Kapo, brewer of the liquor, Deeply thought and long considered. What will bring the effervescence, Who will lend me aid efficient, That the beer may foam and sparkle, May ferment and be refreshing? Calvator sparkling made, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Softly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly buckled sandals, Steps again upon the bottom, Turns one way and then another, In the center of the cauldron, Sees a chip upon the bottom, Takes it from its place of resting, Looks upon the chip and muses. What may come of this, I know not. In the hands of mystic maidens, In the hands of magic Kapo, In the virgin's snow-white fingers. Calvator took the birch-chip To the magic maiden Kapo, Gave it to the white-faced maiden Kapo, By the aid of magic, Rubbed her hands and knees together, And produced a magic martin, The martin golden-breasted, Thus instructed her creature, Gave them martin these directions. Thou, my golden-breasted martin, Thou, my son of golden color, Hast thou wither, I may send thee, To the beardens of the mountain, To the gratos of the grower, Gather yeast upon thy fingers, Gather foam from lips of anger, From the lips of bears in battle, Bring it to the hands of Kapo, To the hands of Osmo's daughter. Then the martin golden-breasted, Full consenting hastened onward, Quickly bounding on his journey, Lightly leaping through the distance, Leaping all the widest rivers, Leaping over rocky fissures, To the beardens of the mountain, To the gratos of the grower, Where the wild bears fight each other, Where they pass a dread existence, Ion rocks their softest pillows In the fastnesses of mountains. From their lips the foam was dripping, From their tongues the froth of anger, This the martin deftly gathered, Brought it to the maiden Kapo, Laid it in her dainty fingers. Osmo tar the beer preparer, Brewer of the beer of Barre, Used the beer foam as a ferment, But it brought no effervescence, Did not make the liquor sparkle. Osmo tar the beer preparer, Fought again and long debated, Who or what will bring the ferment, That my beer may not be lifeless? Calvator, magic maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Softly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly buckled sandals, Steps again upon the bottom, Turns one way and then the other, In the center of the cauldron, Sees a pod upon the bottom, Lifts it in her snow-white fingers, Turns it oar and oar and muses. What may come of this I know not? In the hands of magic maidens, In the hands of mystic Kapo, In the snowy vergence fingers. Calvator, sparkling maiden, Gave the pod to magic Kapo, Kapo by the aid of magic, Rubbed the pod upon her kneecap, And a honey bee came flying From the pod within her fingers. Kapo thus addressed her birdling, Little bee with honeyed winglets, King of all the fragrant flowers, Fly thou wither I direct thee, To the islands in the ocean, To the water cliffs and grottos, Where a sleeper maid has fallen, Girdled with a belt of copper, By her side are honey grasses, By her lips are fragrant flowers. Herbs and flowers, honey laden, Gather there the sweetened juices, Gather honey on thy winglets, From the calcius of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, Bring it to the hands of Kapo, To the hands of Osmo's daughter. Then the bee, the swift winged birdling, Flew away with lightning swiftness, On his journey to the islands, Or the highways of the ocean, Journied one day, then a second, Journied all the next day onward, Till the third day evening, Brought him to the islands in the ocean, To the water cliffs and grottos, Found the maiden sweetly sleeping, In her silver, tinseled raiment, Girdled with a belt of copper, In a nameless meadow sleeping, In the honey fields of magic, By her side were honeyed grasses, By her lips were fragrant flowers, Silver stalks with golden petals, Dipped its winglets in the honey, Dipped its fingers in the juices Of the sweetest of the flowers, Brought the honey back to Kapo, To the mystic maiden's fingers. Osmotah, the beer preparer, Placed the honey in the liquor, Kapo mixed the beer and honey In the wedding beer fermented, Rose the live beer upward, Upward from the bottom of the vessels, Upward in the tubs of birchwood, Forming higher, higher, higher, Till it touched the oak and handles, Overthrowing all the cauldrons, To the ground it foamed and sparkled, Sank away in sand and gravel, Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, ere the heroes came in numbers, To the foaming beer of Northland, Rushed to drink the sparkling liquor, ere all others lemon-canon, Drank and grew intoxicated On the beer of Osmotah's daughter, On the honey-drink of Kalev, Osmotah, the beer preparer, Kapo brewer of the barley, Spaked these words in saddened accents, Rose me, my life hard-fated, Badly have I brewed the liquor, Have not brewed the beer in wisdom, Will not live within its vessels, Overflows and fills poiola, From the treetop sings the red breast, From the aspen calls the robin, Do not grieve, thy beer is worthy, Put it into oaken vessels, Into strong-willing barrels, Firmly bound with hoops of copper, Thus was brewed the beer of Northland At the hands of Osmotah's daughter, This the origin of brewing beer from Kalev, Ops in barley, Great indeed the reputation Of the ancient beer of Kalev, Said to make the feeble hardy, Famed to dry the tears of women, Famed to cheer the broken-hearted, Make the aged young and supple, Make the timid brave and mighty, Make the brave man even braver, Feel the heart with joy and gladness, Feel the mind with wisdom sings, Feel the tongue with ancient legends, Only makes the fool more foolish, When the hostess of Pojola Heard how beer was first fermented, Heard the origin of brewing, Straight away did she fill with water, Many oaken tubs and barrels, Filled but half the largest vessels, Mixed the barley with the water, Added also hops abundant. Well, she mixed the triple forces In her tubs of oak and birch wood, Heated stones for months, Succeeding, thus to boil the magic mixture, Steeped through the days of summer, Burned the wood of many forests, Emptied all the springs of poya, Daily did the forests lessen, And the wells gave up their waters, Thus to aid the hostess Louie In the brewing of the liquors, From the water hops and barley, And from honey of the islands, For the wedding feast of Northland, For Pojola's great carousel, And rejoicings at the marriage Of the maiden of the rainbow, To the blacksmith Ilmaranen, Metalworker of Vynola, Smoke is seen upon the island, Fire upon the promontory black smoke, Rising to the heavens from the fire, Upon the island, Fills the clouds the half of poya, Fills karelins, Many hemlets all the people look, And wonder, just the chorus of the women, Once of rising all these small clouds, Why this dreadful fire in Northland Is not like the smoke of campfires, Is too large for fires of shepherds. Lemon Canaan's ancient mother journey, In the early morning for some water to the fountain, Saw the smoke arise to heaven In the region of Pojola, These the words the mother uttered, To the smoke of battle heroes, From the beat of warring armies, Even Arti, island hero, Ancient wizard, Lemon Canaan, Also known as Calcomielli, Looked upon the scene in wonder, Thought a while and spake as follows, I would like to see this nearer, Learn the cause of all this trouble, Whence this smoke and great confusion, Whether smoke from heat of battle, Or the bonfires of the shepherds, Calcomielli gazed and pondered, Studied long the rising smoke-clouds, Came not from the heat of battle, Came not from the shepherd bonfires, Heard they were the fires of Rui, Brewing beer and saliola, On Pojola's promontory. Long and oft looked Lemon Canaan, Strained in eagerness his vision, Stared and peered and thought and wondered, Looked abashed and envy-swollen, Beloved a second mother, Northland's well-intentioned hostess, Blew thy beer of honey-flavour, Make thy liquor's form and sparkle, For thy many friends invited, Brew it well for Lemon Canaan, For his marriage in Pojola With the maiden of the rainbow. Finally the beer was ready, The average of noble heroes, Stored away in casks and barrels, There to rest awhile in silence, In the cellars of the Northland, In the copper-banded vessels, In the magic oaken hog's heads, Plugs and faucets made of copper. Then the hostess of Pojola Skillfully prepared the dishes, Laid them all with careful fingers, In the boiling pans and kettles, Ordered countless loaves of barley, Ordered many liquid dishes, All the delicacies of Northland, For the feasting of her people, For their richest entertainment, For the nuptial songs and dances, At the marriage of her daughter, With the blacksmith Ilmarinan. When the loaves were baked and ready, When the dishes were all seasoned, Time had gone, but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, Here the beer and casks imprisoned, Loudly wrapped and sang and murmured, Come ye heroes, come and take me, Come and let me cheer your spirits, Make you sing the songs of wisdom, That with honor ye may praise me, Sing the songs of beer in motor. Straight away Louis sought a minstrel, Magic bard and artist, Singer that the beer might well be lauded, Might be praised in song and honor. First as bard they brought a salmon, Also brought a pike from ocean, But the salmon had no talent, And the pike had little wisdom. Teeth of pike and gills of salmon Were not made for singing legends. Then again they sought a singer, Magic minstrel, beer enchanter, Thus to praise the drink of heroes, Sing the songs of joy and gladness. And a boy was brought for singing, But the boy had little knowledge, Could not praise the beer in honor. Children's tongues are filled with questions, Children cannot speak in wisdom, Cannot sing the ancient legends, Stronger grew the beer imprisoned In the copper-banded vessels, Locked behind the copper faucets, Boiled and formed and sang and murmured, If you do not bring a singer, That will sing my worth in motor, That will sing my praise deserving. I will burst these bands of copper, Burst the heads of all these barrels, Will not serve the best of heroes, Till he sings my many virtues. Louie, hostess of Puyola, Call the trusted maiden servant, Sent her to invite the people To the marriage of her daughter. These the words that Louie uttered, Oh, my trusted, truthful maiden, Servant made to me belonging, Call together all my people, Call the heroes to my banquet, Ask them rich and ask the needy, Ask the blind and deaf and crippled, Ask the young and ask the aged, Go thou to the hills and hedges, To the highways and the byways, Urge them to my daughter's wedding, Bring the blind and sorely troubled, In my boats upon the waters, In my sledges bring the halting, With the old and sick and needy, Ask the whole of Sariola, Ask the people of Karelian, Ask the ancient Vainamoinen, Famous Bard and Wisdom Singer, But I give command explicit, Not to ask Wild Lemon Canaan, Not the island-dweller Ati, This the question of the Servant, Why not ask Wild Lemon Canaan, Ancient islander and minstrel? Louie gave this simple answer, Good the reason that I give thee, Why the wizard Lemon Canaan, Must not have an invitation To my daughter's feast and marriage, Artie courts the heat of battle, Lemon Canaan fosters trouble, Skillful fighter of the virtues, Evil thinking, acting evil, He would bring but pain and sorrow, He would just endure at maidens, In their trimly buckled raiment, Cannot ask the evil-minded. Thus again the Servant questions. Tell me how to know this Artie, Also known as Lemon Canaan, That I may not ask him hither, Do not know the Isle of Artie, Nor the home of Calcumiele, Speak the hostess of Boyola, Easy tis to know the wizard, Easy find the Artie dwelling, Artie lives on Yonder Island, On that point to us Lemon Canaan, In his mansion near the water, Far at sea his home and dwelling, There upon the trusted maidens Spread the wedding invitations To the people of Boyola, To the tribes of Calaveala, Ask the friendless, ask the homeless, Ask the laborers and shepherds, Ask the fishermen and hunters, Ask the deaf, the dumb, the crippled, Ask the young, and ask the aged, Ask the rich, and ask the needy. Did not give an invitation To the reckless Lemon Canaan, Island-dweller of the ocean, And of Rune 20. Recording by Joseph Tabler Rune 21 of the Calaveala This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Calaveala, Compiled by Elias Lenrod, Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 21 Ilmarinen's Wedding Feast Lohi, Hostess of the Northland, Agent Dame of Sariola, While at work within her dwelling, Heard the whips crack on the fennlands, Heard the rattle of the sledges, To the Northward turned her glances, Turned her vision to the sunlight, And her thoughts ran on as follow. Who are these in bright apparel, On the banks of Porya waters? Are they friends or hostile armies? Then the hostess of the Northland, Looked again and well considered, Drew much nearer to examine, Found they were not hostile armies, Found that they were friends and suitors. In the midst was Ilmarinen, Son-in-law to ancient Lohi, When the hostess of Poryola, Saw the son-in-law approaching, She addressed the words that follow. I had thought the winds were raging, That the piles of wood were falling, Saw the pebbles in commotion, Or perchance the ocean roaring. Then I hastened nearer, nearer, Drew still nearer and examined, Found the winds were not in battle, Found the piles of wood unshaken, Found the ocean was not roaring, Nor the pebbles in commotion. Found my son-in-law was coming, With his heroes and attendants, Heroes counted by the hundreds. Should you ask of me the question, How I recognize the bright groom, Mid the hosts of men and heroes, I should answer, I should tell you. As the hazel bush in Copsis, As the oak tree in the forest, As the moon among the planets, Drives the groom a cold black coarser, Running like the famished black dog, Flying like the hungry raven, Graceful as the lark at morning. Golden cuckoos, six in number, Twitter on the birch and crossbow, There are seven bluebird singing, On the racer's hame and collar. Noise is here, they in the courtyard, On the highway here the sledges, To the court comes Ilmarinen, With his bodyguard of heroes. In the midst the chosen suitor, Not too far in front of others, Not too far behind his fellows. Spake the hostess of Poeola. High ye hither, men and heroes, Haste ye watchers to the stables, There unhitched the suitor's stallion, Lower well the racer's breastplate, There undo the straps and buckles, Loosen well the shafts and traces, And conduct the suitor hither, Give my son-in-law good welcome. Ilmarinen turned his racer Into lowe's yard and stables, And descended from his snow sledge. Spake the hostess of Poeola. Come, thou servant of my bidding, Best of all my trusted servants, Take at once the bride-group's coarser, From the shafts adorned with silver, From the curving arch of Willow, Lift the harness trimmed in copper, Tie the white-face to the manger, Treat the suitor's deed with kindness, Lead him carefully to shelter, By his soft and shining bridle, By his halter tipped with silver. Let him roll among the sand-hills, On the bottom soft and even, On the borders of the snow-banks, In the fields of milky colour. Lead the heroes deed to water, Lead him to the Poeola fountains, Where the living streams are flowing, Sweet as milk of human kindness, From the roots of silvery birches, Underneath the shade of aspens. Feed the coarser of the suitor, On the sweetest corn and barley, On the summer wheat and clover, In the cauldron steeped in sweetness, Feed him at the golden manger, In the boxes lined with copper. At my manger richly furnished, In the warmest of the stables, Tie him with a silk-like halter, To the golden rings and staples, To the hooks of purest silver, Set in beams of birch and oakwood. Feed him on the hay the sweetest, Feed him on the corn nutritious, Give the best my barns can furnish. Carry well the suitor's coarser, With the curry-cum of fishbone. Brush his hair with silken brushes, Put his mane and tail in order, Cover well with flannel blankets, Blankets wrought in golden silver, Buckets forged from shining copper. Come ye small lads of the village, Lead the suitor to my chambers, With your aubern locks uncovered, From your hands remove your mittens, See if he can lead the hero Through the door without his stooping. Lifting not the upper crossbar, Lowering not the oak and threshold, Moving not the birch and casings, Grate the hero who must enter. Illmarinen is too stately, Cannot enter through the portals, Not the sun-in-law and bridegroom, Till the portals have been heightened. Taller by ahead the suitor, Than the doorways of the mansion. Quick the servants of Poryola Tore way the upper crossbar, That his cap might not be lifted, Made the oak and threshold lower, That the hero might not stumble, Made the birch-wood portals wider, Open full the door of welcome, Easy entrance for the suitor. Speaks the hostess of the Northland, As the bridegroom freely passes Through the doorway of her dwelling. Things are due to thee, or uko, That my sun-in-law has entered. Let me now my halls examine, Make the bridal chambers ready. Finest linen on my tables, Softest fur upon my benches, Birch and flooring scrubbed to whiteness, All my rooms in perfect order. Then the hostess of Poryola Visited her spacious dwelling, Did not recognize her chambers. Every room had been remodeled, Changed by force of mighty magic. All the halls were newly burnished, Hedgehog bones were used for ceilings, Bones of reindeer for foundations, Bones of wolverine for door-sills, For the crossbars bones of row-buck, Applewood were all the rafters, All the wood the window casings, Scales of trout adorned the windows, And the fires were set in flowers. All the seeds were made of silver, All the floors of copper tiling, Gold adorned were all the tables, On the floor were silken mittings, Every fireplace set in copper, Every hearthstone cut from marble, On each shelf were colored seashells, Curious tree was their protection. To the courtroom came the hero, Chosen suitor from Vainola. These the words of Ilmarinen, Send, O Uko, health and pleasure, To this ancient home and dwelling, To this mansion which they fashioned, Spake the hostess of Poryola, Let thy coming be auspicious To these halls of the unworthy, To the home of Dynafiant. To this dwelling lowly fashioned, Mid the lindens and the aspens. Come ye maidens that should serve me, Come ye fellows from the village, Bring me fire upon the birch bark, Like the faggots of the fir tree, That I may behold the bridegroom, Chosen suitor of my daughter, Fairy maiden of the rainbow, See the color of his eyeballs, Whether they are blue or sable, See if they are warm and faithful. Quick the young lads from the village, Brought the fire upon the birch bark, Broaded on the tips of pine wood, And the fire and smoke commingled, Roll and roar about the hero, Blackening the suitor's visage, And the hostess speaks as follows, Bring the fire upon a taper, On the waxen tapers bring it. Then the maidens did aspidden, Quickly brought the lighted tapers, Made the suitor's eyeballs glisten, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy, Made his eyes of sable color, Sparkled like the foam of waters, Like the reed grass on the margin, Colored as the ocean jewels, Iridescent as the rainbow. Come, ye fellows of the Hamlet, Lead my son-in-law and hero, To the highest seat at table, To the seat of greatest honor, With his back upon the blue wall, Looking on my bounteous tables, Facing all the guests of Northland. Then the hostess of Poryola Served her guests in great abundance, Rich as drinks and rare as vines, First of all she served a bridegroom, On his platters, Honeyed biscuit, And the sweetest river-sorman, Seasoned butter, roasted bacon, All the dainties of Poryola. Then the helpers served the others, Filled the plates of all invited, With the varied food of Northland. Spake the hostess of Poryola. Come, ye maidens from the village, Hither bring the beer in pitchers, In the urns with double handles, To the many guests in gathered, Here all others served a bridegroom. Thereupon the merry maidens, Brought the beer in silver pitchers, From the copper-banded vessels, For the wedding guests assembled, And the beer, fermenting, Sparkled on the beard of Ilmarinen, On the beards of many heroes, When the guests had all partaken Of the wondrous beer of Bali, Spake the beer in merry accents, Through the tongs of the magicians, Through the tong of many a hero, Through the tong of Vainamoinen, Famed to be the sweetest singer, Of the Northland bards and minstrels, These the words of the enchanter. O thou beer of honeyed flavor, Let us not imbibe in silence, Let some heroes sing thy praises, Sing thy worth in golden measures, Let the hostess start to singing, Let the bridegroom sound thy virtues, Have our songs thus quickly vanished, Have our joyful tongs grown silent, Evil then has been the brewing, Then the beer must be unworthy, That it does not cheer the singer, Does not move the merry minstrel, That the golden guests are joyless, And the cuckoo is not singing. Never will these benches echo, Till the bench guests chant thy virtues, Nor the floor resound thy praises, Till the floor guests sing in comcard, Nor the windows join the chorus, Till the window guests have spoken. All the tables will keep silence, Till the heroes toast thy virtues, Little singing from the chimney, Till the chimney guests have chanted. On the floor a child was sitting, Thus the little boy made answer. I am small and young in singing, Have perchance but little wisdom, Be that at this may my seniors, Since the elder minstrel sing not, Nor the heroes chant their legends, Nor the hostess lead the singing, I will sing my simple stories, Sing my little store of knowledge, To the pleasure of the evening, To the joy of the invited. Near the fire reclined an old man, And the gravy it thus made answer. Not the time for children singing, Children's wisdom is too ready, Children's songs are filled with trifles, Filled with shrewd and vain deceptions, Maiden's songs are full of follies, Leave the songs and incantations To the ancient wizard singers, Leave the tales of times primeval, To the minstrel of Vynola, To the hero of the Northrend, To the ancient Vynamoinen. Thereupon Osmoinen answered, Are there not some sweeter singers In this honoured congregation, That will clasp their hands together, Sing the ancient songs unbroken, Thus begin the incantations, Make these ancient halls re-echo, For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of the ingethered. From the hearth don't spake the gravy it, Not the singer of Pojola, Not a minstrel nor magician, That was better skilled in chanting, Legends of the days departed, Than was I when I was singing, In my years of vain ambition. Then I chanted tales of heroes On the blue-back of the waters, Sang the vellas of my people In the veils and on the mountains, Through the verdant fields and forests, Sweet my voice and skilled my singing. All my songs were highly lauded, Rippled like the quiet rivers, Easy flowing like the waters, Easy gliding as the snowshoes, Like the ship upon the ocean. Woe is me, my days are ended, Would not recognise my singing, All its sweetness gone to others, Flows no more like rippling waters, Makes no more the hills re-echo. Now my songs are full of discord, Like the rake upon the stubble, Like the sledge upon the gravel, Like the boat upon the seashore. Then the ancient Vainamoinen Spake these words in magic measures. Since no other bard appears, That will clasp my hand in singing, I will sing some simple legends, Sing my garnered store of wisdom, Make these magic halls re-echo With my tales of ancient story. Since a bard I was created, Born an orator and singer, Do not ask the way of others, Follow not the path of strangers. Vainamoinen, famous minstrel, Songs eternal, wise supporter, Then began the songs of pleasure, Made the halls resound with joyance, Filled to rooms with wondrous singing, Sang the ancient bard magician, All the oldest wisdom sayings, Did not fail in voice nor legends, All the wisest thoughts remembered. Thus the ancient Vainamoinen Sang the joy of all assembled, To the pleasure of the evening, To the merriment of maidens, To the happiness of heroes, All the guests were stilled in wonder, At the magic of his singing, At the songs of the magician. Spake again, wise Vainamoinen, When his wonder tales had ended. I have little worth or power, Am a bard of little value, Little consequence by singing, Mine abilities as nothing, If but Uko, my creator, Should in tone his wisdom sayings, Sing the source of good and evil, Sing the origin of matter, Sing the legends of omniscience, Sing his songs in full perfection. God could sing the floods to honey, Sing the sands to ruddy berries, Sing the pebbles into barley, Sing to beard the running waters, Sing to salt the rocks of ocean, Into cornfields sing the forests, Into gold the forest-frutage, Sing to bread the hills and mountains, Sing to eggs the rounded sandstones. He could touch the springs of magic, He could turn the keys of nature, And produce within thy pastures, Hurdles filled with sheep and reindeer, Stables filled with fleetful stallions, Kine in every field and fellow, Sing a fur-rope for the bridegroom, For the bride a coat of ermine, For the hostess shoes of silver, For the hero male of copper. Grant, O Uko, my Creator, God of love and truth and justice, Grant thy blessing on our feasting, Bless this company assembled, For the good of Suriola, For the happiness of Northland. May this bread and beer bring joyance, May they come in rich abundance, May they carry full contentment, To the people of Poliola, To the cabin and the mansion, May the hours we spend in singing, In the morning, in the evening, Fill our hearts with joy and gladness. Hear us in our supplications, Grant to us thy needed blessings, Send enjoyment, health and comfort, To the people here assembled, To the host and to the hostess, To the bride and to the bridegroom, To the sons upon the waters, To the daughters at their weavings, To the hunters on the mountains, To the shepherds in the fenlands, That our lives may end in honour, That we may recall with pleasure, Ilmarinen's magic marriage, To the maiden of the rainbow, Snow-white virgin of the Northland. End of Rune 21. Recording by Sonja.