Kalevala : the Epic Poem of Finland Part 3

Straightway rose a form from oceans, Rose a hero from the waters, Nor belonged he to the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest, Long was he as man's forefinger, Taller than the hand of woman; On his head a cap of copper, Boots upon his feet were copper, Gloves upon his hands were copper, And its stripes were copper-colored, Belt around him made of copper, Hatchet in his belt was copper; And the handle of his hatchet Was as long as hand of woman, Of a finger's breadth the blade was.

Then the trusty Wainamoinen Thought awhile and well considered, And his measures are as follow: "Art thou, sir, divine or human?

Which of these thou only knowest; Tell me what thy name and station.

Very like a man thou lookest, Hast the bearing of a hero, Though the length of man's first finger, Scarce as tall as hoof of reindeer."

Then again spake Wainamoinen To the form from out the ocean: "Verily I think thee human, Of the race of pigmy-heroes, Might as well be dead or dying, Fit for nothing but to perish."

Answered thus the pigmy-hero, Spake the small one from the ocean To the valiant Wainamoinen "Truly am I G.o.d and hero, From the tribes that rule the ocean; Come I here to fell the oak-tree, Lop its branches with my hatchet."

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Answers thus the sea-born hero: "Never hast thou force sufficient, Not to thee has strength been given, To uproot this mighty oak-tree, To upset this thing of evil, Nor to lop its hundred branches."

Scarcely had he finished speaking, Scarcely had he moved his eyelids, Ere the pigmy full unfolding, Quick becomes a mighty giant.

With one step he leaves the ocean, Plants himself, a mighty hero, On the forest-fields surrounding; With his head the clouds he pierces, To his knees his beard extending, And his locks fall to his ankles; Far apart appear his eyeb.a.l.l.s, Far apart his feet are stationed.

Farther still his mighty shoulders.

Now begins his axe to sharpen, Quickly to an edge he whets it, Using six hard blocks of sandstone, And of softer whetstones, seven.

Straightway to the oak-tree turning, Thither stalks the mighty giant, In his raiment long and roomy, Flapping in the winds of heaven; With his second step he totters On the land of darker color; With his third stop firmly planted, Reaches he the oak-tree's branches, Strikes the trunk with sharpened hatchet, With one mighty swing he strikes it, With a second blow he cuts it; As his blade descends the third time, From his axe the sparks fly upward, From the oak-tree fire outshooting; Ere the axe descends a fourth time, Yields the oak with hundred branches, Shaking earth and heaven in falling.

Eastward far the trunk extending, Far to westward flew the tree-tops, To the South the leaves were scattered, To the North its hundred branches.

Whosoe'er a branch has taken, Has obtained eternal welfare; Who secures himself a tree-top, He has gained the master magic; Who the foliage has gathered, Has delight that never ceases.

Of the chips some had been scattered, Scattered also many splinters, On the blue back of the ocean, Of the ocean smooth and mirrored, Rocked there by the winds and waters, Like a boat upon the billows; Storm-winds blew them to the Northland, Some the ocean currents carried.

Northland's fair and slender maiden, Washing on the sh.o.r.e a head-dress, Beating on the rocks her garments, Rinsing there her silken raiment, In the waters of Pohyola, There beheld the chips and splinters, Carried by the winds and waters.

In a bag the chips she gathered, Took them to the ancient court-yard, There to make enchanted arrows, Arrows for the great magician, There to shape them into weapons, Weapons for the skilful archer, Since the mighty oak has fallen, Now has lost its hundred branches, That the North may see the sunshine, See the gentle gleam of moonlight, That the clouds may keep their courses, May extend the vault of heaven Over every lake and river, O'er the banks of every island.

Groves arose in varied beauty, Beautifully grew the forests, And again, the vines and flowers.

Birds again sang in the tree-tops, Noisily the merry thrushes, And the cuckoos in the birch-trees; On the mountains grew the berries, Golden flowers in the meadows, And the herbs of many colors, Many kinds of vegetation; But the barley is not growing.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Goes away and well considers, By the borders of the waters, On the ocean's sandy margin, Finds six seeds of golden barley, Even seven ripened kernels, On the sh.o.r.e of upper Northland, In the sand upon the sea-sh.o.r.e, Hides them in his trusty pouches, Fashioned from the skin of squirrel, Some were made from skin of marten; Hastens forth the seeds to scatter, Quickly sows the barley kernels, On the brinks of Kalew-waters, On the Osma-hills and lowlands.

Hark! the t.i.tmouse wildly crying, From the aspen, words as follow: "Osma's barley will not flourish, Not the barley of Wainola, If the soil be not made ready, If the forest be not levelled, And the branches burned to ashes."

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Made himself an axe for chopping, Then began to clear the forest, Then began the trees to level, Felled the trees of all descriptions, Only left the birch-tree standing For the birds a place of resting, Where might sing the sweet-voiced cuckoo, Sacred bird in sacred branches.

Down from heaven came the eagle, Through the air be came a-flying, That he might this thing consider; And he spake the words that follow: "Wherefore, ancient Wainamoinen, Hast thou left the slender birch-tree, Left the birch-tree only standing?"

Wainamoinen thus made answer: "Therefore is the birch left standing, That the birds may liest within it, That the eagle there may rest him, There may sing the sacred cuckoo."

Spake the eagle, thus replying: Good indeed, thy hero-judgment, That the birch-tree thou hast left us, Left the sacred birch-tree standing, As a resting-place for eagles, And for birds of every feather, Even I may rest upon it."

Quickly then this bird of heaven, Kindled fire among the branches; Soon the flames are fanned by north-winds, And the east-winds lend their forces, Burn the trees of all descriptions, Burn them all to dust and ashes, Only is the birch left standing.

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Brings his magic grains of barley, Brings he forth his seven seed-grains, Brings them from his trusty pouches, Fashioned from the skin of squirrel, Some were made from skin of marten.

Thence to sow his seeds he hastens, Hastes the barley-grains to scatter, Speaks unto himself these measures: "I the seeds of life am sowing, Sowing through my open fingers, From the hand of my Creator, In this soil enriched with ashes, In this soil to sprout and flourish.

Ancient mother, thou that livest Far below the earth and ocean, Mother of the fields and forests, Bring the rich soil to producing, Bring the seed-grains to the sprouting, That the barley well may flourish.

Never will the earth unaided, Yield the ripe nutritious barley; Never will her force be wanting, If the givers give a.s.sistance, If the givers grace the sowing, Grace the daughters of creation.

Rise, O earth, from out thy slumber, From the slumber-land of ages, Let the barley-grains be sprouting, Let the blades themselves be starting, Let the verdant stalks be rising, Let the ears themselves be growing, And a hundredfold producing, From my plowing and my sowing, From my skilled and honest labor.

Ukko, thou O G.o.d, up yonder, Thou O Father of the heavens, Thou that livest high in Ether, Curbest all the clouds of heaven, Holdest in the air thy counsel, Holdest in the clouds good counsel, From the East dispatch a cloudlet, From the North-east send a rain-cloud, From the West another send us, From the North-west, still another, Quickly from the South a warm-cloud, That the rain may fall from heaven, That the clouds may drop their honey, That the ears may fill and ripen, That the barley-fields may rustle."

Thereupon benignant Ukko, Ukko, father of the heavens, Held his counsel in the cloud-s.p.a.ce, Held good counsel in the Ether; From the East, he sent a cloudlet, From the North-east, sent a rain-cloud, From the West another sent he, From the North-west, still another, Quickly from the South a warm-cloud; Joined in seams the clouds together, Sewed together all their edges, Grasped the cloud, and hurled it earthward.

Quick the rain-cloud drops her honey, Quick the rain-drops fall from heaven, That the ears may quickly ripen, That the barley crop may rustle.

Straightway grow the seeds of barley, From the germ the blade unfolding, Richly colored ears arising, From the rich soil of the fallow, From the work of Wainamoinen.

Here a few days pa.s.s unnoted And as many nights fly over.

When the seventh day had journeyed, On the morning of the eighth day, Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Went to view his crop of barley, How his plowing, how his sowing, How his labors were resulting; Found his crop of barley growing, Found the blades were triple-knotted, And the ears he found six-sided.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Turned his face, and looked about him, Lo! there comes a spring-time cuckoo, Spying out the slender birch-tree, Rests upon it, sweetly singing: "Wherefore is the silver birch-tree Left unharmed of all the forest? "

Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Therefore I have left the birch-tree, Left the birch-tree only growing, Home for thee for joyful singing.

Call thou here, O sweet-voiced cuckoo, Sing thou here from throat of velvet, Sing thou here with voice of silver, Sing the cuckoo's golden flute-notes; Call at morning, call at evening, Call within the hour of noontide, For the better growth of forests, For the ripening of the barley, For the richness of, the Northland, For the joy of Kalevala."

RUNE III.

WAINAMOINEN AND YOUKAHAINEN.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Pa.s.sed his years in full contentment, On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala, Singing ever wondrous legends, Songs of ancient wit and wisdom, Chanting one day, then a second, Singing in the dusk of evening, Singing till the dawn of morning, Now the tales of old-time heroes, Tales of ages long forgotten, Now the legends of creation, Once familiar to the children, By our children sung no longer, Sung in part by many heroes, In these mournful days of evil, Evil days our race befallen.

Far and wide the story travelled, Far away men spread the knowledge Of the chanting of the hero, Of the song of Wainamoinen; To the South were heard the echoes, All of Northland heard the story.

Far away in dismal Northland, Lived the singer, Youkahainen, Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, Once upon a time when feasting, Dining with his friends and fellows, Came upon his ears the story That there lived a sweeter singer, On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala, Better skilled in chanting legends, Better skilled than Youkahainen, Better than the one that taught him.

Straightway then the bard grew angry, Envy rose within his bosom, Envy of this Wainamoinen, Famed to be a sweeter singer; Hastes he angry to his mother, To his mother, full of wisdom, Vows that he will southward hasten, Hie him southward and betake him To the dwellings of Wainola, To the cabins of the Northland, There as bard to vie in battle, With the famous Wainamoinen.

"Nay," replies the anxious father, "Do not go to Kalevala."

"Nay," replies the fearful mother, "Go not hence to Wainamoinen, There with him to offer battle; He will charm thee with his singing Will bewitch thee in his anger, He will drive thee back dishonored, Sink thee in the fatal snow-drift, Turn to ice thy pliant fingers, Turn to ice thy feet and ankles."

These the words of Youkahainen: Good the judgement of a father, Better still, a mother's counsel, Best of all one's own decision.

I will go and face the minstrel, Challenge him to sing in contest, Challenge him as bard to battle, Sing to him my sweet-toned measures, Chant to him my oldest legends, Chant to him my garnered wisdom, That this best of boasted singers, That this famous bard of Suomi, Shall be worsted in the contest, Shall become a hapless minstrel; By my songs shall I transform him, That his feet shall be as flint-stone, And as oak his nether raiment; And this famous, best of singers, Thus bewitched, shall carry ever, In his heart a stony burden, On his shoulder bow of marble, On his hand a flint-stone gauntlet, On his brow a stony visor."

Then the wizard, Youkahainen, Heeding not advice paternal, Heeding not his mother's counsel, Leads his courser from his stable, Fire outstreaming from his nostrils, From his hoofs, the sparks outshooting, Hitches to his sledge, the fleet-foot, To his golden sledge, the courser, Mounts impetuous his snow-sledge, Leaps upon the hindmost cross-bench, Strikes his courser with his birch-whip, With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled.

Instantly the prancing racer Springs away upon his journey; On he, restless, plunges northward, All day long be onward gallops, All the next day, onward, onward, So the third from morn till evening, Till the third day twilight brings him To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala.

As it happened, Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, the magician, Rode that sunset on the highway, Silently for pleasure driving Down Wainola's peaceful meadows, O'er the plains of Kalevala.

Youkahainen, young and fiery, Urging still his foaming courser, Dashes down upon the singer, Does not turn aside in meeting, Meeting thus in full collision; Shafts are driven tight together, Hames and collars wedged and tangled, Tangled are the reins and traces.

Thus perforce they make a stand-still, Thus remain and well consider; Water drips from hame and collar, Vapors rise from both their horses.

Speaks the minstrel, Wainamoinen: "Who art thou, and whence? Thou comest Driving like a stupid stripling, Wainamoinen and Youkahainen.

Careless, dashing down upon me.

Thou hast ruined shafts and traces; And the collar of my racer Thou hast shattered into ruin, And my golden sleigh is broken, Box and runners dashed to pieces."

Youkahainen then make answer, Spake at last the words that follow: "I am youthful Youkahainen, But make answer first, who thou art, Whence thou comest, where thou goest, From what lowly tribe descended?"

Wainamolinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus the youthful minstrel: "If thou art but Youkahainen, Thou shouldst give me all the highway; I am many years thy senior."

Then the boastful Youkahainen Spake again to Wainamoinen: "Young or ancient, little matter, Little consequence the age is; He that higher stands in wisdom, He whose knowledge is the greater, He that is the sweeter singer, He alone shall keep the highway, And the other take the roadside.

Art thou ancient Wainamoinen, Famous sorcerer and minstrel?

Let us then begin our singing, Let us sing our ancient legends, Let us chant our garnered wisdom, That the one may hear the other, That the one may judge the other, In a war of wizard sayings."

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Thus replied in modest accents: "What I know is very little, Hardly is it worth the singing, Neither is my singing wondrous: All my days I have resided In the cold and dreary Northland, In a desert land enchanted, In my cottage home for ayes; All the songs that I have gathered, Are the cuckoo's simple measures, Some of these I may remember; But since thou perforce demandest, I accept thy boastful challenge.

Tell me now, my golden youngster, What thou knowest more than others, Open now thy store of wisdom."

Thus made answer Youkahainen, Lapland's young and fiery minstrel: "Know I many bits of learning This I know in perfect clearness: Every roof must have a chimney, Every fire-place have a hearth-stone; Lives of seal are free and merry, Merry is the life of walrus, Feeding on incautious salmon, Daily eating perch and whiting; Whitings live in quiet shallows, Salmon love the level bottoms; Sp.a.w.ns the pike in coldest weather, And defies the storms of winter.

Slowly perches swim in Autumn, Wry-backed, hunting deeper water, Sp.a.w.n in shallows in the summer, Bounding on the sh.o.r.e of ocean.

Should this wisdom seem too little, I can tell thee other matters, Sing thee other wizard sayings: All the Northmen plow with reindeer, Mother-horses plow the Southland, Inner Lapland plows with oxen; All the trees on Pisa-mountain, Know I well in all their grandeur; On the Horna-rock are fir-trees, Fir-trees growing tall and slender; Slender grow the trees on mountains.

Three, the water-falls in number, Three in number, inland oceans, Three in number, lofty mountains, Shooting to the vault of heaven.

Hallapyora's near to Yaemen, Katrakoski in Karyala; Imatra, the falling water, Tumbles, roaring, into Wuoksi."

Then the ancient Wainimoinen: "Women's tales and children's wisdom Do not please a bearded hero, Hero, old enough for wedlock; Tell the story of creation, Tell me of the world's beginning, Tell me of the creatures in it, And philosophize a little."

Then the youthful Youkahainen Thus replied to Wainamoinen: "Know I well the t.i.tmouse-fountains, Pretty birdling is the t.i.tmouse; And the viper, green, a serpent; Whitings live in brackish waters; Perches swim in every river; Iron rusts, and rusting weakens; Bitter is the taste of umber; Boiling water is malicious; Fire is ever full of danger; First physician, the Creator; Remedy the oldest, water; Magic is the child of sea-foam; G.o.d the first and best adviser; Waters gush from every mountain; Fire descended first from heaven; Iron from the rust was fashioned; Copper from the rocks created; Marshes are of lands the oldest; First of all the trees, the willow; Fir-trees were the first of houses; Hollowed stones the first of kettles."

Now the ancient Wainamoinen Thus addresses Youkahainen: "Canst thou give me now some wisdom, Is this nonsense all thou knowest?"

Youkahainen thus made answer: "I can tell thee still a trifle, Tell thee of the times primeval, When I plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When I raked the sea-girt islands, When I dug the salmon-grottoes, Hollowed out the deepest caverns, When I all the lakes created, When I heaped the mountains round them, When I piled the rocks about them.

I was present as a hero, Sixth of wise and ancient heroes, Seventh of all primeval heroes, When the heavens were created, When were formed the ether-s.p.a.ces, When the sky was crystal-pillared, When was arched the beauteous rainbow, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, And with stars the heavens were sprinkled."

Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Thou art surely prince of liars, Lord of all the host of liars; Never wert thou in existence, Surely wert thou never present, When was plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When were raked the sea-girt islands, When were dug the salmon-grottoes, When were hollowed out the caverns, When the lakes were all created, When were heaped the mountains round them, When the rocks were piled about them.

Thou wert never seen or heard of When the earth was first created, When were made the ether-s.p.a.ces, When the air was crystal-pillared, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, When the skies with stars were sprinkled."

Then in anger Youkahainen Answered ancient Wainamoinen: "Then, sir, since I fail in wisdom, With the sword I offer battle; Come thou, famous bard and minstrel, Thou the ancient wonder-singer, Let us try our strength with broadswords, let our blades be fully tested."

Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Not thy sword and not thy wisdom, Not thy prudence, nor thy cunning, Do I fear a single moment.

Let who may accept thy challenge, Not with thee, a puny braggart, Not with one so vain and paltry, Will I ever measure broadswords."

Then the youthful Youkahainen, Mouth awry and visage sneering, Shook his golden locks and answered: "Whoso fears his blade to measure, Fears to test his strength at broadswords, Into wild-boar of the forest, Swine at heart and swine in visage, Singing I will thus transform him; I will hurl such hero-cowards, This one hither, that one thither, Stamp him in the mire and bedding, In the rubbish of the stable."

Angry then grew Wainamoinen, Wrathful waxed, and fiercely frowning, Self-composed he broke his silence, And began his wondrous singing.

Sang he not the tales of childhood, Children's nonsense, wit of women, Sang he rather bearded heroes, That the children never heard of, That the boys and maidens knew not Known but half by bride and bridegroom, Known in part by many heroes, In these mournful days of evil, Evil times our race befallen.

Grandly sang wise Wainamoinen, Till the copper-bearing mountains, And the flinty rocks and ledges Heard his magic tones and trembled; Mountain cliffs were torn to pieces, All the ocean heaved and tumbled; And the distant hills re-echoed.

Lo! the boastful Youkahainen Is transfixed in silent wonder, And his sledge with golden tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs Floats like brushwood on the billows; Sings his braces into reed-gra.s.s, Sings his reins to twigs of willow, And to shrubs his golden cross-bench.

Lo! his birch-whip, pearl-enameled, Floats a reed upon the border; Lo! his steed with golden forehead, Stands a statue on the waters; Hames and traces are as fir-boughs, And his collar, straw and sea-gra.s.s.

Still the minstrel sings enchantment, Sings his sword with golden handle, Sings it into gleam of lightning, Hangs it in the sky above him; Sings his cross-bow, gaily painted, To a rainbow o'er the ocean; Sings his quick and feathered arrows Into hawks and screaming eagles; Sings his dog with bended muzzle, Into block of stone beside him; Sings his cap from off his forehead, Sings it into wreaths of vapor; From his hands he sings his gauntlets Into rushes on the waters; Sings his vesture, purple-colored, Into white clouds in the heavens; Sings his girdle, set with jewels, Into twinkling stars around him; And alas! for Youkahainen, Sings him into deeps of quick-sand; Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, In his torture, sinks the wizard, To his belt in mud and water.

Now it was that Youkahainen Comprehended but too clearly What his folly, what the end was, Of the journey he had ventured, Vainly he had undertaken For the glory of a contest With the grand, old Wainamoinen.

When at last young Youkahainen, Pohyola's old and sorry stripling, Strives his best to move his right foot, But alas! the foot obeys not; When he strives to move his left foot, Lo! he finds it turned to flint-stone.

Thereupon sad Youkahainen, In the deeps of desperation, And in earnest supplication, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: "O thou wise and worthy minstrel, Thou the only true, magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment,.

Only turn away thy magic, Let me leave this slough of horror, Loose me from this stony prison, Free me from this killing torment, I will pay a golden ransom."