Kalevala : the Epic Poem of Finland — Complete. Anonymous

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СКАЧАТЬ Seven winters as a pebble;

       Eight long summers as an aspen."

       Thereupon the Lapland minstrel

       Hastened to his room delighting,

       When his mother thus addressed him

       "Hast thou slain good Wainamoinen,

       Slain the son of Kalevala?"

       Youkahainen thus made answer:

       "I have slain old Wainamoinen,

       Slain the son of Kalevala,

       That he now may plow the ocean,

       That he now may sweep the waters,

       On the billows rock and slumber.

       In the salt-sea plunged he headlong,

       In the deep sank the magician,

       Sidewise turned he to the sea-shore

       On his back to rock forever,

       Thus the boundless sea to travel,

       Thus to ride the rolling billows."

       This the answer of the mother:

       "Woe to earth for this thine action,

       Gone forever, joy and singing,

       Vanished is the wit of ages!

       Thou hast slain good Wainamoinen.

       Slain the ancient wisdom-singer,

       Slain the pride of Suwantala,

       Slain the hero of Wainola,

       Slain the joy of Kalevala."

RUNE VII.

       Table of Contents

WAINIOINEN'S RESCUE.

       Table of Contents

      Wainamoinen, old and truthful,

       Swam through all the deep-sea waters,

       Floating like a branch of aspen,

       Like a withered twig of willow;

       Swam six days in summer weather,

       Swam six nights in golden moonlight;

       Still before him rose the billows,

       And behind him sky and ocean.

       Two days more he swam undaunted,

       Two long nights be struggled onward.

       On the evening of the eighth day,

       Wainamoinen grew disheartened,

       Felt a very great discomfort,

       For his feet had lost their toe-nails,

       And his fingers dead and dying.

       Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,

       Sad and weary, spake as follows:

       "Woe is me, my old life fated!

       Woe is me, misfortune's offspring!

       Fool was I when fortune, favored,

       To forsake my home and kindred,

       For a maiden fair and lovely,

       Here beneath the starry heavens,

       In this cruel waste of waters,

       Days and nights to swim and wander,

       Here to struggle with the storm-winds,

       To be tossed by heaving billows,

       In this broad sea's great expanses,

       In this ocean vast and boundless.

       "Cold my life and sad and dreary,

       Painful too for me to linger

       Evermore within these waters,

       Thus to struggle for existence!

       Cannot know how I can prosper,

       How to find me food and shelter,

       In these cold and lifeless waters,

       In these days of dire misfortune.

       Build I in the winds my dwelling?

       It will find no sure foundation.

       Build my home upon the billows?

       Surely would the waves destroy it."

       Comes a bird from far Pohyola,

       From the occident, an eagle,

       Is not classed among the largest,

       Nor belongs he to the smallest;

       One wing touches on the waters,

       While the other sweeps the heavens;

       O'er the waves he wings his body,

       Strikes his beak upon the sea-cliffs,

       Flies about, then safely perches,

       Looks before him, looks behind him,

       There beholds brave Wainamoinen,

       On the blue-back of the ocean,

       And the eagle thus accosts him:

       "Wherefore art thou, ancient hero,

       Swimming in the deep-sea billows?

       Thus the water-minstrel answered:

       "I am ancient Wainamoinen,

       Friend and fellow of the waters

       I, the famous wisdom-singer;

       Went to woo a Northland maiden,

       Maiden from the dismal Darkland,

       Quickly galloped on my journey,

       Riding on the plain of ocean.

       I arrived one morning early,

       At the breaking of the day-dawn.

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