Kalevala: The Epic Poem of Finland — Volume 02

“Words shall not be hidnor spells buriedmight shall not sink undergroundthough the mighty go.””

— Unknown

“Once to swim I sought the sea-side,There to sport among the billows;With the stone of many colorsSank poor Aino to the bottomOf the deep and boundless blue-sea,Like a pretty son-bird, perished.Never come a-fishing, father,To the borders of these waters,Never during all thy life-time,As thou lovest daughter Aino.Mother dear, I sought the sea-side,There to sport among the billows;With the stone of many colors,Sank poor Aino to the bottomOf the deep and boundless blue-sea,Like a pretty song-bird perished.Never mix thy bread, dear mother,With the blue-sea's foam and waters,Never during all thy life-time,As thou lovest daughter Aino.Brother dear, I sought the sea-side,There to sport among the billows;With the stone of many colorsSank poor Aino to the bottomOf the deep and boundless blue-sea,Like a pretty song-bird perished.Never bring thy prancing war-horse,Never bring thy royal racer,Never bring thy steeds to water,To the borders of the blue-sea,Never during all thy life-time,As thou lovest sister Aino.Sister dear, I sought the sea-side,There to sport among the billows;With the stone of many colorsSank poor Aino to the bottomOf the deep and boundless blue-sea,Like a pretty song-bird perished.Never come to lave thine eyelidsIn this rolling wave and sea-foam,Never during all thy life-time,As thou lovest sister Aino.All the waters in the blue-seaShall be blood of Aino's body;All the fish that swim these watersShall be Aino's flesh forever;All the willows on the sea-sideShall be Aino's ribs hereafter;All the sea-grass on the marginWill have grown from Aino's tresses.””

— Unknown

“For this I weep all my daysand throughout my lifetime grievethat I swam from my own landsand came from familiar lands    towards these strange doors    to these foreign gates.””

— Unknown

“Craftsman Ilmarinen weptEvery evening for his woman,Weeping sleepless through the nightsAnd fasting through the days;In the early hours complaining,Every morning sighing for her, Lamenting for his lovely lost one,For his dear one in the grave.For a month he swung no hammer,Did not touch the copper handle,and the clinking forge was silent.Said the craftsman Ilmarinen:"I poor fellow, do not knowHow to live or how survive;Sitting up or lying downNights are long and time is tedious.I am troubled, low in spirit.'Lonely are the nights now,lonelyAnd the mornings dreary, dreary.In my sleeping I am troubled,But the waking is the saddest.It's not for evening that I'm lonely,Not for morning that I'm dreary,Not for olden times lamenting,But I'm lonely for my loved one,Dreary for the missing of her,Lamenting for my dark-browed lovely.'Often in these days it happens,Happens in my midnight dreamingthat I stretch my hand out touching,touching something that is nothing...””

— Unknown

“Tiny bee, thou honey-birdling, Lord of all the forest flowers, Fly away and gather honey, Bring to me the forest-sweetness,””

— Unknown

“Broke the tassels from the birch-trees, Steeped the foliage in honey, Made a lye 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,””

— Unknown

“Then the lively Lemminkainen,Roamed about through every village,For the island-maidens' pleasure,To delight the braidless damsels,And where'er his head was turning,There he found a mouth for kissing,Wheresoe'er his hand was outstretched,There he found a hand to clasp it.230And at night he went to rest him,Hiding in the darkest corner;There was not a single villageWhere he did not find ten homesteads,There was not a single homesteadWhere he did not find ten daughters,There was none among the daughters,None among the mother's children,By whose side he did not stretch him,On whose arm he did not rest him.240Thus a thousand brides he found there,Rested by a hundred widows;Two in half-a-score remained not,Three in a completed hundred,Whom he left untouched as maidens,Or as widows unmolested.Thus the lively LemminkainenLived a life of great enjoyment,For the course of three whole summersIn the island's pleasant hamlets,To the island-maidens' rapture,The content of all the widows;””

— Unknown

“Untamo again reflected,"How can we o'ercome the infant,That destruction come upon him,And that death may overtake him?"Then he bade his servants gatherFirst a large supply of birch-trees,Pine-trees with their hundred needles,Trees from which the pitch was oozing,For the burning of the infant,And for Kullervo's destruction.So they gathered and collectedFirst a large supply of birch-trees,Pine-trees with their hundred needles,Trees from which the pitch was oozing,And of bark a thousand sledgefuls,Ash-trees, long a hundred fathoms.Fire beneath the wood they kindled,And the pyre began to crackle,And the boy they cast upon it,'Mid the glowing fire they cast him.Burned the fire a day, a second,Burning likewise on the third day,When they went to look about them.Knee-deep sat the boy in ashes,In the embers to his elbows.In his hand he held the coal-rake,And was stirring up the fire,And he raked the coals together.Not a hair was singed upon him,Not a lock was even tangled.Then did Untamo grow angry."Where then can I place the infant,That we bring him to destruction,And that death may overtake him?"So upon a tree they hanged him,Strung him up upon an oak-tree.Two nights and a third passed over,And upon the dawn thereafter,Untamo again reflected:"Time it is to look around us,Whether Kullervo has fallen,Or is dead upon the gallows."Then he sent a servant forward,Back he came, and thus reported:"Kullervo not yet has perished,Nor has died upon the gallows.Pictures on the tree he's carving,In his hands he holds a graver.All the tree is filled with pictures,All the oak-tree filled with carvings!””

— Unknown

“Det var slutet för den unge, så gick Kullervo ur tiden, denne olycksfödde yngling, för att aldrig återkomma. /.../Eftervärld, låt aldrig barnet uppfostras av onda viljor, vyssjas av förvända mänskor, vaggas fel av obekanta.Den som en gång fostrats galet, vyssjas bakvänt, vaggas illa, han blir aldrig som han borde,””

— Unknown