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The_Red_Book_-_Liber_Novus

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SIMILAR TITLES

1 - the Magician

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   17 Aleister Crowley
   16 Peter J Carroll
   2 Sri Aurobindo
   1 Swami Akhandananda
   1 Ray Sherwin
   1 Eliphas Levi
   1 C S Lewis
   1 Sri Ramakrishna

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   17 C S Lewis
   16 Aleister Crowley
   14 Peter J Carroll
   13 Peter S Beagle
   6 Susanna Clarke
   5 Michael Chabon
   5 Anonymous
   4 Maggie Stiefvater
   4 Hale Appleman
   4 Christopher Priest
   3 Sarah Rees Brennan
   3 Robert L Moore
   3 Mark Twain
   3 Manly P Hall
   3 Kate DiCamillo
   3 Gordon White
   3 Franz Bardon
   2 Walter Benjamin
   2 Tom Stoppard
   2 Sri Aurobindo

1:Maya is like magic and we have to see the magician. But then the path beyond Maya is through Maya. ~ Swami Akhandananda,

2:In this lamen the Magician must place the secret keys of his power.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick,

3:All here can change if the Magician choose. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain,

4:That first task of the Magician in every ceremony is therefore to render his Circle absolutely impregnable. ~ Aleister Crowley, [T5],

5:The Magician looks on the wicked as invalids whom one must pity and cure; the world, with its errors and vices, is to him God's hospital, and he wishes to serve in it.    ~ Eliphas Levi,

6:Make your choice, adventurous Stranger, Strike the bell and bide the danger, Or wonder, till it drives you mad, What would have followed if you had.    ~ C S Lewis, The Magician's Nephew,

7:As the Magick Wand is the Will, the Wisdom, the Word of the Magician, so is the Magick Cup his Understanding.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick,

8:Unless therefore the Magician be first anointed with this Oil, all his work will be wasted and evil.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part II, The Holy Oil,

9:The Altar represents the solid basis of the Work, the fixed Will* of the Magician; and the law under which he works.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part II, The Altar,

10:From a magicial point of view, it is axiomatic that we have create the world in which we exist. Looking about himself, the magician can say 'thus have I will,' or 'thus do I perceive,' or more accurately, 'thus does my Kia manifest.'    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null, Liber LUX, Enchantment [55],

11:The Book of Spells or of Conjurations is the Record of every thought, word and deed of the Magician; for everything that he has willed is willed to a purpose. It is the same as if he had taken an oath or perform some achievement.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, The Book,

12:The magician acknowledges a desire, he lists the appropriate symbols and arranges them into an easily visualised glyph. Using any of the gnostic techniques he reifies the sigil and then, by force of will, hurls it into his subconscious from where the sigil can begin to work unencumbered by desire. ~ Ray Sherwin,

13:The magician therefore seeks unity of desire before he attempts to act. Desires are re-arranged before an act, not during it. In all things he must live like this. As reorganization of belief is the key to liberation, so is reorganization of desire the key to will.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null, Liber LUX, Enchantment [56],

14:To "invoke" is to "call in", just as to "evoke" is to "call forth". This is the essential difference between the two branches of Magick. In invocation, the macrocosm floods the consciousness. In evocation, the magician, having become the macrocosm, creates a microcosm. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

15:A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally    ~ Peter J Carroll,

16:All here can change if the Magician choose.    If human will could be made one with God's,    If human thought could echo the thoughts of God,    Man might be all-knowing and omnipotent;    But now he walks in Nature's doubtful ray.    Yet can the mind of man receive God's light,    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain,

17:The danger of ceremonial magick-the subtlest and deepest danger-is this: that the Magician will naturally tend to invoke that partial being which most strongly appeals to him, so that his natural excess in that direction will be still further exaggerated. Let him, before beginning his Work, endeavour to map out his own being, and arrange his invocations in such a way as to redress the balance.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

18:The formula of the Cup is not so well suited for Evocations, and the magical Hierarchy is not involved in the same way; for the Cup being passive rather than active, it is not fitting for the magician to use it in respect of anything but the Highest. In practical working it consequently means little but prayer, and that prayer the 'prayer of silence.'    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part 3, The Formuale of the Elemental Weapons [148],

19:It should never be forgotten for a single moment that the central and essential work of the Magician is the attainment of the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. Once he has achieved this he must of course be left entirely in the hands of that Angel, who can be invariably and inevitably relied upon to lead him to the further great step-crossing of the Abyss and the attainment of the grade of Master of the Temple. ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

20:SLEIGHT OF MIND IN INVOCATION Invocation is a three stage process. Firstly the magician consciously identifies with what is traditionally called a god-form, secondly he enters gnosis and thirdly the magicians subconsciousness manifests the powers of the god-form. A successful invocation means nothing less than full "possession" by the god-form. With practice the first stage of conscious identification can be abbreviated greatly to the point where it may only be necessary to concentrate momentarily on a well used god-form. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Kaos,

21:Let the Magician therefore adventure himself upon the Astral Plane with the declared design to penetrate to a sanctuary of discarnate Beings such as are able to instruct and fortify him, also to prove their identity by testimony beyond rebuttal. All explanations other than these are of value only as extending and equilibrating Knowledge, or possibly as supplying Energy to such Magicians as may have found their way to the Sources of Strength. In all cases, naught is worth an obol save as it serve to help the One Great Work" ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, App 3,

22:The Temple represents the external Universe. The Magician must take it as he finds it, so that it is of no particular shape; yet we find written, \Liber VII,\ V:I:2 \We made us a temple of stones in the shape of the Universem even ashou didst wear openly and I concealed.\ This shape is the vesica piscis; but it is only the greeatest Magicians who can thus fashion the Temple. There may, however, be some choice of rooms; this refers to the power of the Magician to reincarnate in a suitable body.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 04: Magick, Part II, Chapter 1, The Temple [49],

23:The Magician should devise for himself a definite technique for destroying 'evil.' The essence of such a practice will consist in training the mind and the body to confront things which cause fear, pain, disgust, shame and the like. He must learn to endure them, then to become indifferent to them, then to analyze them until they give pleasure and instruction, and finally to appreciate them for their own sake, as aspects of Truth. When this has been done, he should abandon them, if they are really harmful in relation to health and comfort.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, APPENDIX VI: A FEW PRINCIPAL RITUALS, [311-312],

24:To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness. Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

25:If the magician wishes to put himself into or out of any emotional state, then he should be provided with the techniques to accomplish this. The process requires no justification    - that he wills it is sufficient. One cannot escape emotional experience in a human incarnation, and it is preferable to adopt a master rather than a slave relationship to it. The occult priest should be capable of instructing anyone in the procedures of emotional engineering. The main methods are the gnostic ones of casting oneself into a frenzied ecstacy, stilling the mind to a point of absolute quiescence, and evoking the laughter of the gods by combining laughter with the contemplation of paradox. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

26:The physical form of a magical weapon is no more than a convenient handle or anchor for its aetheric form. The Sword and Pentacle are weapons of analysis and synthesis respectively. Upon the pentacle aetheric forms, images, and powers are assembled when the magical will and perception vitalize the imagination. The magician may create hundreds of pentacles in the course of his sorceries, yet there is a virtue in having a general purpose weapon of this class, for its power increases with use, and it can be employed as an altar for the consecration of lesser pentacles. For many operations of an evocatory type, the pentacle is placed on the cup and the conjuration performed with the wand. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

27:The Magician works in a Temple; the Universe, which is (be it remembered!) conterminous with himself. In this temple a Circle is drawn upon the floor for the limitation of his working. This circle is protected by divine names, the influences on which he relies to keep out hostile thoughts. Within the circle stands an Altar, the solid basis on which he works, the foundation of all. Upon the Altar are his Wand, Cup, Sword, and Pantacle, to represent his Will, his Understanding, his Reason, and the lower parts of his being, respectively. On the Altar, too, is a phial of Oil, surrounded by a Scourge, a Dagger, and a Chain, while above the Altar hangs a Lamp. The Magician wears a Crown, a single Robe, and a Lamen, and he bears a Book of Conjurations and a Bell.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick [54?],

28:A MARWARI DEVOTEE: "Sir, what is the way?" Two ways of God-realization MASTER: "There are two ways. One is the path of discrimination, the other is that of love. Discrimination means to know the distinction between the Real and the unreal. God alone is the real and permanent Substance; all else is illusory and impermanent. The magician alone is real; his magic is illusory. This is discrimination. "Discrimination and renunciation. Discrimination means to know the distinction between the Real and the unreal. Renunciation means to have dispassion for the things of the world. One cannot acquire them all of a sudden. They must be practised every day. One should renounce 'woman and gold' mentally at first. Then, by the will of God, one can renounce it both mentally and outwardly. It is impossible to ask the people of Calcutta to renounce all for the sake of God. One has to tell them to renounce mentally. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,

29:A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows 'to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally'    To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness.    Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null, Liber LUX, Augoeides [49-50],

30:[invocation] Let us describe the magical method of identification. The symbolic form of the god is first studied with as much care as an artist would bestow upon his model, so that a perfectly clear and unshakeable mental picture of the god is presented to the mind. Similarly, the attributes of the god are enshrined in speech, and such speeches are committed perfectly to memory. The invocation will then begin with a prayer to the god, commemorating his physical attributes, always with profound understanding of their real meaning. In the second part of the invocation, the voice of the god is heard, and His characteristic utterance is recited. In the third portion of the invocation the Magician asserts the identity of himself with the god. In the fourth portion the god is again invoked, but as if by Himself, as if it were the utterance of the will of the god that He should manifest in the Magician. At the conclusion of this, the original object of the invocation is stated.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part 3, The Formuale of the Elemental Weapons [149] [T4],

31:Non-attachment/Non-disinterest best describes the magical condition of acting without lust of result. It is very difficult for humans to decide on something and then to do it purely for its own sake. Yet it is precisely this ability which is required to execute magical acts. Only single-pointed awareness will do. Attachment is to be understood both in the positive and negative sense, for aversion is its other face. Attachment to any attribute of oneself, ones personality, ones ambitions, ones relationships or sensory experiences - or equally, aversion to any of these - will prove limiting. On the other hand, it is fatal to lose interest in these things for they are ones symbolic system or magical reality. Rather, one is attempting to touch the sensitive parts of ones reality more lightly in order to deny the spoiling hand of grasping desire and boredom. Thereby one may gain enough freedom to act magically. In addition to these two meditations there is a third, more active, form of metamorphosis, and this involves ones everyday habits. However innocuous they might seem, habits in thought, word, and deed are the anchor of the personality. The magician aims to pull up that anchor and cast himself free on the seas of chaos.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

32:Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

33:The third operation in any magical ceremony is the oath or proclamation. The Magician, armed and ready, stands in the centre of the Circle, and strikes once upon the bell as if to call the attention of the Universe. He then declares who he is, reciting his magical history by the proclamation of the grades which he has attained, giving the signs and words of those grades. He then states the purpose of the ceremony, and proves that it is necessary to perform it and to succeed in its performance. He then takes an oath before the Lord of the Universe (not before the particular Lord whom he is invoking) as if to call Him to witness the act. He swears solemnly that he will perform it-that nothing shall prevent him from performing it-that he will not leave the operation until it is successfully performed-and once again he strikes upon the bell. Yet, having demonstrated himself in that position at once infinitely lofty and infinitely unimportant, the instrument of destiny, he balances this by the Confession, in which there is again an infinite exaltation harmonised with an infinite humility. He admits himself to be a weak human being humbly aspiring to something higher; a creature of circumstance utterly dependent-even for the breath of life-upon a series of fortunate accidents.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

34:To prepare for Astral Magic a temple or series of temples needs to be erected on the plane of visualized imagination. Such temples can take any convenient form although some magicians prefer to work with an exact simulacrum of their physical temple. The astral temple is visualized in fine detail and should contain all the equipment required for ritual or at least cupboards where any required instruments can be found.    Any objects visualized into the temple should always remain there for subsequent inspection unless specifically dissolved or removed. The most important object in the temple is the magician's image of himself working in it. At first it may seem that he is merely manipulating a puppet of himself in the temple but with persistence this should give way to a feeling of actually being there. Before beginning Astral Magic proper, the required temple and instruments together with an image of the magician moving about in it should be built up by a repeated series of visualizations until all the details are perfect. Only when this is complete should the magician begin to use the temple. Each conjuration that is performed should be planned in advance with the same attention to detail as in Ritual Magic. The various acts of astral evocation, divination, enchantment, invocation and illumination take on a similar general form to the acts of Ritual Magic which the magician adapts for astral work. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Kaos [T2],

35:INVOCATION    The ultimate invocation, that of Kia, cannot be performed. The paradox is that as Kia has no dualized qualities, there are no attributes by which to invoke it. To give it one quality is merely to deny it another. As an observant dualistic being once said:    I am that I am not.    Nevertheless, the magician may need to make some rearrangements or additions to what he is. Metamorphosis may be pursued by seeking that which one is not, and transcending both in mutual annihilation. Alternatively, the process of invocation may be seen as adding to the magician's psyche any elements which are missing. It is true that the mind must be finally surrendered as one enters fully into Chaos, but a complete and balanced psychocosm is more easily surrendered.    The magical process of shuffling beliefs and desires attendant upon the process of invocation also demonstrates that one's dominant obsessions or personality are quite arbitrary, and hence more easily banished.    There are many maps of the mind (psychocosms), most of which are inconsistent, contradictory, and based on highly fanciful theories. Many use the symbology of god forms, for all mythology embodies a psychology. A complete mythic pantheon resumes all of man's mental characteristics. Magicians will often use a pagan pantheon of gods as the basis for invoking some particular insight or ability, as these myths provide the most explicit and developed formulation of the particular idea's extant. However it is possible to use almost anything from the archetypes of the collective unconscious to the elemental qualities of alchemy.    If the magician taps a deep enough level of power, these forms may manifest with sufficient force to convince the mind of the objective existence of the god. Yet the aim of invocation is temporary possession by the god, communication from the god, and manifestation of the god's magical powers, rather than the formation of religious cults.    The actual method of invocation may be described as a total immersion in the qualities pertaining to the desired form. One invokes in every conceivable way. The magician first programs himself into identity with the god by arranging all his experiences to coincide with its nature. In the most elaborate form of ritual he may surround himself with the sounds, smells, colors, instruments, memories, numbers, symbols, music, and poetry suggestive of the god or quality. Secondly he unites his life force to the god image with which he has united his mind. This is accomplished with techniques from the gnosis. Figure 5 shows some examples of maps of the mind. Following are some suggestions for practical ritual invocation.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

36:Eternal, unconfined, unextended, without cause and without effect, the Holy Lamp mysteriously burns. Without quantity or quality, unconditioned and sempiternal, is this Light. It is not possible for anyone to advise or approve; for this Lamp is not made with hands; it exists alone for ever; it has no parts, no person; it is before "I am." Few can behold it, yet it is always there. For it there is no "here" nor "there," no "then" nor "now;" all parts of speech are abolished, save the noun; and this noun is not found either in {106} human speech or in Divine. It is the Lost Word, the dying music of whose sevenfold echo is I A O and A U M. Without this Light the Magician could not work at all; yet few indeed are the Magicians that have know of it, and far fewer They that have beheld its brilliance! The Temple and all that is in it must be destroyed again and again before it is worthy to receive that Light. Hence it so often seems that the only advice that any master can give to any pupil is to destroy the Temple. "Whatever you have" and "whatever you are" are veils before that Light. Yet in so great a matter all advice is vain. There is no master so great that he can see clearly the whole character of any pupil. What helped him in the past may hinder another in the future. Yet since the Master is pledged to serve, he may take up that service on these simple lines. Since all thoughts are veils of this Light, he may advise the destruction of all thoughts, and to that end teach those practices which are clearly conductive to such destruction. These practices have now fortunately been set down in clear language by order of the A.'.A.'.. In these instructions the relativity and limitation of each practice is clearly taught, and all dogmatic interpretations are carefully avoided. Each practice is in itself a demon which must be destroyed; but to be destroyed it must first be evoked. Shame upon that Master who shirks any one of these practices, however distasteful or useless it may be to him! For in the detailed knowledge of it, which experience alone can give him, may lie his opportunity for crucial assistance to a pupil. However dull the drudgery, it should be undergone. If it were possible to regret anything in life, which is fortunately not the case, it would be the hours wasted in fruitful practices which might have been more profitably employed on sterile ones: for NEMO<> in tending his garden seeketh not to single out the flower that shall be NEMO after him. And we are not told that NEMO might have used other things than those which he actually does use; it seems possible that if he had not the acid or the knife, or the fire, or the oil, he might miss tending just that one flower which was to be NEMO after him! ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, The Lamp,

37:SLEIGHT OF MIND IN ILLUMINATION Only those forms of illumination which lead to useful behaviour changes deserve to be known as such. When I hear the word "spirituality", I tend to reach for a loaded wand. Most professionally spiritual people are vile and untrustworthy when off duty, simply because their beliefs conflict with basic drives and only manage to distort their natural behaviour temporarily. The demons then come screaming up out of the cellar at unexpected moments. When selecting objectives for illumination, the magician should choose forms of self improvement which can be precisely specified and measured and which effect changes of behaviour in his entire existence. Invocation is the main tool in illumination, although enchantment where spells are cast upon oneselves and divination to seek objectives for illumination may also find some application. Evocation can sometimes be used with care, but there is no point in simply creating an entity that is the repository of what one wishes were true for oneself in general. This is a frequent mistake in religion. Forms of worship which create only entities in the subconscious are inferior to more wholehearted worship, which, at its best, is pure invocation. The Jesuits "Imitation of Christ" is more effective than merely praying to Jesus for example. Illumination proceeds in the same general manner as invocation, except that the magician is striving to effect specific changes to his everyday behaviour, rather than to create enhanced facilities that can be drawn upon for particular purposes. The basic technique remains the same, the required beliefs are identified and then implanted in the subconscious by ritual or other acts. Such acts force the subconscious acquisition of the beliefs they imply. Modest and realistic objectives are preferable to grandiose schemes in illumination. One modifies the behaviour and beliefs of others by beginning with only the most trivial demands. The same applies to oneselves. The magician should beware of implanting beliefs whose expression cannot be sustained by the human body or the environment. For example it is possible to implant the belief that flight can be achieved without an aircraft. However it has rarely proved possible to implant this belief deeply enough to ensure that such flights were not of exceedingly short duration. Nevertheless such feats as fire-walking and obliviousness to extreme pain are sometimes achieved by this mechanism. The sleight of mind which implants belief through ritual action is more powerful than any other weapon that humanity possesses, yet its influence is so pervasive that we seldom notice it. It makes religions, wars, cults and cultures possible. It has killed countless millions and created our personal and social realities. Those who understand how to use it on others can be messiahs or dictators, depending on their degree of personal myopia. Those who understand how to apply it to themselves have a jewel beyond price if they use it wisely; otherwise they tend to rapidly invoke their own Nemesis with it. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Kaos,

38:EVOCATION    Evocation is the art of dealing with magical beings or entities by various acts which create or contact them and allow one to conjure and command them with pacts and exorcism. These beings have a legion of names drawn from the demonology of many cultures: elementals, familiars, incubi, succubi, bud-wills, demons, automata, atavisms, wraiths, spirits, and so on. Entities may be bound to talismans, places, animals, objects, persons, incense smoke, or be mobile in the aether. It is not the case that such entities are limited to obsessions and complexes in the human mind. Although such beings customarily have their origin in the mind, they may be budded off and attached to objects and places in the form of ghosts, spirits, or "vibrations," or may exert action at a distance in the form of fetishes, familiars, or poltergeists. These beings consist of a portion of Kia or the life force attached to some aetheric matter, the whole of which may or may not be attached to ordinary matter.    Evocation may be further defined as the summoning or creation of such partial beings to accomplish some purpose. They may be used to cause change in oneself, change in others, or change in the universe. The advantages of using a semi-independent being rather than trying to effect a transformation directly by will are several: the entity will continue to fulfill its function independently of the magician until its life force dissipates. Being semi-sentient, it can adapt itself to a task in that a non-conscious simple spell cannot. During moments of the possession by certain entities the magician may be the recipient of inspirations, abilities, and knowledge not normally accessible to him.    Entities may be drawn from three sources - those which are discovered clairvoyantly, those whose characteristics are given in grimoires of spirits and demons, and those which the magician may wish to create himself.    In all cases establishing a relationship with the spirit follows a similar process of evocation. Firstly the attributes of the entity, its type, scope, name, appearance and characteristics must be placed in the mind or made known to the mind. Automatic drawing or writing, where a stylus is allowed to move under inspiration across a surface, may help to uncover the nature of a clairvoyantly discovered being. In the case of a created being the following procedure is used: the magician assembles the ingredients of a composite sigil of the being's desired attributes. For example, to create an elemental to assist him with divination, the appropriate symbols might be chosen and made into a sigil such as the one shown in figure 4.    A name and an image, and if desired, a characteristic number can also be selected for the elemental.    Secondly, the will and perception are focused as intently as possible (by some gnostic method) on the elemental's sigils or characteristics so that these take on a portion of the magician's life force and begin autonomous existence. In the case of preexisting beings, this operation serves to bind the entity to the magician's will.    This is customarily followed by some form of self-banishing, or even exorcism, to restore the magician's consciousness to normal before he goes forth.    An entity of a low order with little more than a singular task to perform can be left to fulfill its destiny with no further interference from its master. If at any time it is necessary to terminate it, its sigil or material basis should be destroyed and its mental image destroyed or reabsorbed by visualization. For more powerful and independent beings, the conjuration and exorcism must be in proportion to the power of the ritual which originally evoked them. To control such beings, the magicians may have to re-enter the gnostic state to the same depth as before in order to draw their power. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

39:AUGOEIDES:    The magicians most important invocation is that of his Genius, Daemon, True Will, or Augoeides. This operation is traditionally known as attaining the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It is sometimes known as the Magnum Opus or Great Work.    The Augoeides may be defined as the most perfect vehicle of Kia on the plane of duality. As the avatar of Kia on earth, the Augoeides represents the true will, the raison detre of the magician, his purpose in existing. The discovery of ones true will or real nature may be difficult and fraught with danger, since a false identification leads to obsession and madness. The operation of obtaining the knowledge and conversation is usually a lengthy one. The magician is attempting a progressive metamorphosis, a complete overhaul of his entire existence. Yet he has to seek the blueprint for his reborn self as he goes along. Life is less the meaningless accident it seems. Kia has incarnated in these particular conditions of duality for some purpose. The inertia of previous existences propels Kia into new forms of manifestation. Each incarnation represents a task, or a puzzle to be solved, on the way to some greater form of completion.    The key to this puzzle is in the phenomena of the plane of duality in which we find ourselves. We are, as it were, trapped in a labyrinth or maze. The only thing to do is move about and keep a close watch on the way the walls turn. In a completely chaotic universe such as this one, there are no accidents. Everything is signifcant. Move a single grain of sand on a distant shore and the entire future history of the world will eventually be changed. A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally.    To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness.    Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation. Having communicated with the invoked form, the magician should draw it into himself and go forth to live in the way he hath willed.    The ritual may be concluded with an aspiration to the wisdom of silence by a brief concentration on the sigil of the Augoeides, but never by banishing. Periodically more elaborate forms of ritual, using more powerful forms of gnosis, may be employed. At the end of the day, there should be an accounting and fresh resolution made. Though every day be a catalog of failure, there should be no sense of sin or guilt. Magic is the raising of the whole individual in perfect balance to the power of Infinity, and such feelings are symptomatic of imbalance. If any unnecessary or imbalanced scraps of ego become identified with the genius by mistake, then disaster awaits. The life force flows directly into these complexes and bloats them into grotesque monsters variously known as the demon Choronzon. Some magicians attempting to go too fast with this invocation have failed to banish this demon, and have gone spectacularly insane as a result.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

40:CHAPTER XIII OF THE BANISHINGS: AND OF THE PURIFICATIONS. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and had better come first. Purity means singleness. God is one. The wand is not a wand if it has something sticking to it which is not an essential part of itself. If you wish to invoke Venus, you do not succeed if there are traces of Saturn mixed up with it. That is a mere logical commonplace: in magick one must go much farther than this. One finds one's analogy in electricity. If insulation is imperfect, the whole current goes back to earth. It is useless to plead that in all those miles of wire there is only one-hundredth of an inch unprotected. It is no good building a ship if the water can enter, through however small a hole. That first task of the Magician in every ceremony is therefore to render his Circle absolutely impregnable. If one littlest thought intrude upon the mind of the Mystic, his concentration is absolutely destroyed; and his consciousness remains on exactly the same level as the Stockbroker's. Even the smallest baby is incompatible with the virginity of its mother. If you leave even a single spirit within the circle, the effect of the conjuration will be entirely absorbed by it.> {101} The Magician must therefore take the utmost care in the matter of purification, "firstly", of himself, "secondly", of his instruments, "thirdly", of the place of working. Ancient Magicians recommended a preliminary purification of from three days to many months. During this period of training they took the utmost pains with diet. They avoided animal food, lest the elemental spirit of the animal should get into their atmosphere. They practised sexual abstinence, lest they should be influenced in any way by the spirit of the wife. Even in regard to the excrements of the body they were equally careful; in trimming the hair and nails, they ceremonially destroyed> the severed portion. They fasted, so that the body itself might destroy anything extraneous to the bare necessity of its existence. They purified the mind by special prayers and conservations. They avoided the contamination of social intercourse, especially the conjugal kind; and their servitors were disciples specially chosen and consecrated for the work. In modern times our superior understanding of the essentials of this process enables us to dispense to some extent with its external rigours; but the internal purification must be even more carefully performed. We may eat meat, provided that in doing so we affirm that we eat it in order to strengthen us for the special purpose of our proposed invocation.> {102} By thus avoiding those actions which might excite the comment of our neighbours we avoid the graver dangers of falling into spiritual pride. We have understood the saying: "To the pure all things are pure", and we have learnt how to act up to it. We can analyse the mind far more acutely than could the ancients, and we can therefore distinguish the real and right feeling from its imitations. A man may eat meat from self-indulgence, or in order to avoid the dangers of asceticism. We must constantly examine ourselves, and assure ourselves that every action is really subservient to the One Purpose. It is ceremonially desirable to seal and affirm this mental purity by Ritual, and accordingly the first operation in any actual ceremony is bathing and robing, with appropriate words. The bath signifies the removal of all things extraneous to antagonistic to the one thought. The putting on of the robe is the positive side of the same operation. It is the assumption of the fame of mind suitable to that one thought. A similar operation takes place in the preparation of every instrument, as has been seen in the Chapter devoted to that subject. In the preparation of theplace of working, the same considerations apply. We first remove from that place all objects; and we then put into it those objects, and only those {103} objects, which are necessary. During many days we occupy ourselves in this process of cleansing and consecration; and this again is confirmed in the actual ceremony. The cleansed and consecrated Magician takes his cleansed and consecrated instruments into that cleansed and consecrated place, and there proceeds to repeat that double ceremony in the ceremony itself, which has these same two main parts. The first part of every ceremony is the banishing; the second, the invoking. The same formula is repeated even in the ceremony of banishing itself, for in the banishing ritual of the pentagram we not only command the demons to depart, but invoke the Archangels and their hosts to act as guardians of the Circle during our pre-occupation with the ceremony proper. In more elaborate ceremonies it is usual to banish everything by name. Each element, each planet, and each sign, perhaps even the Sephiroth themselves; all are removed, including the very one which we wished to invoke, for that force ... ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:I object to that remark very strongly! - The Magician's Nephew ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove

2:The Magician. Interview with Maya Jaggi, www.theguardian.com. December 17, 2005. ~ ursula-k-le-guin, @wisdomtrove

3:The magician to some degree is trying to drive him or herself mad in a controlled setting, within controlled laws. ~ alan-moore, @wisdomtrove

4:Now sir, said the bulldog in his business-like way. &

5:And she never could remember; and ever since that day what Lucy means by a good story is a story which reminds her of the forgotten story in the Magician's Book. ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove

6:It is the magician's bargain: give up our soul, get power in return. But once our souls, that is, ourselves, have been given up, the power thus conferred will not belong to us. We shall in fact be the slaves and puppets of that to which we have given our souls. ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove

7:It is human nature to want to believe in the wizardry of the magician&

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Love is the magician that pulls him out of his own hat. ~ Ben Hecht,

2:I object to that remark very strongly! - The Magician's Nephew ~ C S Lewis,

3:together, but Billy Lee was the magician. I barely qualified ~ Carolyn Brown,

4:I object to that remark very strongly! - The Magician's Nephew ~ C S Lewis,

5:Nobody sees anything except in the dark," said the magician. ~ G K Chesterton,

6:The only nickname I've ever had is Merlin, like the magician. I don't know why. ~ Tim Duncan,

7:For jokes as well as justice come in with speech. - Aslan, The Magician's Nephew ~ C S Lewis,

8:Love is the magician of the universe. It creates everything out of nothing. ~ Barbara De Angelis,

9:I intended only lilies. That was my intention: a bouquet of lilies. - The Magician ~ Kate DiCamillo,

10:The Magician's Land is a triumphant climax to the best fantasy trilogy of the decade. ~ Charles Stross,

11:Kelly, there is magic, but you have to be the magician. You have to make the magic happen. ~ Sidney Sheldon,

12:All here can change if the Magician choose. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain,

13:An artist is the magician put among men to gratify - capriciously - their urge for immortality. ~ Tom Stoppard,

14:The world easily finds an honourable place for the magician who produces new and dazzling things. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

15:In this lamen the Magician must place the secret keys of his power.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick,

16:Yesterday's fairy tale is today's fact. The magician is only one step ahead of his audience. ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh,

17:The Magician sees what is out there and finds connections. The Magician can make anything magical. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

18:Where is the magic? In nature! Where is the magician? In nature? Who is the magician? The nature! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

19:A beautiful dress hold a little bit of magic in it. A dressmaker like myself is lucky to be the magician, ~ Jane L Rosen,

20:Be careful of the magician that tricks you into believing that what you do with food has no consequences. ~ Karen R Koenig,

21:The first task of the Magician in every ceremony is therefore to render his Circle absolutely impregnable. ~ Aleister Crowley,

22:The magician to some degree is trying to drive him or herself mad in a controlled setting, within controlled laws. ~ Alan Moore,

23:A beautiful dress holds a little bit of magic in it. A dressmaker like myself is looking kelt to be the magician. ~ Jane L Rosen,

24:Now sir, said the bulldog in his business-like way. 'Are you a animal, vegetable, or mineral?' - The Magician's Nephew ~ C S Lewis,

25:Through the darkness of future past, the magician longs to see, one chance out between two worlds, fire walk with me! ~ David Lynch,

26:Now sir, said the bulldog in his business-like way. 'Are you a animal, vegetable, or mineral?' - The Magician's Nephew ~ C S Lewis,

27:That first task of the Magician in every ceremony is therefore to render his Circle absolutely impregnable. ~ Aleister Crowley, [T5],

28:Philosophers are always trying to climb up the fine hairs of the fur in order to stare right into the magician's eyes. ~ Jostein Gaarder,

29:to the magician’s eyes the unicorn was the moon, cold and white and very old, lighting his way to safety, or to madness. ~ Peter S Beagle,

30:If I’m right…’ She was already walking quickly back towards the theatre. ‘If I’m right, science killed the magician.’ * ~ Jonathan L Howard,

31:She said, "I will go no farther." "There is no choice. We can only go on." The magician said again. "We can only go on. ~ Peter S Beagle,

32:I think people know Steve Jobs the showman. I think people know the guy who stood up and gave the keynotes. The magician. The salesman. ~ Ashton Kutcher,

33:According to the universal laws, the magician will form his own point of view about the universe which henceforth will be his true religion. ~ Franz Bardon,

34:As the Magick Wand is the Will, the Wisdom, the Word of the Magician, so is the Magick Cup his Understanding.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick,

35:The moon was gone, but to the magician's eyes the unicorn was the moon, cold and white and very old, lighting his way to safety, or to madness. ~ Peter S Beagle,

36:The magician stood erect, menacing the attackers with demons, metamorphoses, paralyzing ailments, and secret judo holds. Molly picked up a rock. ~ Peter S Beagle,

37:Best Witchcraft is Geometry Best Witchcraft is Geometry To the magician's mind His ordinary acts are feats To thinking of mankind. ~ Emily Dickinson,

38:What would you have done, reader, who has been able to follow me like the Magician followed me, invisible and ever-watchful and without consequences? ~ Jeff VanderMeer,

39:What would you have done, reader, who has been able to follow me like the Magician followed me, invisible and ever-watchful and without consequence? * ~ Jeff VanderMeer,

40:Unless therefore the Magician be first anointed with this Oil, all his work will be wasted and evil.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part II, The Holy Oil,

41:And she never could remember; and ever since that day what Lucy means by a good story is a story which reminds her of the forgotten story in the Magician's Book. ~ C S Lewis,

42:A man may plan as much as he wants to, but nothing of consequence is likely to come of it until the magician circumstance steps in and takes the matter off his hands. ~ Mark Twain,

43:At the moment we've only got 16 first-team players and my initials stand for Mick McCarthy, not Merlin the Magician (the new Wolves manager gets the excuses in early!) ~ Mick McCarthy,

44:It is more useful for the magician to consider living systems not as some unaware little eddies in a universal consciousness field, but as ‘outposts’ of the spirit world. ~ Gordon White,

45:The Altar represents the solid basis of the Work, the fixed Will* of the Magician; and the law under which he works.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part II, The Altar,

46:The Magician looks on the wicked as invalids whom one must pity and cure; the world, with its errors and vices, is to him God's hospital, and he wishes to serve in it.    ~ Eliphas Levi,

47:Make your choice, adventurous Stranger, Strike the bell and bide the danger, Or wonder, till it drives you mad, What would have followed if you had.    ~ C S Lewis, The Magician's Nephew,

48:Magic has always been about seizing power or subverting it, the goal in either case being freedom from the conditions of reality in which the magician finds him or herself. ~ Gordon White,

49:In the absence of The King the Warrior becomes a mercenary, the Magician becomes a sophist (able to argue any position and believing in none), and the Lover becomes an addict. ~ Robert L Moore,

50:All magic is about transformation... the performance magician is telling you that you are the magician in your own life. You are the agent of transformation, your own transformation. ~ Eugene Burger,

51:Before one can become a magician he must learn to control his own mind; for mind is the substance with which the magician acts, and the power to control it is the beginning of magic. ~ Franz Hartmann,

52:No matter what system the magician chooses, in order to make it work most effectively he or she must first become attuned to that system's particular way of viewing of the universe. ~ Lon Milo DuQuette,

53:One goes to the magician, as one goes to the analyst, or any quack—to reaffirm one’s own secret volitions. Not to be cured, not to be warned, not to be saved, but to become what one wants to be. ~ Ana s Nin,

54:I get it,” Merlin leaned forward. “The magician simply redirects attention to one of these other fifty-five thousand realities, thereby distracting others from the reality they’re manipulating ~ Tony Vigorito,

55:The Magician's Elephant (DiCamillo, Kate;Tanaka, Yoko) - Your Highlight on page 84 | Location 528-528 | Added on Saturday, March 1, 2014 7:32:12 PM It is a bad thing to have love and nowhere to put it. ~ Anonymous,

56:But though the magician particularly asked to be taken there alone, his dear friends, Mr. Drawlight and Mr. Lascelles, were not so unkind as to leave him to face this great crisis of his career alone ~ Susanna Clarke,

57:Are you hungry?” “Well, perhaps I am a little,” said Lucy. “I’ve no idea what the time is.” “Come,” said the Magician. “All times may be soon to Aslan; but in my home all hungry times are one o’clock. ~ C S Lewis,

58:But that is impossible," said Peter. "Magic is always impossible," said the magician. "It begins with the impossible and ends with the impossible and is impossible in between. That is why it is magic. ~ Kate DiCamillo,

59:The physical world is the point of departure from whence the magician works and upon which every human being, initiated or not, live and moves through his senses, his spirit, his soul and his physical body. ~ Franz Bardon,

60:So you’re Merlin the Magician? We studied you in school last year.” I had no idea the guy was so wacky. “Oh no, Merlin was my bwother.” Mermin smiled. “Made quite a name for himself in your world,” he chuckled. ~ L R W Lee,

61:The popular image of the Magician has certain features in common with that of the Artist: both are unselfishly devoted to lofty tasks-which frequently overlapped in the uomo universale of the Renaissance. ~ Arthur Koestler,

62:We know all about you, Rincewind the magician. You are a man of great cunning and artifice. You laugh in the face of Death. Your affected air of craven cowardice does not fool me.” It fooled Rincewind. ~ Terry Pratchett,

63:The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all as things now are with slight endeavour and scanty success. ~ Francis Bacon,

64:Of course there are robots among us. There are also Magicians among us. I think we take turns playing each role, as a matter of fact. The Magician defines a reality-mesh and the robot lives in it. Grok? ~ Robert Anton Wilson,

65:The Great Work of Magic is the collapsing of the future into the immediate present; the magician seizes reality and lives now, free from the bonds of his past, and knowing that the future is the Manifestation of his Will. ~ Phil Hine,

66:Being the Magician isn't about being powerful when you have things and useless when you don't," Persephone said. "The Magician sees what is out there and finds connections. The Magician can make anything magical. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

67:Hillary Clinton ripped FBI Director Louis Freeh on Wednesday. She said she can't understand how FBI documents could vanish and then mysteriously reappear. She has to say that or she'd be thrown out of the Magician's Society. ~ Argus Hamilton,

68:I intended lilies, said the magician. but in the clutches of a desparate desire to do something extraordinary, I called down a greater magic and inadvertently caused you a profound harm. I will now try to undo what I have done. ~ Kate DiCamillo,

69:What use is wizardry if it cannot save a unicorn?" He gripped the magician's shoulder hard, to keep from falling. Schmendrick did not turn his head. With a touch of sad mockery in his voice, he said, "That's what heroes are for. ~ Peter S Beagle,

70:That night, Kaz took Saskia’s red ribbon from beneath his pillow. He rolled it into a neat spiral and clutched it in his palm. He lay in bed and tried to pray, but all he could think about was the magician’s coin: there and then gone. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

71:The less a writer discusses his work and himself the better. The master chef slaughters no chickens in the dining room; the doctor writes prescriptions in Latin; the magician hides his hinges, mirrors, and trapdoors with the utmost care. ~ Jack Vance,

72:What use is wizardry if it cannot save a unicorn?" He gripped the magician's shoulder hard, to keep from falling. Shchmendrick did not turn his head. With a touch of sad mockery in his voice, he said, "That's what heroes are for. ~ Peter S Beagle,

73:After watching the house for a few days, she had concluded that the magician lived alone, but you never knew if someone had a secret lover stashed away. Or a very loud pet. That time with the peacock, for instance. Noisy birds, peacocks. ~ Yoon Ha Lee,

74:The chilly rationale of hindsight is what exposes the how and why of something that once seemed supernatural. It's the magician's manual that shows you how the tricks are done, not with sorcery but with careful cues and mysterious devices. ~ Tayari Jones,

75:THE MAGICIAN They asked St. Germain's manservant if his master was truly a thousand years old, as it was rumored he had claimed. 'How would I know?" the man replied. "I have only been in the master's employ for three hundred years. ~ Neil Gaiman,

76:The magician was studying her face with his green eyes. "Your face is wet," he said worriedly. "I hope that's spray. If you've become human enough to cry, then no magic in the world — oh, it must be spray. Come with me. It had better be spray. ~ Peter S Beagle,

77:Mass was like grand opera, a magic show with the most expensive props in town. And faith, a sleight of hand trick, in which one was both the magician and the audience; the deceiver and the deceived. Still, who could resist a good magic trick? ~ Kathleen Tessaro,

78:The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you wont find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. ~ Christopher Priest,

79:When [the magician] clicks his fingers and cards change to the four aces, we know we have experienced sleight of hand. Real magic would not be quite that quick and easy. Real magic would take investment. Real magic would draw you in, and make you nervous. ~ Derren Brown,

80:The Book of Spells or of Conjurations is the Record of every thought, word and deed of the Magician; for everything that he has willed is willed to a purpose. It is the same as if he had taken an oath or perform some achievement.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, The Book,

81:It is the magician's bargain: give up our soul, get power in return. But once our souls, that is, ourselves, have been given up, the power thus conferred will not belong to us. We shall in fact be the slaves and puppets of that to which we have given our souls. ~ C S Lewis,

82:It is the magician’s bargain: give up our soul, get power in return. But once our souls, that is, ourselves, have been given up, the power thus conferred will not belong to us. We shall in fact be the slaves and puppets of that to which we have given our souls. ~ C S Lewis,

83:Once, no magic act was complete without the magician’s revealingly dressed assistant. Her job was not merely to be sawn in half but to dominate the mostly male audience’s attention at moments when a focus on the whereabouts of the rabbit might blow the gaff. That ~ Anonymous,

84:The short story is not as restrictive as the sonnet, but, of all the literary forms, it is possibly the most single-minded. ...at the end there has to be the literary equivalent of the magician's puff of smoke, an outcome that is both startling and anticipated. ~ Louis Menand,

85:But magic, like everything else, follows certain natural laws. Magic needs energy wherever it can find it. If no other source of energy is available, it will take the life force of the magician who created it. That is why every use of magic weakens the magician. ~ Michael Scott,

86:Before we do, I suggest you take a break. If you need to go to the bathroom, this is a good time. If you're sleepy, go to bed and save the next chapter for tomorrow. For the magician's story, you must have all your wits about you. No wandering minds allowed. ~ Pseudonymous Bosch,

87:A locust job was the magician’s equivalent of erasing the porn from your dead buddy’s hard drive before his mom sees it. They’d scour Spengler’s house for any enchanted relics, journals, grimoires, and occult ciphers, anything that could raise a citizen’s eyebrow. ~ Craig Schaefer,

88:It had not occurred to anybody in the crowd—that simple trick of inquiring about somebody who wasn't ten thousand miles away.  The magician was hit hard; it was an emergency that had never happened in his experience before, and it corked him; he didn't know how to meet it. ~ Mark Twain,

89:Ancient stone amulets from England? Silver spikes? The notions swirled through Don’s mind, getting mixed up with images of Merlin the magician and the Wicked Witch of the West. Don felt as if he’d stepped into a fairy tale. Next he’d start finding trolls under the bridges. ~ Chet Williamson,

90:From a magicial point of view, it is axiomatic that we have create the world in which we exist. Looking about himself, the magician can say 'thus have I will,' or 'thus do I perceive,' or more accurately, 'thus does my Kia manifest.'    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null, Liber LUX, Enchantment [55],

91:The unicorn halted in her slow, desperate round of the cage, realizing for the first time that the magician understood her speech. He smiled, and she saw that his face was frighteningly young for a grown man-untraveled by time, unvisited by grief or wisdom. "I know you," he said. ~ Peter S Beagle,

92:To "invoke" is to "call in", just as to "evoke" is to "call forth". This is the essential difference between the two branches of Magick. In invocation, the macrocosm floods the consciousness. In evocation, the magician, having become the macrocosm, creates a microcosm. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

93:Magicians protect their secrets not because the secrets are large and important, but because they are so small and trivial. The wonderful effects created on stage are often the result of a secret so absurd that the magician would be embarrassed to admit that that was how it was done. ~ Christopher Priest,

94:Then what is magic for?" Prince Lír demanded wildly. "What use is wizardry if it cannot save a unicorn?" He gripped the magician's shoulder hard, to keep from falling. Schmedrick did not turn his head. With a touch of sad mockery in his voice, he said, "That's what heroes are for. ~ Peter S Beagle,

95:Adam had never been powerful in his life. Being the magician isn't about being powerful when you have things and useless when you don't. The magician sees what is out there and finds connections. The magician can make anything magical. Now, are you the magician? Or aren't you? ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

96:The magician acknowledges a desire, he lists the appropriate symbols and arranges them into an easily visualised glyph. Using any of the gnostic techniques he reifies the sigil and then, by force of will, hurls it into his subconscious from where the sigil can begin to work unencumbered by desire. ~ Ray Sherwin,

97:Love isn't always magic. But if I offered my body to the magician, if I told him to cut me in half so after that I could come to you whole and ask for you back would you listen for this dark alley love song? For the winter we heated our home from the steam off our own bodies? ~ Andrea Gibson,

98:The genuine mind of man, thirsting for its native home, society, contemns the gewgaws that separate him from it. Titles are like circles drawn by the magician's wand, to contract the sphere of man's felicity. He lives immured within the Bastille of a word, and surveys at a distance the envied life of man. ~ Thomas Paine,

99:I think most people are fascinated by chess for that reason. It's just these mystical shapes. It's almost like Harry Potteresque, like wizard's chess in a way. The pieces come alive and you're the sorcerer. You're the magician and you get to do what you want with them and hopefully you don't screw it up. ~ Maurice Ashley,

100:P.S. As far as the white rabbit is concerned, it might be better to compare it with the whole universe. We who live here are microscopic insects existing deep down in the rabbit’s fur. But philosophers are always trying to climb up the fine hairs of the fur in order to stare right into the magician’s eyes. ~ Jostein Gaarder,

101:The adept could, in truth, change those who were obnoxious to him into harmless and unimportant shapes, not as in the letter of the old stories, by transforming the enemy, but by transforming himself. The magician puts men below him by going up higher, as one looks down on a mountain city from a loftier crag. ~ Arthur Machen,

102:The magician therefore seeks unity of desire before he attempts to act. Desires are re-arranged before an act, not during it. In all things he must live like this. As reorganization of belief is the key to liberation, so is reorganization of desire the key to will.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null, Liber LUX, Enchantment [56],

103:It is human nature to want to believe in the wizardry of the magician—but also to turn against him and to scorn him the moment that he commits the slightest error that reveals his trickery. Those in the audience are embarrassed to have been so easily astonished, and they blame the performer for their gullibility. ~ Dean Koontz,

104:It is human nature to want to believe in the wizardry of the magician--but also to turn against him and to scorn him the moment that he commits the slightest error that reveals his trickery. Those in the audience are embarrassed to have been so easily astonished, and they blame the performer for their gullibility. ~ Dean Koontz,

105:Love is the magician, the enchanter, that changes worthless things to joy, and makes right royal kings and queens of common clay. It is the perfume of that wondrous flower, the heart, and without that sacred passion, that divine swoon, we are less than beasts; but with it, earth is heaven, and we are gods. ~ Robert Green Ingersoll,

106:A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally    ~ Peter J Carroll,

107:I'm one of the few reading and thinking people who loves Las Vegas for the vulgarity and omnipresence of the dream. The collective dream. There's something enormous about it. Let me say one thing: Las Vegas and cinema have similar roots. The country fair. The magician at the country fair. The vulgarity of the country fair. ~ Werner Herzog,

108:That kind of swagger. The “I got this” energy. That’s the Magician. You see this card a lot with successful people, or with people who’ve just found the correct path in their life and have just had that Eureka! moment. He’s President Barack Obama backed by the P-Funk All Stars. Just sit down, kiddo. He’s got this covered. ~ Melissa Cynova,

109:I came with many knots in my heart, like the magician's rope. You undid them all at once. I see now the splendor of the student and that of the teacher's art. Love and this body sit inside your presence, one demolished, the other drunk. We smile. We weep, tree limbs turning sere, then light green. ~ Rumi,

110:Houdini, the magician who debunked magic, could not bear to see the great rationalist [Arthur Conan] Doyle enchanted by ghosts and frauds. And so he did what any friend would: He set out to prove spiritualism false and rob his friend Doyle of the only comforting fiction that was keeping him sane. It was the least he could do. ~ John Hodgman,

111:All here can change if the Magician choose.    If human will could be made one with God's,    If human thought could echo the thoughts of God,    Man might be all-knowing and omnipotent;    But now he walks in Nature's doubtful ray.    Yet can the mind of man receive God's light,    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain,

112:A robed figure stood before a coin, a cup, a sword, a wand---all of the symbols of all the tarot suits. An infinity symbol floated above his head; one arm was lifted in a posture of power. Yes, thought Adam. Understanding prickled and then evaded him. He read the words at the bottom of the card. The Magician. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

113:Magicians think they’re wise and witty, full of patter and panache, walking around like they don’t deserve to be shot in the back of the head and dumped in a lake. For all the grandeur of its self-regard, magic consists of nothing more than making a total stranger feel stupid. Worse, the magician usually dresses like a jackass". ~ Grady Hendrix,

114:Most important of all, perhaps, all the childhood images of God—God the Magician, God the Santa Claus, God the wrathful Judge, God the Puppeteer—disappear. We know now that the God of Creation has shared power with us and remains with us to help us see life through. Our role is to do our part, to do our best, to trust the path. ~ Joan D Chittister,

115:Fear is like a ten-cent magician. If you watch the trick a couple of times, you see the flaws and you know how the magician is doing it. But the first time, that same trick looks good. When we're scared, we don't always think things through. We react. It's human nature. Fear can make the wrong decision feel right. By then, it's too late. ~ Kami Garcia,

116:Theurgy is ritual magic - but magic that enacts the will of God, not of the magician. It brings divine energies down to earth, elevating and spiritualizing the world of matter, including the very being and substance of the participants. Each time the believer takes part with attention and devotion, he or she becomes more attuned to God. ~ Richard Smoley,

117:The lucid dream, located as it is at a crossroads between worlds and states of consciousness, places the magician in a unique position to influence the delicate balance of consciousness and the interplay it has on matter in the waking state, and is thus an opportunity to test one’s ability in the art of adjusting the mutable fabric of Maya. ~ Zeena Schreck,

118:Chaston wrote that a great many fairies harboured a vague sense of having been treated badly by the English. Though it was a mystery to Chaston — as it is to me — why they should have thought so. In the houses of the great English magicians fairies were the first among the servants and sat in the best places after the magician and his lady. ~ Susanna Clarke,

119:The Magician therefore represents the state of concentration without effort, i.e. the state of consciousness where the centre directing the will has “descended” (in reality it is elevated) from the brain to the rhythmic system, where the “oscillations of the mental substance” are reduced to silence and to rest, no longer hindering concentration. ~ Anonymous,

120:Every magic trick consists of three parts, or acts. The first part is called the Pledge. The magician shows you something ordinary. The second act is called the Turn. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it into something extraordinary. But you wouldn't clap yet, because making something disappear isn't enough. You have to bring it back. ~ Michael Caine,

121:The human being does not hop out of the magician's hat in the way that the ape climbs down from the tree; he also does not emerge from the hand of a creator who surveys everything in advance with his foreknowledge. He is the product of a production that is not itself a human being. The human being was not yet what he would become before he became it. ~ Peter Sloterdijk,

122:I accused Hartley of being a 'fantasist', or perhaps that was Titus's word, but what a 'fantasist' I have been myself. I was the dreamer, I the magician. How much, I see as I look back, I read into it all, reading my own dream text and not looking at the reality. Hartley had been right when she said of our love that it was not part of the real world. It had no place. ~ Iris Murdoch,

123:I learned a lot that night. For example, that part of being the magician's assistant means coming face-to-face with illusion. That invisibility is really just knotting your body in a certain way and letting the black curtain fall over you. That people don't vanish into thin air; that when you can't find someone, it's because you've been misdirected to look elsewhere. ~ Jodi Picoult,

124:When you see a movie, it's like you're attending a show of magic in which the magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. You don't know how he did it, but a part of you is fascinated, or hypnotized, by what happened, another part of your brain says, "Oh, I want to do the same thing! I want to be that wielder of that magic. I want to be that magician on stage, and do the same thing to other people." ~ Gaspar Noe,

125:How you prepare for a role is entirely your business in my point of view. There is little enough mystery anymore left in the world in the part of our profession, which should be clouded in mystery because it isn't in the public. You don't want the magician to show his tricks or how he did them do you? So I do think that is a very private thing that we actors should protect ourselves from. ~ Christopher Plummer,

126:Quite a different thing is, if a seeker, dissatisfied by materialism and doctrines, and longing for spiritual support, will ask advice and information of an adept. In such a case the adept is obliged to supply the seeker with spiritual light and insight, according to his mental powers. Then the magician should spare neither time nor pains to communicate his spiritual treasures and lead the seeker to the light. ~ Franz Bardon,

127:The danger of ceremonial magick-the subtlest and deepest danger-is this: that the Magician will naturally tend to invoke that partial being which most strongly appeals to him, so that his natural excess in that direction will be still further exaggerated. Let him, before beginning his Work, endeavour to map out his own being, and arrange his invocations in such a way as to redress the balance.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

128:The work of art still has something in common with enchantment: it posits its own, self-enclosed area, which is withdrawn from the context of profane existence, and in which special laws apply. Just as in the ceremony the magician first of all marked out the limits of the area where the sacred powers were to come into play, so every work of art describes its own circumference which closes it off from actuality. ~ Theodor W Adorno,

129:Tanis at first wondered what the mage was studying, then realized it was his spellbook. It is the curse of the magi that they must constantly study and recommit their spells to memory every day. The words of magic flame in the mind, then flicker and die when the spell is cast. Each spell burns up some of the magician’s physical and mental energy until he is totally exhausted and must rest before he can use his magic again. ~ Margaret Weis,

130:The formula of the Cup is not so well suited for Evocations, and the magical Hierarchy is not involved in the same way; for the Cup being passive rather than active, it is not fitting for the magician to use it in respect of anything but the Highest. In practical working it consequently means little but prayer, and that prayer the 'prayer of silence.'    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part 3, The Formuale of the Elemental Weapons [148],

131:It is not force or power, but the perversion of force which constitutes evil. The magician says: "Demon est deus inversus." We may say: "The Demon is power perverted." Therefore man, the perverter of power, is the creator of demons, because he is the lowest creature capable of exercising authority from within his own being. The lower kingdoms are forced to react upon group impression and obey unquestioningly. ~ Manly P Hall, Magic: A Treatise on Esoteric Ethics,

132:It should never be forgotten for a single moment that the central and essential work of the Magician is the attainment of the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. Once he has achieved this he must of course be left entirely in the hands of that Angel, who can be invariably and inevitably relied upon to lead him to the further great step-crossing of the Abyss and the attainment of the grade of Master of the Temple. ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

133:The conclusion of both modern physics and depth psychology is that things are not what they seem. What we experience as normal reality—about ourselves and nature—is only the tip of an iceberg that arises out of an unfathomable abyss. Knowledge of this hidden realm is the province of the Magician, and it is through the Magician energy that we will come to understand our lives with a degree of profundity not dreamed of for at least a thousand years of Western history. ~ Robert L Moore,

134:Obviously the household of Richard the Fair was unused to hearing the magician laugh. Even Richard himself stopped pawing his willing partner to stare at Simon of Navarre. "Something amuses you, my Grendel?" he demanded. "You have been gracious enough to gift me with a clever wife," Simon said. "A clever woman is a curse," Richard said flatly, eyeing Alys with profound distrust. "Change your mind, my friend. Choose the pretty one." "My lord," said Simon, "I did. ~ Anne Stuart,

135:Unicorns are not to be forgiven." The magician felt himself growing giddy with jealousy, not only of the touch but of something like a secret that was moving between Molly and the unicorn. "Unicorns are for beginnings," he said, "for innocence and purity, for newness. Unicorns are for young girls." Molly was stroking the unicorn's throat as timidly as though she were blind. She dried her grimy tears on the white mane. "You don't know much about unicorns," she said. ~ Peter S Beagle,

136:The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed ~ Michael Chabon,

137:The unicorn was gray and still. "There is magic on me," she said. "Why did you not tell me?" "I thought you knew," the magician answered gently. "After all, didn't you wonder how it could be that they recognized you?" Then he smiled, which made him look a little older. "No, of course not. You never would wonder about that." "There has never been a spell on me before," the unicorn said. She shivered long and deep. "There has never been a world in which I was not known. ~ Peter S Beagle,

138:The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place. ~ Michael Chabon,

139:But Malone was thinking now and as he watched the men lighting cigarettes for each other in the dark, having sex beneath the trees, he turned to his friend and said in a wondering voice: “Isn’t it strange that when we fall in love, this great dream we have, this extraordinary disease, the only thing in which either one of us is interested, it’s inevitably with some perfectly ordinary drip who for some reason we cannot define is the magic bearer, the magician, the one who brings all this to us. Why? ~ Andrew Holleran,

140:The things they see as unnecessary extras, the accretions of myth and legend, are excised by the scissors to expose the real Jesus. It seems so scientific, but it is all done with mirrors. The magician's art leaves us with the portrait of Rudolf Bultmann or John A. T. Robinson, and again the real Jesus is obscured. By preserving a modicum of New Testament data, we think we have avoided subjectivity. However, the result is the same-a Jesus shaped by the bias of the scholar wielding the scissors and getting ~ R C Sproul,

141:A magician creates magic and mesmerizes the audience. But it is a pantomime, and the audience knows that it’s a ruse. It’s in the name: a “magic trick”. They play along when the magician tugs his sleeves to show there is nothing hidden within them, or that the top hat is empty of a rabbit, or eggs, or flowers. Beneath the façade there is only sleight of hand, wires and contraptions, misdirection at a key moment. “But what the audience does not realize is that it’s not always trickery. Or at least, not quite. ~ Laura Lam,

142:Science and technology were often used by [the magician of old], even before they came into the marketplace on a mass basis. For example, prior to the moving picture going into theatre, magicians were using the technique of images in motion as illusions in their shows. At that time the process was so new, an audience perceived it as magic. Also in the early stages of holograms magicians would use these images to baffle and mystify their fans. Hence, you always need to stay one step ahead of the technology game to "WOW" the audience. ~ David Copperfield,

143:SLEIGHT OF MIND IN INVOCATION Invocation is a three stage process. Firstly the magician consciously identifies with what is traditionally called a god-form, secondly he enters gnosis and thirdly the magicians subconsciousness manifests the powers of the god-form. A successful invocation means nothing less than full "possession" by the god-form. With practice the first stage of conscious identification can be abbreviated greatly to the point where it may only be necessary to concentrate momentarily on a well used god-form. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Kaos,

144:Let the Magician therefore adventure himself upon the Astral Plane with the declared design to penetrate to a sanctuary of discarnate Beings such as are able to instruct and fortify him, also to prove their identity by testimony beyond rebuttal. All explanations other than these are of value only as extending and equilibrating Knowledge, or possibly as supplying Energy to such Magicians as may have found their way to the Sources of Strength. In all cases, naught is worth an obol save as it serve to help the One Great Work" ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, App 3,

145:In the first stages of civilisation the magician was the man of science. The mysteries of this magic art being inseparable from those of religion and philosophy, were preserved... hermetically sealed in the adyta of the temple. Its philosophy was the cabala. We must consequently look on the various cabalas or oral traditions, transmitted from age to age as the oracles of various faiths and creeds, as constituting the elements of that theory which the Jewish cabala promulgated some centuries later in a condensed and mutilated form. ~ Encyclopedia Brittanica (1875),

146:If we had any assurance of saving her by battle, our duty would be very plain. It appears to me that we have none. And the service they ask of her is in no way contrary to her Majesty’s honor, but a noble and heroical act. If the Queen’s heart moves her to risk the magician, I will not speak against it.” As no one had ever known Reepicheep to be afraid of anything, he could say this without feeling at all awkward. But the boys, who had all been afraid quite often, grew very red. None the less, it was such obvious sense that they had to give in. ~ C S Lewis,

147:The key interest entity-wise is the notion of creating multiple avatars of the self; that is, multiple entities that go out and perform various functions for the magician. While that is hardly a new idea, the way the Spectre goes about it, showing how one entity splits himself off into multiple entities, is interesting and leads, I believe, to potential experimentation for the magician. For instance, the magician can take this principle and use it to multi-task, splitting hirself into multiple versions who attend to different tasks throughout the day. ~ Taylor Ellwood,

148:The Temple represents the external Universe. The Magician must take it as he finds it, so that it is of no particular shape; yet we find written, \Liber VII,\ V:I:2 \We made us a temple of stones in the shape of the Universem even ashou didst wear openly and I concealed.\ This shape is the vesica piscis; but it is only the greeatest Magicians who can thus fashion the Temple. There may, however, be some choice of rooms; this refers to the power of the Magician to reincarnate in a suitable body.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 04: Magick, Part II, Chapter 1, The Temple [49],

149:Careful observation will confirm that virtually all spontaneous parapsychological events occur through some form of sleight of mind. It is invariably something hovering just below the threshold of awareness that initiated an unusual event or gave one a curious half sensed feeling that something was about to happen just before it did. The magician seeks to exploid this effect deliberately, but in doing so he must avoid doing it deliberately as it were. Conscious lust of result destroys magical effect, so trickery must be employed to annul it and to activate the subconscious. ~ Peter J Carroll,

150:The Magician archetype in a man is his “bullshit detector”; it sees through denial and exercises discernment. He sees evil for what and where it is when it masquerades as goodness, as it so often does. In ancient times when a king became possessed by his angry feelings and wanted to punish a village that had refused to pay its taxes, the magician, with measured and reasoned thinking or with the stabbing blows of logic, would reawaken the king’s conscience and good sense by releasing him from his tempestuous mood. The court magician, in effect, was the king’s psychotherapist. ~ Robert L Moore,

151:One short man said: "I would give anything if only I were even a tiny bit taller." He barely said it when he saw a lady magician standing in front of him. "What do you want?" says the magician. But the short man just stands there so frightened he can't even speak. "Well?" says the magician. The short man just stands there and says nothing. The magician vanishes. Then the short man started crying and biting his nails. First he chewed off all the nails on his fingers, and then on his toes. Reader! Think this fable over and it will make you somewhat uncomfortable. ~ Daniil Kharms,

152:On the Samael Qlipha, the magician makes a pact with the dark forces and realizes the invitation of Friedrich Neitzsche to re-evaluate old values. Insanity becomes wisdom; death becomes life. Samael is the 'Poison of God.' Here is where illusions are poisoned, and all categories and conceptions are deconstructed until nothing is left. The dark side of the astral plane could be compared to a chalice filled with poison or an intoxicating fluid. While Gamaliel is the chalice, Samael is the elixir and the following lower Qlipha, A'arab Zaraq, is where the magician experiences the effect. ~ Thomas Karlsson,

153:The heavy black she had worn for years was gone; her dress was of turquoise-colored silk, bright and soft as the evening sky. It belled out full from her hips, and all the skirt was embroidered with thin silver threads and seed pearls and tiny crumbs of crystal, so that it glittered softly, like rain in April. She looked at the magician, speechless. “Do you like it?” “Where—” “It’s like a gown I saw a princess wear once, at the Feast of Sun-return in the New Palace in Havnor,” he said, looking at it with satisfaction. “You told me to show you something worth seeing. I show you yourself. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

154:Clever deceivers rarely tell outright falsehoods. It’s too risky. The art of deception is closely related to the magician’s craft: it involves knowing how to draw attention to a harmless place, to deflect it away from the action. Deeply entrenched patterns of perceptual, emotional, and cognitive dispositions serve as instruments of deception. A skilled deceiver is an illusionist who knows how to manipulate the normal patterns of what is salient to their audience. He places salient markers—something red, something anomalous, something desirable—in the visual field, to draw attention just where he wants it. ~ Clancy Martin,

155:The problem with stealing the magician's assistant from a carnival was that you were always waiting for her to disappear. He expected her to vanish. She had in fact, multiple times, before Simon was born, and just after, too. ...Daniel wanted to be worried for, wanted to be missed without doing any of the leaving that missing demanded. When Paulina left, he counted breaths, and thought constantly of the disappearing box. The reappearing was the most important part of the trick. Eventually he stopped living in fear that she wouldn't come back. The more pressing concern was that she was cutting herself in two. ~ Erika Swyler,

156:The Magician should devise for himself a definite technique for destroying 'evil.' The essence of such a practice will consist in training the mind and the body to confront things which cause fear, pain, disgust, shame and the like. He must learn to endure them, then to become indifferent to them, then to analyze them until they give pleasure and instruction, and finally to appreciate them for their own sake, as aspects of Truth. When this has been done, he should abandon them, if they are really harmful in relation to health and comfort.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, APPENDIX VI: A FEW PRINCIPAL RITUALS, [311-312],

157:The Coin Behind Your Ear Before you knew you owned it it was gone, stolen, and you were a fool. How you never felt it is the wonder, heavy and thick, lodged deep in your hair like a burr. You still see the smile of the magician as he turned the coin in his long fingers, which had so disturbed your ear with their caress. You watched him lift it into the light, bright as frost, and slip it into his maze of pockets. You felt vainly behind your ear but there was no second coin, nothing to tempt him back. No one cared to know why he did it, only how. Submitted by Venus ~ Connie Wanek,

158:It was at these times that he began to understand, after all these years of study and performance, of feat and wonders and surprises, the nature of magic. The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place. ~ Michael Chabon,

159:It was at these times that he began to understand, after all those years of study and performance, of feats and wonders and surprises, the nature of magic. The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scettered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of all things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place. ~ Michael Chabon,

160:She caught the old man napping, that little girl did,” said the Chief Monopod. “We’ve beaten him this time.” “Just what we were going to say ourselves,” chimed the chorus. “You’re going stronger than ever today, Chief. Keep it up, keep it up.” “But do they dare to talk about you like that?” said Lucy. “They seemed to be so afraid of you yesterday. Don’t they know you might be listening?” “That’s one of the funny things about the Duffers,” said the Magician. “One minute they talk as if I ran everything and overheard everything and was extremely dangerous. The next moment they think they can take me in by tricks that a baby would see through--bless them! ~ C S Lewis,

161:To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness. Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

162:With my phone, I find myself always teetering between useful efficiency and meaningless habit. I am often reminded that my phone may be a lot of things, but it is not a toy. The magician and the wielder of a smartphone are close cousins, and this is because, suggests literary critic Alan Jacobs, our modern technology offers us a bewitching power not unlike the magic in the Harry Potter fantasy series: “Often fun, often surprising and exciting, but also always potentially dangerous. . . . The technocrats of this world hold in their hands powers almost infinitely greater than those of Albus Dumbledore and Voldemort.” Into our hands are placed these wands, these smartphones. ~ Tony Reinke,

163:The fact that the scientist has succeeded where the magician failed has put such a wide contrast between them in popular thought that the real story of the birth of Science is misunderstood. You will even find people who write about the sixteenth century as if Magic were a medieval survival and Science the new thing that came in to sweep it away. Those who have studied the period know better. There was very little magic in the Middle Ages: the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are the high noon of magic. The serious magical endeavour and the serious scientific endeavour are twins: one was sickly and died, the other strong and throve. But they were twins. They were born of the same impulse. ~ C S Lewis,

164:The use of visionary methods to aid the body in the healing and cleansing process is an important skill for the magician to learn. Any human can use the mind in order to trigger a healing or cleansing response, and this action engages the consciousness in an active conversation with the body. However,when such work is done by a magician who is trained or skilled in visionary magic, something very special happens: the consciousness becomes an active participant in an action that goes beyond the individual—it initiates a conversation not only with the body, but with the spiritual beings that flow all around us in the constant universal dance of creation and destruction. ~ Josephine McCarthy,

165:If the magician wishes to put himself into or out of any emotional state, then he should be provided with the techniques to accomplish this. The process requires no justification    - that he wills it is sufficient. One cannot escape emotional experience in a human incarnation, and it is preferable to adopt a master rather than a slave relationship to it. The occult priest should be capable of instructing anyone in the procedures of emotional engineering. The main methods are the gnostic ones of casting oneself into a frenzied ecstacy, stilling the mind to a point of absolute quiescence, and evoking the laughter of the gods by combining laughter with the contemplation of paradox. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

166:The physical form of a magical weapon is no more than a convenient handle or anchor for its aetheric form. The Sword and Pentacle are weapons of analysis and synthesis respectively. Upon the pentacle aetheric forms, images, and powers are assembled when the magical will and perception vitalize the imagination. The magician may create hundreds of pentacles in the course of his sorceries, yet there is a virtue in having a general purpose weapon of this class, for its power increases with use, and it can be employed as an altar for the consecration of lesser pentacles. For many operations of an evocatory type, the pentacle is placed on the cup and the conjuration performed with the wand. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

167:Wonder and love and great sorrow shook Schmendrick the Magician then, and came together inside him and filled him, filled him until he felt himself brimming and flowing with something that was none of these. He did not believe it, but it came to him anyway, as it had touched him twice before and left him more barren than he had been. This time, there was too much of it for him to hold; it spilled through his fingers and toes, welled up equally in his eyes and his hair and the hollows of his shoulders. There was too much to hold — too much ever to use; and still he found himself weeping with the pain of his impossible greed. He thought, or said, or sang, I did not know that I was so empty, to be so full. ~ Peter S Beagle,

168:Intellectual 'work' is misnamed; it is a pleasure, a dissipation, and is its own highest reward. The poorest paid architect, engineer, general, author, sculptor, painter, lecturer, advocate, legislator, actor, preacher, singer, is constructively in heaven when he is at work; and as for the magician with the fiddle-bow in his hand, who sits in the midst of a great orchestra with the ebbing and flowing tides of divine sound washing over him - why, certainly he is at work, if you wish to call it that, but lord, it's a sarcasm just the same. The law of work does seem utterly unfair - but there it is, and nothing can change it: the higher the pay in enjoyment the worker gets out of it, the higher shall be his pay in cash also. ~ Mark Twain,

169:He's that rascally kind of yogi who has no sky or earth, no hand, foot, form or shape. Where there's no market he sets up shop, weighs things and keeps the accounts. No deeds, no creeds, no yogic powers, not even a horn or gourd, so how can he go begging? 'I know you and you know me and I'm inside of you.' When there isn't a trace of creation or destruction, what do you meditate on? That yogi built a house brimful of Ram. He has no healing herbs, his root-of-life is Ram. He looks and looks at the juggler's tricks, the magician's sleight-of-hand - Kabir says, saints, he's made it to the King's land. ~ Kabir, He's That Rascally Kind Of Yogi ,

170:He's that rascally kind of yogi who has no sky or earth, no hand, foot, form or shape. Where there's no market he sets up shop, weighs things and keeps the accounts. No deeds, no creeds, no yogic powers, not even a horn or gourd, so how can he go begging? "I know you and you know me and I'm inside of you." When there isn't a trace of creation or destruction, what do you meditate on? That yogi built a house brimful of Ram. He has no healing herbs, his root-of-life is Ram. He looks and looks at the juggler's tricks, the magician's sleight-of-hand -- Kabir says, saints, he's made it to the King's land. [2024.jpg] -- from The Bijak of Kabir, Translated by Linda Hess / Translated by Shukdeo Singh ~ Kabir, Hes that rascally kind of yogi ,

171:Love is the only bow on Life’s dark cloud. It is the morning and the evening star. It shines upon the babe, and sheds its radiance on the quiet tomb. It is the mother of art, inspirer of poet, patriot and philosopher. It is the air and light of every heart – builder of every home, kindler of every fire on every hearth. It was the first to dream of immortality. It fills the world with melody – for music is the voice of love. Love is the magician, the enchanter, that changes worthless things to Joy, and makes royal kings and queens of common clay. It is the perfume of that wondrous flower, the heart, and without that sacred passion, that divine swoon, we are less than beasts; but with it, earth is heaven, and we are gods. ~ Robert G Ingersoll,

172:An illusion has three stages. "First there is the setup, in which the nature of what might be attempted at is hinted at, or suggested, or explained. The apparatus is seen. volunteers from the audience sometimes participate in preparation. As the trick is being setup, the magician will make use of every possible use of misdirection. "The performance is where the magician's lifetime of practice, and his innate skill as a performer, cojoin to produce the magical display. "The third stage is sometimes called the effect, or the prestige, and this is the product of magic. If a rabbit is pulled from a hat, the rabbit, which apparently did not exist before the trick was performed, can be said to be the prestige of that trick. ~ Christopher Priest,

173:The magician was coming alive. The illusionist, the eternal pacifier and eflector of ridicule, the dancer on eggshells and creator of impossible karma was answering the call of the footlights. The Oliver of the rain-swept bus shelters, children's hospitals and Salvation Army hostels was performing for his life and Tiger's, while Tinatin cooked, and Yevgeny half-listened and counted his misfortunes in the flames, and Hoban and his fellow devils dreamed their sour mischief and pondered their dwindling options. And Oliver knew his audience. He empathized with its disarray, its stunned senses and confused allegiances. He knew how often in his own life, at its absolutely lowest moments, he would have given everything he had for one lousy conjurer with a stuffed raccoon. ~ John le Carr,

174:When will the spell work?” asked Lucy. “Will the Duffers be visible again at once?” “Oh yes, they’re visible now. But they’re probably all asleep still; they always take a rest in the middle of the day.” “And now that they’re visible, are you going to let them off being ugly? Will you make them as they were before?” “Well, that’s rather a delicate question,” said the Magician. “You see, it’s only they who think they were so nice to look at before. They say they’ve been uglified, but that isn’t what I called it. Many people might say the change was for the better.” “Are they awfully conceited?” “They are. Or at least the Chief Duffer is, and he’s taught all the rest to be. They always believe every word he says.” “We’d noticed that,” said Lucy. ~ C S Lewis,

175:The game spools on.” Deep in her abyss, Circe spun a finger, and a whirlpool circled here. Ever since my grandmother had told me to look for symbols, I’d been seeing them everywhere. Infinity symbols. A bow. A jagged fracture of rock like a lightning bolt. A vortex. I recalled my dreams: When the Magician had created that infinity symbol for Fauna, there’d already been one in that scene. Behind the two of them, the lions’ long tails had curved over each other, making two perfect loops. Patterns continued to appear before my eyes. Circe’s whirlpool was like a helicopter’s tailspin on its way down. Or a carousel that would never spin backward again. Like a tourniquet twisting. “But for how long?” she murmured, and her whirlpool tightened. ~ Kresley Cole,

176:Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called "The Pledge". The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called "The Turn". The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call "The Prestige". ~ Christopher Priest,

177:The Magician works in a Temple; the Universe, which is (be it remembered!) conterminous with himself. In this temple a Circle is drawn upon the floor for the limitation of his working. This circle is protected by divine names, the influences on which he relies to keep out hostile thoughts. Within the circle stands an Altar, the solid basis on which he works, the foundation of all. Upon the Altar are his Wand, Cup, Sword, and Pantacle, to represent his Will, his Understanding, his Reason, and the lower parts of his being, respectively. On the Altar, too, is a phial of Oil, surrounded by a Scourge, a Dagger, and a Chain, while above the Altar hangs a Lamp. The Magician wears a Crown, a single Robe, and a Lamen, and he bears a Book of Conjurations and a Bell.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick [54?],

178:But she’s a ghost. And a demon.” “Might be a closer struggle than otherwise,” Edmund agreed heavily. “But he does have us.” “Oh, good,” said Reggie. And a little voice in the back of her head asked her why they were even bothering to come out. If Janet’s trap had worked, if Colin, the part-dragon, the magician with more than a century of life behind him, was actually in danger, what exactly did Reggie think two mortals and a few lead projectiles would accomplish? She told the voice to remember fables about mice and lions and traps—or was that thorns?—that in setting her trap for large prey, Janet might have left smaller openings unguarded, that there had to be a reason mortals were running so much of the world. Then she told the voice to go to the devil. Then she wished she hadn’t thought of the devil. ~ Isabel Cooper,

179:Okay, where’s the camera icon?” Setne fumbled with his phone. “We have to get a picture together before I destroy you.” “Destroy me?” demanded the cobra goddess. She lashed out at Setne, but a sudden gust of rain and wind pushed her back. I was ten feet away from Annabeth. Riptide’s blade glowed as I dragged it through the mud. “Let’s see.” Setne tapped his phone. “Sorry, this is new to me. I’m from the Nineteenth Dynasty. Ah, okay. No. Darn it. Where did the screen go? Ah! Right! So what do modern folks call this…a snappie?” He leaned in toward the cobra goddess, held out his phone at arm’s length, and took a picture. “Got it!” “WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” Wadjet roared. “YOU DARE TAKE A SELFIE WITH THE COBRA GODDESS?” “Selfie!” said the magician. “That’s right! Thanks. And now I’ll take your crown and consume your essence. Hope you don’t mind. ~ Rick Riordan,

180:Malygris turned to the viper and spoke in a tone of melancholy reproof: “Why did you not warn me?” “Would the warning have availed?” was the counter-question. “All knowledge was yours, Malygris, excepting this one thing; and in no other way could you have learned it.” “What thing?” queried the magician. “I have learned nothing except the vanity of wisdom, the impotence of magic, the nullity of love, and the delusiveness of memory… Tell me, why could I not recall to life the same Nylissa whom I knew, or thought I knew?” “It was indeed Nylissa whom you summoned and saw,” replied the viper. “Your necromancy was potent up to this point; but no necromantic spell could recall for you your own lost youth or the fervent and guileless heart that loved Nylissa, or the ardent eyes that beheld her then. This, my master, was the thing that you had to learn. ~ Clark Ashton Smith,

181:Look here, Lu,” said Edmund. “We really can’t let you do a thing like this. Ask Reep, I’m sure he’ll say just the same.” “But it’s to save my own life as well as yours,” said Lucy. “I don’t want to be cut to bits with invisible swords any more than anyone else.” “Her Majesty is in the right,” said Reepicheep. “If we had any assurance of saving her by battle, our duty would be very plain. It appears to me that we have none. And the service they ask of her is in no way contrary to her Majesty’s honor, but a noble and heroical act. If the Queen’s heart moves her to risk the magician, I will not speak against it.” As no one had ever known Reepicheep to be afraid of anything, he could say this without feeling at all awkward. But the boys, who had all been afraid quite often, grew very red. None the less, it was such obvious sense that they had to give in. ~ C S Lewis,

182:An artist is the magician put among men to gratify--capriciously--their urge for immortality. The temples are built and brought down around him, continuously and contiguously, from Troy to the fields of Flanders. If there is any meaning in any of it, it is in what survives as art, yes even in the celebration of tyrants, yes even in the celebration of nonentities. What now of the Trojan War if it had been passed over by the artist's touch? Dust. A forgotten expedition prompted by Greek merchants looking for new markets. A minor redistribution of broken pots. But it is we who stand enriched, by a tale of heroes, of a golden apple, a wooden horse, a face that launched a thousand ships--and above all, of Ulysses, the wanderer, the most human, the most complete of all heroes--husband, father, son, lover, farmer, soldier, pacifist, politician, inventor and adventurer... ~ Tom Stoppard,

183:In short, in contrast to the magician - who is still hidden in the medical practitioner – the surgeon at the decisive moment abstains from facing the patient man to man; rather, it is through the operation that he penetrates into him. Magician and surgeon compare to painter and cameraman. The painter maintains in his work a natural distance from reality, the cameraman penetrates deeply into its web. There is a tremendous difference between the pictures they obtain. That of the painter is a total one, that of the cameraman consists of multiple fragments which are assembled under a new law. Thus, for contemporary man the representation of reality by the film is incomparably more significant than that of the painter, since it offers, precisely because of the thoroughgoing permeation of reality with mechanical equipment, an aspect of reality which is free of all equipment. And that is what one is entitled to ask from a work of art ~ Walter Benjamin,

184:In short, in contrast to the magician - who is still hidden in the medical practitioner – the surgeon at the decisive moment abstains from facing the patient man to man; rather, it is through the operation that he penetrates into him. Magician and surgeon compare to painter and cameraman. The painter maintains in his work a natural distance from reality, the cameraman penetrates deeply into its web. There is a tremendous difference between the pictures they obtain. That of the painter is a total one, that of the cameraman consists of multiple fragments which are assembled under a new law. Thus, for contemporary man the representation of reality by the film is incomparably more significant than that of the painter, since it offers, precisely because of the thoroughgoing permeation of reality with mechanical equipment, an aspect of reality which is free of all equipment. And that is what one is entitled to ask from a work of art. ~ Walter Benjamin,

185:A MARWARI DEVOTEE: "Sir, what is the way?" Two ways of God-realization MASTER: "There are two ways. One is the path of discrimination, the other is that of love. Discrimination means to know the distinction between the Real and the unreal. God alone is the real and permanent Substance; all else is illusory and impermanent. The magician alone is real; his magic is illusory. This is discrimination. "Discrimination and renunciation. Discrimination means to know the distinction between the Real and the unreal. Renunciation means to have dispassion for the things of the world. One cannot acquire them all of a sudden. They must be practised every day. One should renounce 'woman and gold' mentally at first. Then, by the will of God, one can renounce it both mentally and outwardly. It is impossible to ask the people of Calcutta to renounce all for the sake of God. One has to tell them to renounce mentally. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,

186:In vain I warned other Arab leaders, those pleasure-seeking gluttons who only listen to the fawning and simpering of those who owe them favors. There was a full complement of them at Cairo, lined up like onions, spying on each other on the sly, half of them so conceited they could not stop behaving like constipated patriarchs, the other half too thick to be able to look serious. Arrivistes who thought they had really arrived, comic-opera presidents unable to shake off their country-bumpkin reflexes, petrodollar emirs looking like rabbits straight out of the magician's hat, sultans wrapped in their robes like ghosts, disgusted at the blathering eulogies the speakers were trotting out ad infinitum. Why were they there? They cared for nothing that did not concern their personal fortunes. Busy stuffing their pockets, they refused to look up to see how dizzyingly fast the world was changing or how tomorrow's storm clouds of hate were gathering on the horizon. ~ Yasmina Khadra,

187:For the next hour and a half he tried all the magic he could think of. He cast spells of remembering, spells of finding, spells of awakening, spells to concentrate the mind, spells to dispel nightmares and evil thoughts, spells to find patterns in chaos, spells to find a path when one was lost, spells of demystification, spells of discernment, spells to increase intelligence, spells to cure sickness and spells to repair a limb that is shattered. Some of the spells were long and complicated. Some were a single word. Some had to be said out loud. Some had only to be thought. Some had no words at all but consisted of a single gesture. Some were spells that Strange and Norrell had employed in some form or other every day for the last five years. Some had probably not been used for centuries. Some used a mirror; two used a tiny bead of blood from the magician’s finger; and one used a candle and a piece of ribbon. But they all had this in common: they had no effect upon the King whatsoever. ~ Susanna Clarke,

188:It has been said that the man who loves God needs seven incarnations in order to enter Nirvana and liberate himself, and that the man who hates him needs only three. It is without God but his own 'fury' that Parsifal achieved the Grail and his individuation, his Self, his totality. This is the difference between the Liquid Road and the Dry Road. We do not know whether, as well as his 'fury', his Phobos, his fear of the Mother, Parsifal carried with him a 'memory of a beloved', as he was supposed to have advised his friend Gawaine to do. Parsifal, with his 'fury', or his hatred, was resisting a participation mystique. Samadhi, fusion with Adhi, the Primordial Being, doesn't await him at the end of his road. Because this would be the way of sainthood. What awaits him is Kaivalya, total separation, supreme Individuation, Absolute Personality, the ultimate solitude of the Superman. This is the way of the magician, the Siddha, the tantric hero of the Grail. The cosmic isolation of the risen Purusha. ~ Miguel Serrano,

189:A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows 'to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally'    To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness.    Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null, Liber LUX, Augoeides [49-50],

190:HOW ATTRACTION HAPPENS Moses is talking to someone drunk with worshiping the golden calf. "What happened to your doubt? You used to be so skeptical of me. The Red Sea parted. Food came every day in the wilderness for forty years. A fountain sprang out of a rock. You saw these things and still reject the idea of prophethood. Then the magician Samiri does a trick to make the metal cow low, and immediately you kneel! What did that hollow statue say? Have you heard a dullness like your own?" This is how attraction happens: people with nothing they value delight in worthlessness. Someone who thinks there's no meaning or purpose feels drawn to images of futility. Each moves to be with its own. The ox does not turn toward a lion. Wolves have no interest in Joseph, unless to devour him. But if a wolf is cured of wolfishness, it will sleep close by Joseph, like a dog in the presence of meditators. Soul companionship gives safety and light to a cave full of friends. ~ Rumi,

191:[invocation] Let us describe the magical method of identification. The symbolic form of the god is first studied with as much care as an artist would bestow upon his model, so that a perfectly clear and unshakeable mental picture of the god is presented to the mind. Similarly, the attributes of the god are enshrined in speech, and such speeches are committed perfectly to memory. The invocation will then begin with a prayer to the god, commemorating his physical attributes, always with profound understanding of their real meaning. In the second part of the invocation, the voice of the god is heard, and His characteristic utterance is recited. In the third portion of the invocation the Magician asserts the identity of himself with the god. In the fourth portion the god is again invoked, but as if by Himself, as if it were the utterance of the will of the god that He should manifest in the Magician. At the conclusion of this, the original object of the invocation is stated.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, Book 4, Magick, Part 3, The Formuale of the Elemental Weapons [149] [T4],

192:…but to the unicorn’s eyes Molly was becoming a softer country, full of pools and caves, where old flowers came burning out of the ground. Under the dirt and indifference, she appeared only thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old - no older than Schmendrick, surely, despite the magician’s birthdayless face. Her rough hair bloomed, her skin quickened, and her voice was nearly as gentle to all things as it was when she spoke to the unicorn. The eyes would never be joyous, any more than they could ever turn green or blue, but they too had wakened in the earth. She walked eagerly into King Haggard’s realm on bare, blistered feet, and she sang often. And far away on the other side of the unicorn, Schmendrick the Magician stalked in silence. His black cloak was sprouting holes, coming undone, and so was he. The rain that renewed Molly did not fall on him, and he seemed ever more parched and deserted, like the land itself. The unicorn could not heal him. A touch of her horn could have brought him back from death, but over despair she had no power, nor over magic that had come and gone. ~ Peter S Beagle,

193:A surprising fact about the magician Bernard Kornblum, Joe remembered, was that he believed in magic. Not in the so-called magic of candles, pentagrams, and bat wings. Not in the kitchen enchantments of Slavic grandmothers with their herbiaries and parings from the little toe of a blind virgin tied up in a goatskin bag. Not in astrology, theosophy, chiromancy, dowsing rods, séances, weeping statues, werewolves, wonders, or miracles. What bewitched Bernard Kornblum, on the contrary, was the impersonal magic of life, when he read in a magazine about a fish that could disguise itself as any one of seven different varieties of sea bottom, or when he learned from a newsreel that scientists had discovered a dying star that emitted radiation on a wavelength whose value in megacycles approximated π. In the realm of human affairs, this type of enchantment was often, though not always, a sadder business—sometimes beautiful, sometimes cruel. Here its stock-in-trade was ironies, coincidences, and the only true portents: those that revealed themselves, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, in retrospect. ~ Michael Chabon,

194:At that moment she heard soft, heavy footfalls coming along the corridor behind her; and of course she remembered what she had been told about the Magician walking in his bare feet and making no more noise than a cat. It is always better to turn round than to have anything creeping up behind your back. Lucy did so. Then her face lit up till, for a moment (but of course she didn’t know it), she looked almost as beautiful as that other Lucy in the picture, and she ran forward with a little cry of delight and with her arms stretched out. For what stood in the doorway was Aslan himself, The Lion, the highest of all High Kings. And he was solid and real and warm and he let her kiss him and bury herself in his shining mane. And from the low, earthquake-like sound that came from inside him, Lucy even dared to think that he was purring. “Oh, Aslan,” said she, “it was kind of you to come.” “I have been here all the time,” said he, “but you have just made me visible.” “Aslan!” said Lucy almost a little reproachfully. “Don’t make fun of me. As if anything I could do would make you visible!” “It did,” said Aslan. “Do you think I wouldn’t obey my own rules? ~ C S Lewis,

195:What was it you uglified them for--I mean, what they call uglified?” “Well, they wouldn’t do what they were told. Their work is to mind the garden and raise food--not for me, as they imagine, but for themselves. They wouldn’t do it at all if I didn’t make them. And of course for a garden you want water. There is a beautiful spring about half a mile away up the hill. And from that spring there flows a stream which comes right past the garden. All I asked them to do was to take their water from the stream instead of trudging up to the spring with their buckets two or three times a day and tiring themselves out besides spilling half of it on the way back. But they wouldn’t see it. In the end they refused point blank.” “Are they as stupid as all that?” asked Lucy. The Magician sighed. “You wouldn’t believe the troubles I’ve had with them. A few months ago they were all for washing up the plates and knives before dinner: they said it saved time afterward. I’ve caught them planting boiled potatoes to save cooking them when they were dug up. One day the cat got into the dairy and twenty of them were at work moving all the milk out; no one thought of moving the cat. ~ C S Lewis,

196:Kaylee, For over a hundred years, magicians have been pulling objects out of hats. Rabbits, flowers... It's become such a famous trick that rabbits are known to represent magic in general. I'm a magician. I've been pulling things from hats since I learned the trick at ten years old. It's all about sleight of hand. Misdirection. Distraction. What people don't really know is it isn't the magician that makes the trick magical. It's the object. What is a zig-zag box without the blades? What is a cage without a dove? The object is the spark--the real reason why the illusion is worth seeing, worth doing, worth discovering. Sometimes magicians lose their rabbits. They get lost in the act, or the magician makes a mistake and has to coax the rabbit back out. Because without the rabbit, the trick is useless. Without the rabbit, the hat becomes insignificant. Kaylee Elizabeth Sperling, you are the rabbit to my hat, and I love you. Please forgive me for losing the spark in your trick. I will do whatever I can to make it up to you, starting with this deck of cards. 52 reasons why I love you. And I could fill another deck. Perhaps two more or three. Whatever it takes to coax my rabbit back out. -Nate ~ Cassie Mae,

197:Non-attachment/Non-disinterest best describes the magical condition of acting without lust of result. It is very difficult for humans to decide on something and then to do it purely for its own sake. Yet it is precisely this ability which is required to execute magical acts. Only single-pointed awareness will do. Attachment is to be understood both in the positive and negative sense, for aversion is its other face. Attachment to any attribute of oneself, ones personality, ones ambitions, ones relationships or sensory experiences - or equally, aversion to any of these - will prove limiting. On the other hand, it is fatal to lose interest in these things for they are ones symbolic system or magical reality. Rather, one is attempting to touch the sensitive parts of ones reality more lightly in order to deny the spoiling hand of grasping desire and boredom. Thereby one may gain enough freedom to act magically. In addition to these two meditations there is a third, more active, form of metamorphosis, and this involves ones everyday habits. However innocuous they might seem, habits in thought, word, and deed are the anchor of the personality. The magician aims to pull up that anchor and cast himself free on the seas of chaos.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

198:Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

199:The third operation in any magical ceremony is the oath or proclamation. The Magician, armed and ready, stands in the centre of the Circle, and strikes once upon the bell as if to call the attention of the Universe. He then declares who he is, reciting his magical history by the proclamation of the grades which he has attained, giving the signs and words of those grades. He then states the purpose of the ceremony, and proves that it is necessary to perform it and to succeed in its performance. He then takes an oath before the Lord of the Universe (not before the particular Lord whom he is invoking) as if to call Him to witness the act. He swears solemnly that he will perform it-that nothing shall prevent him from performing it-that he will not leave the operation until it is successfully performed-and once again he strikes upon the bell. Yet, having demonstrated himself in that position at once infinitely lofty and infinitely unimportant, the instrument of destiny, he balances this by the Confession, in which there is again an infinite exaltation harmonised with an infinite humility. He admits himself to be a weak human being humbly aspiring to something higher; a creature of circumstance utterly dependent-even for the breath of life-upon a series of fortunate accidents.    ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

200:I jerked my head up, my tie with Jack severed. 7 “You’re early,” I told the Magician as Matthew and I climbed down. “Wanted to avoid the midnight-hour traffic.” When Cyclops padded over hesitantly, Finn grumbled, “Free fort, sit where you want!” He situated his crutch over his lap. “So an Empress, a horse, and a wolf walk into a fort. . . .” “If this is a dirty joke, I’ll pass.” I’d missed the Magician’s humor. Tilting my head at him, I said, “You don’t look so good, Finn.” “I feel like a bucket of fuck, but I’ll be ready,” he assured me. “Right, Matto?” “Ready Magician!” “H to the Azey. That army blows Baggers.” “Somehow she dragged me back to the fort.” “Good thing I’m dying young,” Finn continued in a nonchalant tone, “or I’d be shit out of luck with this bum leg.” “Dying young?” He wasn’t kidding. “Made peace with it.” He shrugged. “Kind of think we all should.” Have you guys gotten snow here yet?” I thought I’d spied a single flake the night I’d left Aric. “Not looking forward to that. SoCal surfer boy here, remember? Just think: if the snow comes down like the rain has . . .” “Snowmageddon!” Matthew cried, cracking both of them up. “Yeah, Matto, that groundhog came out to check for nuclear winter. But then a Bagger ate him! ~ Kresley Cole,

201:To prepare for Astral Magic a temple or series of temples needs to be erected on the plane of visualized imagination. Such temples can take any convenient form although some magicians prefer to work with an exact simulacrum of their physical temple. The astral temple is visualized in fine detail and should contain all the equipment required for ritual or at least cupboards where any required instruments can be found.    Any objects visualized into the temple should always remain there for subsequent inspection unless specifically dissolved or removed. The most important object in the temple is the magician's image of himself working in it. At first it may seem that he is merely manipulating a puppet of himself in the temple but with persistence this should give way to a feeling of actually being there. Before beginning Astral Magic proper, the required temple and instruments together with an image of the magician moving about in it should be built up by a repeated series of visualizations until all the details are perfect. Only when this is complete should the magician begin to use the temple. Each conjuration that is performed should be planned in advance with the same attention to detail as in Ritual Magic. The various acts of astral evocation, divination, enchantment, invocation and illumination take on a similar general form to the acts of Ritual Magic which the magician adapts for astral work. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Kaos [T2],

202:The fact that the scientist has succeeded where the magician failed has put such a wide contrast between them in popular thought that the real story of the birth of Science is misunderstood. You will even find people who write about the sixteenth century as if Magic were a medieval survival and Science the new thing that came in to sweep it away. Those who have studied the period know better. There was very little magic in the Middle Ages: the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are the high noon of magic. The serious magical endeavour and the serious scientific endeavour are twins: one was sickly and died, the other strong and throve. But they were twins. They were born of the same impulse. I allow that some (certainly not all) of the early scientists were actuated by a pure love of knowledge. But if we consider the temper of that age as a whole we can discern the impulse of which I speak. There is something which unites magic and applied science while separating both from the ‘wisdom’ of earlier ages. For the wise men of old the cardinal problem had been how to conform the soul to reality, and the solution had been knowledge, self-discipline, and virtue. For magic and applied science alike the problem is how to subdue reality to the wishes of men: the solution is a technique; and both, in the practice of this technique, are ready to do things hitherto regarded as disgusting and impious—such as digging up and mutilating the dead. ~ C S Lewis,

203:The vision which has been so faintly suggested in these pages has never been confined to monks or even to friars. It has been an inspiration to innumerable crowds of ordinary married men and women; living lives like our own, only entirely different. That morning glory which St. Francis spread over the earth and sky has lingered as a secret sunshine under a multitude of roots and in a multitude of rooms. In societies like ours nothing is known of such a Franciscan following. Nothing is known of such obscure followers; and if possible less is known of the well-known followers. If we imagine passing us in the street a pageant of the Third Order of St. Francis, the famous figures would surprise us more than the strange ones. For us it would be like the unmasking of some mighty secret society. There rides St. Louis, the great king, lord of the higher justice whose scales hang crooked in favour of the poor. There is Dante crowned with laurel, the poet who in his life of passions sang the praises of Lady Poverty, whose grey garment is lined with purple and all glorious within. All sorts of great names from the most recent and rationalistic centuries would stand revealed; the great Galvani, for instance, the father of all electricity, the magician who has made so many modern systems of stars and sounds. So various a following would alone be enough to prove that St. Francis had no lack of sympathy with normal men, if the whole of his own life did not prove it. ~ G K Chesterton,

204:Once upon a time, powerful wizard, who wanted to destroy an entire kingdom, placed a magic potion in the well from which the inhabitants drank. Whoever drank that water would go mad. The following morning, the whole population drank from the well and they all went mad, apart from the king and his family, who had a well set aside for them alone, which the magician had not managed to poison. The king was worried and tried to control the population by issuing a series of edicts governing security and public health. The policemen and the inspectors, however, had also drunk the poisoned water, and they thought the king’s decisions were absurd and resolved to take notice of them. When the inhabitants of the kingdom heard these decrees, they became convinced that the king had gone mad and was now giving nonsensical orders. The marched on the castle and called for his abdication. In despair the king prepared to step down from the throne, but the queen stopped him, saying: ‘Let us go and drink from the communal well. Then we will be the same as them.’ And that was what they did: The king and queen drank the water of madness and immediately began talking nonsense. Their subjects repented at once; now that the king was displaying such ‘wisdom’, why not allow him to rule the country? The country continued to live in peace, although its inhabitants behaved very differently from those of its neighbors. And the king was able to govern until the end of his days. ~ Paulo Coelho,

205:There is an Eastern tale that speaks about a very rich magician who had a great many sheep. But at the same time this magician was very mean. He did not want to hire shepherds, nor did he want to erect a fence about the pasture where the sheep were grazing. The sheep consequently often wandered into the forest, fell into ravines and so on, and above all, they ran away, for they knew that the magician wanted their flesh and their skins, and this they did not like. At last the magician found a remedy. He hypnotized his sheep and suggested to them, first of all, that they were immortal and that no harm was being done to them when they were skinned; that on the contrary, it would be very good for them and even pleasant; secondly he suggested that the magician was a good master who loved his flock so much that he was ready to do anything in the world for them; and in the third place, he suggested that if anything at all were going to happen to them, it was not going to happen just then, at any rate not that day, and therefore they had no need to think about it. Further, the magician suggested to his sheep that they were not sheep at all; to some of them he suggested that they were lions, to some that they were eagles, to some that they were men, to others that they were magicians. After this all his cares and worries about the sheep came to an end. They never ran away again, but quietly awaited the time when the magician would require their flesh and skins. This tale is a very good illustration of man’s position ~ Colin Wilson,

206:Where have you been?" she cried. "Damn you, where have you been?" She took a few steps toward Schmendrick, but she was looking beyond him, at the unicorn. When she tried to get by, the magician stood in her way. "You don't talk like that," he told her, still uncertain that Molly had recognized the unicorn. "Don't you know how to behave, woman? You don't curtsy, either." But Molly pushed him aside and went up to the unicorn, scolding her as though she were a strayed milk cow. "Where have you been?" Before the whiteness and the shining horn, Molly shrank to a shrilling beetle, but this time it was the unicorn's old dark eyes that looked down. "I am here now," she said at last. Molly laughed with her lips flat. "And what good is it to me that you're here now? Where where you twenty years ago, ten years ago? How dare you, how dare you come to me now, when I am this?" With a flap of her hand she summed herself up: barren face, desert eyes, and yellowing heart. "I wish you had never come. Why did you come now?" The tears began to slide down the sides of her nose. The unicorn made no reply, and Schmendrick said, "She is the last. She is the last unicorn in the world." "She would be." Molly sniffed. "It would be the last unicorn in the world to come to Molly Grue." She reached up then to lay her hand on the unicorn's cheek; but both of them flinched a little, and the touch came to rest on on the swift, shivering place under the jaw. Molly said, "It's all right. I forgive you. ~ Peter S Beagle,

207:There was a bell clanging in the tower of the building next to the black-shrike-thorn-cave. She found the noise irritating, so she twisted her neck and loosed a jet of blue and yellow flame at it. The tower did not catch fire, as it was stone, but the rope and beams supporting the bell ignited, and a few seconds later, the bell fell crashing into the interior of the tower. That pleased her, as did the two-legs-round-ears who ran screaming from the area. She was a dragon, after all. It was only right that they should fear her. One of the two-legs paused by the edge of the square in front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave, and she heard him shout a spell at her, his voice like the squeaking of a frightened mouse. Whatever the spell was, Eragon’s wards shielded her from it--at least she assumed they did, for she noticed no difference in how she felt or in the appearance of the world around her. The wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape killed the magician for her. She could feel how Blödhgarm grasped hold of the spellcaster’s mind and wrestled the two-legs-round-ears’ thoughts into submission, whereupon Blödhgarm uttered a single word in the ancient-elf-magic-language, and the two-legs-round-ears fell to the ground, blood seeping from his open mouth. Then the wolf-elf tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Ready yourself, Brightscales. Here they come.” She saw Thorn rising above the edge of the rooftops, Eragon-half-brother-Murtagh a small, dark figure on his back. In the light of the morning sun, Thorn shone and sparkled almost as brilliantly as she herself did. Her scales were cleaner than his, though, as she had taken special care when grooming earlier. She could not imagine going into battle looking anything but her best. Her enemies should not only fear her, but admire her. She knew it was vanity on her part, but she did not care. No other race could match the grandeur of the dragons. Also, she was the last female of her kind, and she wanted those who saw her to marvel at her appearance and to remember her well, so if dragons were to vanish forevermore, two-legs would continue to speak of them with the proper respect, awe, and wonder. ~ Christopher Paolini,

208:Aladdin Aladdin poor the wizard found, Who moved from cavern’s mouth a stone; Then bade him go beneath the ground, And pace through unknown realms alone, Till from a niche he bore away A lamp—extinguishing its ray. The youth obedient instant hied, When fruits luxuriant met his sight; The white were pearls in snowy pride, Diamonds the clear—of brilliant light; For red the rubies dazzling blazed, Whereof Aladdin gathered store; Then on the lamp in rapture gazed, And from its niche the treasure bore. Regained his home, he seized anon The lamp, and cried “straight bring me food;” The Genii instantly was gone, But soon again before him stood. The youth his fear-struck mother bore, As plates of silver met his view; Of viands choice, containing store, And cups, with wine of rosy hue. Aladdin next by chance descried, The Sultan’s daughter, witching fair; Love’s high control was not denied— He sought to gain the beauty rare. Before the Sultan lowly bent His mother, and the jewels spread; The Prince, astonished, gave consent, And all Aladdin’s terrors fled. In gorgeous robes the youth arrayed, 29 Vaulted anon his prancing steed; And of the glittering, gay parade, Right joyous smiling took the lead. With loud huzzas then rang the air, Which louder pealed, as gold amain By slaves was cast, for mob to share, That glittered on the vasty plain Ne’er dreaming lamp so worn and old More worth commanded than Peru, Our Princess bartered wealth untold, For the Magician’s lamp quite new: So when this change the eunuch made In scorn the rabble ’gan to shout; Beholding such a silly trade, They deemed the wizard fool and lout. O’erwhelmed with grief, Aladdin prayed Once more the Genii life would spare; Beseeching he might be conveyed Where late had stood his palace fair. Then swift as thought, the spirit bore The youth through airy realms above; Who lighted safe on Afric’s shore, And gained the chamber of his love His foe the poison quaffed and fell— A writhing form the wizard lay; Aladdin knew how worked the spell, And tore from vest the lamps, his prey. The Princess with a panting heart, Flew to receive affection’s kiss: Thus met they, never more to part; From that hour sealed their lasting blis ~ Anonymous Americas,

209:Was this how you were going to awaken the creatures?" Machiavelli,clutching the bars of his cell,smiled but said nothing. Virginia stood in front of Dee and stared into his eyes,using herwill to calm him down. "So you tried to use the pages to awaken the cratures.Tell me what happened." Dee jabbed a finger into the nearest cell. It was empty. Virginia stepped closer and discovered the pile of white dust in the corner. "I don't even know what was in the cell-some winged monstrosity.Giant vampire bat,I think.I said the words,and the creature opened its eyes and immediately crumbled to dust." "Maybe you said a word wrong?" Virginia suggested. She plucked a scrap of paper from Josh's hands. "I mean,it looks difficult." "I am fluent," Dee snapped. "He is," Machiavelli said, "I will give him that.And his accent is very good too, though not quite as good as mine." Dee spun back to the cell holding Machiavelli. "Tell me what went wrong." Machiavelli seemed to be considering it; then he shook his head. "I don't think so." Dee jerked his thumb at the sphinx. "Right now she's absorbing your aura,ensuring that you cannot use any spells against me. But she'll be just as happy eating your flesh.Isn't that true?"he said, looking up into the crature's female face. "Oh,I love Italian," she rumbled. She stepped away from Dee and dipped her head to look into the opposite cell. "Give me this one," she said,nodding at Billy the Kid. "He'll make a tasty snack." Her long black forked tongue flickered in the air before the outlaw, who immediately grabbed it,jerked it forward and allowed it to snap back like an elastic band. She screamed,coughed, and squawked all at the same time. Billy grinned."I'll make sure I'll choke you on the way down." "It might be difficult to do that if you have no arms," the sphinx said thickly,working her tongue back and forth. "I'll still give you indigestion." Dee looked at Machiavelli. "Tell me," he said again, "or I will feed your young American friend to the beast." "Tell him nothing," Billy yelled. "This is one of those occasions when I am in agreement with Billy.I am going to tell you nothing." The Magician looked from one side of the cell to the other. Then he looked at Machiavelli."What happened to you? You were one of the Dark Elders' finest agents in this Shadowrealm. There were times you even made me look like an amateur." "John,you were always an amateur." Machiavelli smiled."Why, look at the mess you're in now. ~ Michael Scott,

210:INVOCATION    The ultimate invocation, that of Kia, cannot be performed. The paradox is that as Kia has no dualized qualities, there are no attributes by which to invoke it. To give it one quality is merely to deny it another. As an observant dualistic being once said:    I am that I am not.    Nevertheless, the magician may need to make some rearrangements or additions to what he is. Metamorphosis may be pursued by seeking that which one is not, and transcending both in mutual annihilation. Alternatively, the process of invocation may be seen as adding to the magician's psyche any elements which are missing. It is true that the mind must be finally surrendered as one enters fully into Chaos, but a complete and balanced psychocosm is more easily surrendered.    The magical process of shuffling beliefs and desires attendant upon the process of invocation also demonstrates that one's dominant obsessions or personality are quite arbitrary, and hence more easily banished.    There are many maps of the mind (psychocosms), most of which are inconsistent, contradictory, and based on highly fanciful theories. Many use the symbology of god forms, for all mythology embodies a psychology. A complete mythic pantheon resumes all of man's mental characteristics. Magicians will often use a pagan pantheon of gods as the basis for invoking some particular insight or ability, as these myths provide the most explicit and developed formulation of the particular idea's extant. However it is possible to use almost anything from the archetypes of the collective unconscious to the elemental qualities of alchemy.    If the magician taps a deep enough level of power, these forms may manifest with sufficient force to convince the mind of the objective existence of the god. Yet the aim of invocation is temporary possession by the god, communication from the god, and manifestation of the god's magical powers, rather than the formation of religious cults.    The actual method of invocation may be described as a total immersion in the qualities pertaining to the desired form. One invokes in every conceivable way. The magician first programs himself into identity with the god by arranging all his experiences to coincide with its nature. In the most elaborate form of ritual he may surround himself with the sounds, smells, colors, instruments, memories, numbers, symbols, music, and poetry suggestive of the god or quality. Secondly he unites his life force to the god image with which he has united his mind. This is accomplished with techniques from the gnosis. Figure 5 shows some examples of maps of the mind. Following are some suggestions for practical ritual invocation.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

211:I once saw a woman wearing a low-cut dress; she had a glazed look in her eyes, and she was walking the streets of Ljubljana when it was five degrees below zero. I thought she must be drunk, and I went to help her, but she refused my offer to lend her my jacket. Perhaps in her world it was summer and her body was warmed by the desire of the person waiting for her. Even if that person only existed in her delirium, she had the right to live and die as she wanted, don’t you think?” Veronika didn’t know what to say, but the madwoman’s words made sense to her. Who knows; perhaps she was the woman who had been seen half-naked walking the streets of Ljubljana? “I’m going to tell you a story,” said Zedka. “A powerful wizard, who wanted to destroy an entire kingdom, placed a magic potion in the well from which all the inhabitants drank. Whoever drank that water would go mad. “The following morning, the whole population drank from the well and they all went mad, apart from the king and his family, who had a well set aside for them alone, which the magician had not managed to poison. The king was worried and tried to control the population by issuing a series of edicts governing security and public health. The policemen and the inspectors, however, had also drunk the poisoned water, and they thought the king’s decisions were absurd and resolved to take no notice of them. “When the inhabitants of the kingdom heard these decrees, they became convinced that the king had gone mad and was now giving nonsensical orders. They marched on the castle and called for his abdication. “In despair the king prepared to step down from the throne, but the queen stopped him, saying: ‘Let us go and drink from the communal well. Then we will be the same as them.’ “And that was what they did: The king and the queen drank the water of madness and immediately began talking nonsense. Their subjects repented at once; now that the king was displaying such wisdom, why not allow him to continue ruling the country? “The country continued to live in peace, although its inhabitants behaved very differently from those of its neighbors. And the king was able to govern until the end of his days.” Veronika laughed. “You don’t seem crazy at all,” she said. “But I am, although I’m undergoing treatment since my problem is that I lack a particular chemical. While I hope that the chemical gets rid of my chronic depression, I want to continue being crazy, living my life the way I dream it, and not the way other people want it to be. Do you know what exists out there, beyond the walls of Villete?” “People who have all drunk from the same well.” “Exactly,” said Zedka. “They think they’re normal, because they all do the same thing. Well, I’m going to pretend that I have drunk from the same well as them. ~ Paulo Coelho,

212:Death told me the Fool showed you a vision with ten swords in your back.” I nodded. “The ten of swords card indicates that a devastating catastrophe is headed one’s way and will strike without warning. Bingo, Matthew.” “Hmm.” “Hmm, what?” “That card is also about letting go and accepting one’s current circumstances.” Accepting that you can’t change fate. As my mom had done with my dad. “Should I let go of Jack? Like you let go of the man you lost?” She lifted one slim shoulder. “You’d already fallen for another.” “I swore revenge on Richter. How can I think of surrendering that need?” Richter, I’m . . . not coming for you? “Do you know what I fear more than marching off to die fighting him? That I might have to live with what he did.” “No one’s suggesting you give up your revenge. But what if we can’t find him for half a year? Two years? Will you cease living till then? Will you force Death to stop as well? He yearns to be a normal man. Even if just for a day. Will you not give that to him?” “I made the point to him about our limited time,” I said, still cringing at my clumsiness. “All I did was insult him.” “He wanted a wife. Not a buddy.” Was she listening to everything in the castle? “I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t know what to do.” She pinned my gaze with her own. “Therein lies the lesson of the card, Evie Greene. The lesson of life. When you can’t change your situation, you must change yourself. You must rise and walk—despite the ten swords in your back.” What was harder than dying? Living a nightmare. Mom had learned to live without Dad. I had learned to live without Mom. Could I go on without Jack? “I shouldn’t even be thinking about Aric. I disobeyed the dictates of the game, and I got Jack killed. What if I do the same to Aric?” Circe made a sound of amusement. “You always did think highly of yourself. Do you believe you had something to do with that massacre? Think logically. Richter could have reversed the order of his attacks—targeting Fort Arcana earlier, vaporizing the Magician, one of Fauna’s wolves, and the stronghold of his enemies. He could have shot at the army by helicopter afterward. Instead he targeted mortals and one player. The Moon.” My lips parted. “Because she was more of a threat to him.” “She was the only one in the area who could slay him from a distance. Richter will target the Tower as well, since Joules shares that ability,” she said. “So if we should blame any card for your mortal’s death, blame the Moon.” “I’ll never blame her.” “Yet you’ll blame yourself?” Circe shook her head, and the river swirled. “I say we blame the Emperor.” Could it be that easy? Had Richter always had Selena in his sights? If fate couldn’t be changed—then she’d been doomed to die the second we’d saved her from the Lovers. ~ Kresley Cole,

213:Eternal, unconfined, unextended, without cause and without effect, the Holy Lamp mysteriously burns. Without quantity or quality, unconditioned and sempiternal, is this Light. It is not possible for anyone to advise or approve; for this Lamp is not made with hands; it exists alone for ever; it has no parts, no person; it is before "I am." Few can behold it, yet it is always there. For it there is no "here" nor "there," no "then" nor "now;" all parts of speech are abolished, save the noun; and this noun is not found either in {106} human speech or in Divine. It is the Lost Word, the dying music of whose sevenfold echo is I A O and A U M. Without this Light the Magician could not work at all; yet few indeed are the Magicians that have know of it, and far fewer They that have beheld its brilliance! The Temple and all that is in it must be destroyed again and again before it is worthy to receive that Light. Hence it so often seems that the only advice that any master can give to any pupil is to destroy the Temple. "Whatever you have" and "whatever you are" are veils before that Light. Yet in so great a matter all advice is vain. There is no master so great that he can see clearly the whole character of any pupil. What helped him in the past may hinder another in the future. Yet since the Master is pledged to serve, he may take up that service on these simple lines. Since all thoughts are veils of this Light, he may advise the destruction of all thoughts, and to that end teach those practices which are clearly conductive to such destruction. These practices have now fortunately been set down in clear language by order of the A.'.A.'.. In these instructions the relativity and limitation of each practice is clearly taught, and all dogmatic interpretations are carefully avoided. Each practice is in itself a demon which must be destroyed; but to be destroyed it must first be evoked. Shame upon that Master who shirks any one of these practices, however distasteful or useless it may be to him! For in the detailed knowledge of it, which experience alone can give him, may lie his opportunity for crucial assistance to a pupil. However dull the drudgery, it should be undergone. If it were possible to regret anything in life, which is fortunately not the case, it would be the hours wasted in fruitful practices which might have been more profitably employed on sterile ones: for NEMO<> in tending his garden seeketh not to single out the flower that shall be NEMO after him. And we are not told that NEMO might have used other things than those which he actually does use; it seems possible that if he had not the acid or the knife, or the fire, or the oil, he might miss tending just that one flower which was to be NEMO after him! ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA, The Lamp,

214:There is no requirement for those affected by an idea to be aware of any of this, of course. When the writer and media critic Philip Sandifer writes that "David Whitaker, at once the most important figure in Doctor Who's development and the least understood, created a show that is genuinely magical and this influence cannot be erased from within the show," he does not mean that any of the hundreds of actors and writers who went on to work on the programme saw it in those terms. Or as Sandifer so clearly puts it, "I don't actually believe that the writers of Doctor Who were consciously designing a sentient metafiction to continually disrupt the social order through a systematic process of détournement. Except maybe David Whitaker." From Drummond and Cauty's perspective, the story of Doctor Who is irrelevant. All that was happening was that they were exploring their mental landscape, and they were fulfilling their duty as artists by doing so more deeply than normal people. This is a landscape with many unseen, unknown areas where who-knows-what might be found. The KLF explored further than most and, if we were to accept Moore's model, it would perhaps not be surprising that a fiction as complex as Doctor Who could encounter them in Ideaspace and, being at its lowest point and in dire need of help, use them for its own ends. For Moore, and other artists such as David Lynch who use similar models, the role of the artist is like that of a fisherman. It is their job to fish in the collective unconscious and use all their skill to best present their catch to an audience. Drummond and Cauty, on the other hand, appear to have been caught by the fish. Lacking any clear sense of what they were doing, they dived in as deeply as Moore and Lynch. They did not have a specific purpose for doing so. They just needed to make something happen - anything really, such is the path of chaos. "It was supposed to be a proper dance record, but we couldn't fit the four-four beat to it, so we ended up with the glitter beat, which was never really our intention but we had to go with it," Cauty has said. "It was like an out of control lorry, you know, you're just trying to steer it, and that track took itself over really, and did what it wanted to do. We were just watching." This lack of intention is significant, from a magical point of view. One of the most important aspects of magical practice is the will. Aleister Crowley defined magic as being changes in the world brought about by the exercise of the will, hence his maxim 'Do what thou Will shall be the whole of the Law.' The will or intention of a magical act is important because the magician opens himself up to all sorts of strange powers and influences and he must avoid being controlled by them. Drummond and Cauty were not exerting any control on the process, and so they made themselves vulnerable to the who-knows-whats that live out of sight in the depths of Ideaspace. For this reason, you could understand why Moore would think that Bill Drummond was “totally mad." All this only applies if you're prepared to accept the notion of magic, of course. ~ J M R Higgs,

215:SLEIGHT OF MIND IN ILLUMINATION Only those forms of illumination which lead to useful behaviour changes deserve to be known as such. When I hear the word "spirituality", I tend to reach for a loaded wand. Most professionally spiritual people are vile and untrustworthy when off duty, simply because their beliefs conflict with basic drives and only manage to distort their natural behaviour temporarily. The demons then come screaming up out of the cellar at unexpected moments. When selecting objectives for illumination, the magician should choose forms of self improvement which can be precisely specified and measured and which effect changes of behaviour in his entire existence. Invocation is the main tool in illumination, although enchantment where spells are cast upon oneselves and divination to seek objectives for illumination may also find some application. Evocation can sometimes be used with care, but there is no point in simply creating an entity that is the repository of what one wishes were true for oneself in general. This is a frequent mistake in religion. Forms of worship which create only entities in the subconscious are inferior to more wholehearted worship, which, at its best, is pure invocation. The Jesuits "Imitation of Christ" is more effective than merely praying to Jesus for example. Illumination proceeds in the same general manner as invocation, except that the magician is striving to effect specific changes to his everyday behaviour, rather than to create enhanced facilities that can be drawn upon for particular purposes. The basic technique remains the same, the required beliefs are identified and then implanted in the subconscious by ritual or other acts. Such acts force the subconscious acquisition of the beliefs they imply. Modest and realistic objectives are preferable to grandiose schemes in illumination. One modifies the behaviour and beliefs of others by beginning with only the most trivial demands. The same applies to oneselves. The magician should beware of implanting beliefs whose expression cannot be sustained by the human body or the environment. For example it is possible to implant the belief that flight can be achieved without an aircraft. However it has rarely proved possible to implant this belief deeply enough to ensure that such flights were not of exceedingly short duration. Nevertheless such feats as fire-walking and obliviousness to extreme pain are sometimes achieved by this mechanism. The sleight of mind which implants belief through ritual action is more powerful than any other weapon that humanity possesses, yet its influence is so pervasive that we seldom notice it. It makes religions, wars, cults and cultures possible. It has killed countless millions and created our personal and social realities. Those who understand how to use it on others can be messiahs or dictators, depending on their degree of personal myopia. Those who understand how to apply it to themselves have a jewel beyond price if they use it wisely; otherwise they tend to rapidly invoke their own Nemesis with it. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Kaos,

216:EVOCATION    Evocation is the art of dealing with magical beings or entities by various acts which create or contact them and allow one to conjure and command them with pacts and exorcism. These beings have a legion of names drawn from the demonology of many cultures: elementals, familiars, incubi, succubi, bud-wills, demons, automata, atavisms, wraiths, spirits, and so on. Entities may be bound to talismans, places, animals, objects, persons, incense smoke, or be mobile in the aether. It is not the case that such entities are limited to obsessions and complexes in the human mind. Although such beings customarily have their origin in the mind, they may be budded off and attached to objects and places in the form of ghosts, spirits, or "vibrations," or may exert action at a distance in the form of fetishes, familiars, or poltergeists. These beings consist of a portion of Kia or the life force attached to some aetheric matter, the whole of which may or may not be attached to ordinary matter.    Evocation may be further defined as the summoning or creation of such partial beings to accomplish some purpose. They may be used to cause change in oneself, change in others, or change in the universe. The advantages of using a semi-independent being rather than trying to effect a transformation directly by will are several: the entity will continue to fulfill its function independently of the magician until its life force dissipates. Being semi-sentient, it can adapt itself to a task in that a non-conscious simple spell cannot. During moments of the possession by certain entities the magician may be the recipient of inspirations, abilities, and knowledge not normally accessible to him.    Entities may be drawn from three sources - those which are discovered clairvoyantly, those whose characteristics are given in grimoires of spirits and demons, and those which the magician may wish to create himself.    In all cases establishing a relationship with the spirit follows a similar process of evocation. Firstly the attributes of the entity, its type, scope, name, appearance and characteristics must be placed in the mind or made known to the mind. Automatic drawing or writing, where a stylus is allowed to move under inspiration across a surface, may help to uncover the nature of a clairvoyantly discovered being. In the case of a created being the following procedure is used: the magician assembles the ingredients of a composite sigil of the being's desired attributes. For example, to create an elemental to assist him with divination, the appropriate symbols might be chosen and made into a sigil such as the one shown in figure 4.    A name and an image, and if desired, a characteristic number can also be selected for the elemental.    Secondly, the will and perception are focused as intently as possible (by some gnostic method) on the elemental's sigils or characteristics so that these take on a portion of the magician's life force and begin autonomous existence. In the case of preexisting beings, this operation serves to bind the entity to the magician's will.    This is customarily followed by some form of self-banishing, or even exorcism, to restore the magician's consciousness to normal before he goes forth.    An entity of a low order with little more than a singular task to perform can be left to fulfill its destiny with no further interference from its master. If at any time it is necessary to terminate it, its sigil or material basis should be destroyed and its mental image destroyed or reabsorbed by visualization. For more powerful and independent beings, the conjuration and exorcism must be in proportion to the power of the ritual which originally evoked them. To control such beings, the magicians may have to re-enter the gnostic state to the same depth as before in order to draw their power. ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null, #Tulpa #Servitor #Thoughtform,

217:The Last Bisson EIGHT years have fled since, in the wilderness, I drew the rein to rest my comrade thereMy supple, clean-limbed pony of the plains. He was a runner of pure Indian blood, Yet in his eye still gleamed the desert's fire, And form and action both bespoke the Barb. A wondrous creature is the Indian's horse; Degenerate now, but from the 'Centaurs' drawnThe apparitions which dissolved with fear Montezuma's plumed Children of the Sun, And throned rough Cortez in his realm of gold. A gentle vale, with rippling aspens clad, Yet open to the breeze, invited rest. So there I lay, and watched the sun's fierce beams Reverberate in wreathed ethereal flame; Or gazed upon the leaves which buzzed o'erhead, Like tiny wings in simulated flight. Within the vale a lakelet, lashed with flowers, Lay like a liquid eye among the hills, Revealing in its depths the fulgent light Of snowy cloud-land and cerulean skies. And rising, falling, fading far around, The homeless and unfurrowed prairies spread In solitude and idleness eterne. And all was silent save the rustling leaf, The gadding insect, or the grebe's lone cry, Or where Saskatchewan, with turbid moan, Deep-sunken in the plain, his torrent poured. Here Loneliness possessed her realm supreme, Her prairies all about her, undeflowered, Pulsing beneath the summer sun, and sweet With virgin air and waters undefiled. Inviolate still! Bright solitudes, with power To charm the spirit-bruised, where ways are foul, Into forgetfulness of chuckling wrong And all the weary clangour of the world. Yet, Sorrow, too, had here its kindred place, As o'er my spirit swept the sense of change. Here sympathy could sigh o'er man's decay; For here, but yesterday, the warrior dwelt Whose faded nation had for ages held, In fealty to Nature, these domains. Around me were the relics of his race: The grassy circlets where his village stood, Well-ruled by custom's immemorial law. Along these slopes his happy offspring roved In days gone by, and dusky mothers plied Their summer tasks, or loitered in the shade. Here the magician howled his demons up, And here the lodge of council had its seat, Once resonant with oratory wild. All vanished! perished in the swelling sea And stayless tide of an enroaching power Whose civil fiat, man-devouring still, Will leave, at last, no wilding on the earth To wonder at or love! With them had fled The bison-breed which overflowed the plains, And, undiminished, fed uncounted tribes. Its vestiges were here-its wallows, paths, And skulls and shining ribs and vertebrae: Gray bones of monarchs from the herds, perchance, Descended, by De Vaca first beheld, Or Coronada, in mad quest of gold. Here hosts had had their home; here had they roamed, Endless and infinite-vast herds which seemed Exhaustless as the sea. All vanished now! Of that wild tumult not a hoof remained To scour the countless paths where myriads trod. Long had I lain 'twixt dreams and waking, thus, Musing on change and mutability, And endless evanescence, when a burst Of sudden roaring filled the vale with sound. Perplexed and startled, to my feet I sprang, And in amazement from my covert gazed, 10 For, presently, into the valley came A mighty bison, which, with stately tread And gleaming eyes, descended to the shore. Spell-bound I stood. Was this a living form, Or but an image by the fancy drawn? But no-he breathed! and from a wound blood flowed, And trickled with the frothing from his lips. Uneasily he gazed, yet saw me not, Haply concealed; then, with a roar so loud That all the echoes rent their valley-horns, He stood and listened; but no voice replied! Deeply he drank, then, lashed his quivering flanks, And roared again, and hearkened, but no sound, No tongue congenial answered to his callHe was the last survivor of his clan! Huge was his frame! the famed Burdash, so grown To that enormous bulk whose presence filled The very vale with awe. His shining horns Gleamed black amidst his fell of floating hairHis neck and shoulders, of the lion's build, ~ Charles Mair,

218:CHAPTER XIII OF THE BANISHINGS: AND OF THE PURIFICATIONS. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and had better come first. Purity means singleness. God is one. The wand is not a wand if it has something sticking to it which is not an essential part of itself. If you wish to invoke Venus, you do not succeed if there are traces of Saturn mixed up with it. That is a mere logical commonplace: in magick one must go much farther than this. One finds one's analogy in electricity. If insulation is imperfect, the whole current goes back to earth. It is useless to plead that in all those miles of wire there is only one-hundredth of an inch unprotected. It is no good building a ship if the water can enter, through however small a hole. That first task of the Magician in every ceremony is therefore to render his Circle absolutely impregnable. If one littlest thought intrude upon the mind of the Mystic, his concentration is absolutely destroyed; and his consciousness remains on exactly the same level as the Stockbroker's. Even the smallest baby is incompatible with the virginity of its mother. If you leave even a single spirit within the circle, the effect of the conjuration will be entirely absorbed by it.> {101} The Magician must therefore take the utmost care in the matter of purification, "firstly", of himself, "secondly", of his instruments, "thirdly", of the place of working. Ancient Magicians recommended a preliminary purification of from three days to many months. During this period of training they took the utmost pains with diet. They avoided animal food, lest the elemental spirit of the animal should get into their atmosphere. They practised sexual abstinence, lest they should be influenced in any way by the spirit of the wife. Even in regard to the excrements of the body they were equally careful; in trimming the hair and nails, they ceremonially destroyed> the severed portion. They fasted, so that the body itself might destroy anything extraneous to the bare necessity of its existence. They purified the mind by special prayers and conservations. They avoided the contamination of social intercourse, especially the conjugal kind; and their servitors were disciples specially chosen and consecrated for the work. In modern times our superior understanding of the essentials of this process enables us to dispense to some extent with its external rigours; but the internal purification must be even more carefully performed. We may eat meat, provided that in doing so we affirm that we eat it in order to strengthen us for the special purpose of our proposed invocation.> {102} By thus avoiding those actions which might excite the comment of our neighbours we avoid the graver dangers of falling into spiritual pride. We have understood the saying: "To the pure all things are pure", and we have learnt how to act up to it. We can analyse the mind far more acutely than could the ancients, and we can therefore distinguish the real and right feeling from its imitations. A man may eat meat from self-indulgence, or in order to avoid the dangers of asceticism. We must constantly examine ourselves, and assure ourselves that every action is really subservient to the One Purpose. It is ceremonially desirable to seal and affirm this mental purity by Ritual, and accordingly the first operation in any actual ceremony is bathing and robing, with appropriate words. The bath signifies the removal of all things extraneous to antagonistic to the one thought. The putting on of the robe is the positive side of the same operation. It is the assumption of the fame of mind suitable to that one thought. A similar operation takes place in the preparation of every instrument, as has been seen in the Chapter devoted to that subject. In the preparation of theplace of working, the same considerations apply. We first remove from that place all objects; and we then put into it those objects, and only those {103} objects, which are necessary. During many days we occupy ourselves in this process of cleansing and consecration; and this again is confirmed in the actual ceremony. The cleansed and consecrated Magician takes his cleansed and consecrated instruments into that cleansed and consecrated place, and there proceeds to repeat that double ceremony in the ceremony itself, which has these same two main parts. The first part of every ceremony is the banishing; the second, the invoking. The same formula is repeated even in the ceremony of banishing itself, for in the banishing ritual of the pentagram we not only command the demons to depart, but invoke the Archangels and their hosts to act as guardians of the Circle during our pre-occupation with the ceremony proper. In more elaborate ceremonies it is usual to banish everything by name. Each element, each planet, and each sign, perhaps even the Sephiroth themselves; all are removed, including the very one which we wished to invoke, for that force ... ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

219:AUGOEIDES:    The magicians most important invocation is that of his Genius, Daemon, True Will, or Augoeides. This operation is traditionally known as attaining the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It is sometimes known as the Magnum Opus or Great Work.    The Augoeides may be defined as the most perfect vehicle of Kia on the plane of duality. As the avatar of Kia on earth, the Augoeides represents the true will, the raison detre of the magician, his purpose in existing. The discovery of ones true will or real nature may be difficult and fraught with danger, since a false identification leads to obsession and madness. The operation of obtaining the knowledge and conversation is usually a lengthy one. The magician is attempting a progressive metamorphosis, a complete overhaul of his entire existence. Yet he has to seek the blueprint for his reborn self as he goes along. Life is less the meaningless accident it seems. Kia has incarnated in these particular conditions of duality for some purpose. The inertia of previous existences propels Kia into new forms of manifestation. Each incarnation represents a task, or a puzzle to be solved, on the way to some greater form of completion.    The key to this puzzle is in the phenomena of the plane of duality in which we find ourselves. We are, as it were, trapped in a labyrinth or maze. The only thing to do is move about and keep a close watch on the way the walls turn. In a completely chaotic universe such as this one, there are no accidents. Everything is signifcant. Move a single grain of sand on a distant shore and the entire future history of the world will eventually be changed. A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally.    To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness.    Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation. Having communicated with the invoked form, the magician should draw it into himself and go forth to live in the way he hath willed.    The ritual may be concluded with an aspiration to the wisdom of silence by a brief concentration on the sigil of the Augoeides, but never by banishing. Periodically more elaborate forms of ritual, using more powerful forms of gnosis, may be employed. At the end of the day, there should be an accounting and fresh resolution made. Though every day be a catalog of failure, there should be no sense of sin or guilt. Magic is the raising of the whole individual in perfect balance to the power of Infinity, and such feelings are symptomatic of imbalance. If any unnecessary or imbalanced scraps of ego become identified with the genius by mistake, then disaster awaits. The life force flows directly into these complexes and bloats them into grotesque monsters variously known as the demon Choronzon. Some magicians attempting to go too fast with this invocation have failed to banish this demon, and have gone spectacularly insane as a result.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

220:ON SCIENCE Thus sang the magician; and all who were gathered there went unwittingly as birds into the net of his cunning and melancholy lust. Only the conscientious in spirit was not caught: quickly he took the harp away from the magician and cried: "Air! Let in good air! Let in Zarathustral You are making this cave sultry and poisonous, you wicked old magician. You are seducing us, you false and subtle one, to unknown desires and wildernesses. And beware when such as you start making speeches and fuss about truth! Woe unto all free spirits who do not watch out against such magicians! Then it is over with their freedom: you teach us and lure us back into prisons. You old melancholy devil: out of your lament a bird call lures us; you are like those whose praise of chastity secretly invites to voluptuous delights." Thus spoke the conscientious man; but the old magician looked around, enjoyed his triumph, and for its sake swallowed the annoyance caused him by the conscientious man. "Be still" he said in a modest voice; "good songs want to resound well; after good songs one should long keep still. Thus do all these higher men. But perhaps you have understood very little of my song? In you there is little of a magic spirit." "You praise me by distinguishing me from yourself," retorted the conscientious man. "Well then! But you others, what do I see? You are all still sitting there with lusting eyes: you free souls, where is your freedom gone? You are almost like men, it seems to me, who have long watched wicked, dancing, naked girls: your souls are dancing too. In you, you higher men, there must be 302 more of what the magician calls his evil spirit of magic and deception: we must be different. "And verily, we talked and thought together enough before Zarathustra returned home to his cave for me to know that we are different. We also seek different things up here, you and I. For I seek more security, that is why I came to Zarathustra. For he is the firmest tower and will today, when everything is tottering and all the earth is quaking. But you-when I see the eyes you make, it almost seems to me that you are seeking more insecurity: more thrills, more danger, more earthquakes. You desire, I should almost presume-forgive my presumption, you higher men-you desire the most wicked, most dangerous life, of which I am most afraid: the life of wild animals, woods, caves, steep mountains, and labyrinthian gorges. And it is not the leaders out of danger who appeal to you most, but those who induce you to leave all ways, the seducers. But even if such desire in you is real, it still seems impossible to me. "For fear is the original and basic feeling of man; from fear everything is explicable, original sin and original virtue. From fear my own virture too has grown, and it is called: science. For the fear of wild animals, that was bred in man longest of all-including the animal he harbors inside himself and fears: Zarathustra calls it 'the inner beast.' Such long old fear, finally refined, spiritualized, spiritual-today, it seems to me, this is called science." Thus spoke the conscientious man; but Zarathustra, who was just coming back into his cave and had heard and guessed this last speech, threw a handful of roses at the conscientious man and laughed at his "truths." "What?" he cried. "What did I hear just now? Verily, it seems to me that you are a fool, or that I am one my- 303 self; and your 'truth' I simply reverse. For fear-that is our exception. But courage and adventure and pleasure in the uncertain, in the undared-courage seems to me man's whole prehistory. He envied the wildest, most courageous animals and robbed all their virtues: only thus did he become man. This courage, finally refined, spiritualized, spiritual, this human courage with eagles' wings and serpents' wisdom-that, it seems to me, is today called-" "Zarathustrar'all who were sitting together cried as with one mouth, and they raised a great laughter that rose above them like a heavy cloud. The magician too laughed and said cleverly: "Well then, he is gone, my evil spirit. And have I myself not warned you of him when I said that he was a deceiver, a spirit of lies and deceptions? Especially when he appears naked. But am I responsible for his wiles? Did I create him and the world? Well then, let us make up again and make merry! And although Zarathustra looks angry-look at him, he bears me a grudge-before night falls he will learn again to love me and laud me; he cannot live long without committing such follies. He loves his enemies; this art he understands best of all whom I have ever seen. But he takes revenge for this on his friends." Thus spoke the old magician, and the higher men applauded him; so Zarathustra walked around and shook his friends' hands with malice and love-like one who has to make up for something and apologize. But when he reached the door of his cave, behold, he again felt a desire for the good air outside and for his animalsand he wanted to slip out. 304 ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON SCIENCE ,

221:RETIRED Not long, however, after Zarathustra had got away from the magician, he again saw somebody sitting by the side of his path: a tall man in black, with a gaunt pale face; and this man displeased him exceedingly. "Alas!" he said to his heart, "there sits muffled-up melancholy, looking like the tribe of priests: what do they want in my realm? How now? I have scarcely escaped that magician; must another black artist cross 259 my way so soon-some wizard with laying-on of hands, some dark miracle worker by the grace of God, some anointed world-slanderer whom the devil should fetch? But the devil is never where he should be: he always comes too late, this damned dwarf and clubfoot!" Thus cursed Zarathustra, impatient in his heart, and he wondered how he might sneak past the black man, looking the other way. But behold, it happened otherwise. For at the same moment the seated man had already spotted him; and not unlike one on whom unexpected good fortune has been thrust, he jumped up and walked toward Zarathustra. "Whoever you may be, you wanderer," he said, "help one who has lost his way, a seeker, an old man who might easily come to grief here. This region is remote and strange to me, and I have heard wild animals howling; and he who might have offered me protection no longer exists himself. I sought the last pious man, a saint and hermit who, alone in his forest, had not yet heard what all the world knows today." "What does all the world know today?" asked Zarathustra. "Perhaps this, that the old god in whom all the world once believed no longer lives?" "As you say," replied the old man sadly. "And I served that old god until his last hour. But now I am retired, without a master, and yet not free, nor ever cheerful except in my memories. That is why I climbed these mountains, that I might again have a festival at last, as is fitting for an old pope and church father-for behold, I am the last pope-a festival of pious memories and divine services. But now he himself is dead, the most pious man, that saint in the forest who constantly praised his god with singing and humming. I did not find him when I found his cave; but there were two wolves inside, howling over his death, for all animals 260 loved him. So I ran away. Had I then come to these woods and mountains in vain? Then my heart decided that I should seek another man, the most pious of all those who do not believe in God-that I should seek Zarathustral" Thus spoke the old man, and he looked with sharp eyes at the man standing before him; but Zarathustra seized the hand of the old pope and long contemplated it with admiration. "Behold, venerable one!" he said then; "what a beautiful long hand! That is the hand of one who has always dispensed blessings. But now it holds him whom you seek, me, Zarathustra. It is I, the godless Zarathustra, who speaks: who is more godless than I, that I may enjoy his instruction?" Thus spoke Zarathustra, and with his glances he pierced the thoughts and the thoughts behind the thoughts of the old pope. At last the pope began, "He who loved and possessed him most has also lost him most now; behold, now I myself am probably the more godless of the two of us. But who could rejoice in that?" "You served him to the last?" Zarathustra asked thoughtfully after a long silence. "You know how he died? Is it true what they say, that pity strangled him, that he saw how man hung on the cross and that he could not bear it, that love of man became his hell, and in the end his death?" The old pope, however, did not answer but looked aside, shy, with a pained and gloomy expression. "Let him go!" Zarathustra said after prolonged reflection, still looking the old man straight in the eye. "Let him gol He is gone. And although it does you credit that you say only good things about him who is now dead, you know as well as I who he was, and that his ways were queer. "Speaking in the confidence of three eyes," the old 261 pope said cheerfully (for he was blind in one eye), "in what pertains to God, I am-and have the right to be -more enlightened than Zarathustra himself. My love served him many years, my will followed his will in everything. A good servant, however, knows everything, including even things that his master conceals from himself. He was a concealed god, addicted to secrecy. Verily, even a son he got himself in a sneaky way. At the door of his faith stands adultery. "Whoever praises him as a god of love does not have a high enough opinion of love itself. Did this god not want to be a judge too? But the lover loves beyond reward and retri bution. "When he was young, this god out of the Orient, he was harsh and vengeful and he built himself a hell to amuse his favorites. Eventually, however, he became old and soft and mellow and pitying, more like a grandfa ther than a father, but most like a shaky old grandmo ther. Then he sat in his nook by the hearth, wilted, grieving over his weak legs, weary of the world, weary of willing, and one day he choked on his all-too-great pity." "You old pope," Zarathustra interrupted at this point, "did you see that with your own eyes? Surely it might have happened that way-that way, and also in some other way. When gods die, they always die several kinds of death. But-well then! This way or that, this way and that-he is gone! He offended the taste of my ears and eyes; I do not want to say anything worse about him now that he is dead. "I love all that looks bright and speaks honestly. But he-you know it, you old priest, there was something of your manner about him, of the priests manner: he was equivocal. He was also indistinct. How angry he got with us, this wrath-snorter, because we understood 262 him badly! But why did he not speak more cleanly? And if it was the fault of our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him badly? If there was mud in our ears-well, who put it there? He bungled too much, this potter who had never finished his apprenticeship. But that he wreaked revenge on his pots and creations for having bungled them himself, that was a sin against good taste. There is good taste in piety too; and it was this that said in the end, 'Away with such a god! Rather no god, rather make destiny on one's own, rather be a fool, rather be a god oneselfl" "What is this I hear?" said the old pope at this point, pricking up his ears. "0 Zarathustra, with such disbelief you are more pious than you believe. Some god in you must have converted you to your godlessness. Is it not your piety itself that no longer lets you believe in a god? And your overgreat honesty will yet lead you beyond good and evil too. Behold, what remains to you? You have eyes and hands and mouth, predestined for blessing from all eternity. One does not bless with the hand alone. Near you, although you want to be the most godless, I scent a secret, sacred, pleasant scent of long blessings: it gives me gladness and grief. Let me be your guest, 0 Zarathustra, for one single night! Nowhere on earth shall I now feel better than with you." "Amen! So be it!" said Zarathustra in great astonishment. "Up there goes the way, there lies Zarathustra's cave. I should indeed like to accompany you there myself, you venerable one, for I love all who are pious. But now a cry of distress urgently calls me away from you. In my realm no one shall come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And I wish that I could put everyone who is sad back on firm land and firm legs. "But who could take your melancholy off your shoulders? For that I am too weak. Verily, we might wait 263 long before someone awakens your god again. For this old god lives no more: he is thoroughly dead." Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, RETIRED ,

222:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxvii ILMARINEN'S BRIDE OF GOLD. Ilmarinen, metal-worker, Wept one day, and then a second, Wept the third from morn till evening, O'er the death of his companion, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow; Did not swing his heavy hammer, Did not touch its copper handle, Made no sound within his smithy, Made no blow upon his anvil, Till three months had circled over; Then the blacksmith spake as follows: 'Woe is me, unhappy hero! Do not know how I can prosper; Long the days, and cold, and dreary, Longer still the nights, and colder; I am weary in the evening, In the morning still am weary, Have no longing for the morning, And the evening is unwelcome; Have no pleasure in the future, All my pleasures gone forever, With my faithful life-companion Slaughtered by the hand of witchcraft! Often will my heart-strings quiver When I rest within my chamber, When I wake at dreamy midnight, Half-unconscious, vainly searching For my noble wife departed.' Wifeless lived the mourning blacksmith, Altered in his form and features; Wept one month and then another, Wept three months in full succession. Then the magic metal-worker Gathered gold from deeps of ocean, Gathered silver from the mountains, Gathered many heaps of birch-wood. 562 Filled with faggots thirty sledges, Burned the birch-wood into ashes, Put the ashes in the furnace, Laid the gold upon the embers, Lengthwise laid a piece of silver Of the size of lambs in autumn, Or the fleet-foot hare in winter; Places servants at the bellows, Thus to melt the magic metals. Eagerly the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace. Ilmarinen, magic blacksmith, Works unceasing at his forging, Thus to mould a golden image, Mould a bride from gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithless stand they at the bellows. Wow the artist, Ilmarinen, Fans the flame with force of magic, Blows one day, and then a second, Blows the third from morn till even; Then he looks within the furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Hoping there to see an image Rising from the molten metals. Comes a lambkin from the furnace, Rising from the fire of magic, Wearing hair of gold and copper, Laced with many threads of silver; All rejoice but Ilmarinen At the beauty of the image. This the language of the blacksmith: 'May the wolf admire thy graces; I desire a bride of beauty Born from molten gold and silver!' Ilmarinen, the magician, To the furnace threw the lambkin; Added gold in great abundance, And increased the mass of silver, Added other magic metals, Set the workmen at the bellows; 563 Zealously the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace. Ilmarinen, wizard-forgeman, Works unceasing with his metals, Moulding well a golden image, Wife of molten gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithless do they ply the bellows. Now the artist, Ilmarinen, Fans the flames by force of magic; Blows one day, and then a second, Blows a third from morn till evening, When he looks within the furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Hoping there, to see an image Rising from the molten metals. From the flames a colt arises, Golden-maned and silver-headed, Hoofs are formed of shining copper. All rejoice but Ilmarinen At the wonderful creation; This the language of the blacksmith; 'Let the bears admire thy graces; I desire a bride of beauty Born of many magic metals.' Thereupon the wonder-forger Drives the colt back to the furnace, Adds a greater mass of silver, And of gold the rightful measure, Sets the workmen at the bellows. Eagerly the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace. Ilmarinen, the magician, Works unceasing at his witchcraft, Moulding well a golden maiden, Bride of molten gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithlessly they ply the bellows. Now the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Fans the flames with magic powers, 564 Blows one day, and then a second, Blows a third from morn till even; Then he looks within his furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Trusting there to see a maiden Coming from the molten metals. From the fire a virgin rises, Golden-haired and silver-headed, Beautiful in form and feature. All are filled with awe and wonder, But the artist and magician. Ilmarinen, metal-worker, Forges nights and days unceasing, On the bride of his creation; Feet he forges for the maiden, Hands and arms, of gold and silver; But her feet are not for walking, Neither can her arms embrace him. Ears he forges for the virgin, But her ears are not for hearing; Forges her a mouth of beauty, Eyes he forges bright and sparkling; But the magic mouth is speechless, And the eyes are not for seeing. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'This, indeed, a priceless maiden, Could she only speak in wisdom, Could she breathe the breath of Ukko!' Thereupon he lays the virgin On his silken couch of slumber, On his downy place of resting. Ilmarinen heats his bath-room, Makes it ready for his service, Binds together silken brushes, Brings three cans of crystal water, Wherewithal to lave the image, Lave the golden maid of beauty. When this task had been completed, Ilmarinen, hoping, trusting, Laid his golden bride to slumber, On his downy couch of resting; Ordered many silken wrappings, 565 Ordered bear-skins, three in number, Ordered seven lambs-wool blankets, Thus to keep him warm in slumber, Sleeping by the golden image Re had forged from magic metals. Warm the side of Ilmarinen That was wrapped in furs and blankets; Chill the parts beside the maiden, By his bride of gold and silver; One side warm, the other lifeless, Turning into ice from coldness. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'Not for me was born this virgin From the magic molten metals; I shall take her to Wainola, Give her to old Wainamoinen, As a bride and life-companion, Comfort to him in his dotage.' Ilmarinen, much disheartened, Takes the virgin to Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala, To his brother speaks as follows: 'O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Look with favor on this image; Make the maiden fair and lovely, Beautiful in form and feature, Suited to thy years declining!' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Looked in wonder on the virgin, On the golden bride of beauty, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'Wherefore dost thou bring this maiden, Wherefore bring to Wainamoinen Bride of molten gold and silver? Spake in answer Ilmarinen: 'Wherefore should I bring this image, But for purposes the noblest? I have brought her as companion To thy life in years declining, As a joy and consolation, When thy days are full of trouble!' Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 566 'Magic brother, wonder-forger, Throw the virgin to the furnace, To the flames, thy golden image, Forge from her a thousand trinkets. Take the image into Ehstland, Take her to the plains of Pohya, That for her the mighty powers May engage in deadly contest, Worthy trophy for the victor; Not for me this bride of wonder, Neither for my worthy people. I shall never wed an image Born from many magic metals, Never wed a silver maiden, Never wed a golden virgin.' Then the hero of the waters Called together all his people, Spake these words of ancient wisdom: 'Every child of Northland, listen, Whether poor, or fortune-favored: Never bow before an image Born of molten gold and silver: Never while the sunlight brightens, Never while the moonlight glimmers, Choose a maiden of the metals, Choose a bride from gold created Cold the lips of golden maiden, Silver breathes the breath of sorrow.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

223:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxiv KULLERVO FINDS HIS TRIBE-FOLK. Kullerwoinen, young magician, In his beauteous, golden ringlets, In his magic shoes of deer-skin, Left the home of Ilmarinen Wandered forth upon his journey, Ere the blacksmith heard the tidings Of the cruel death and torture Of his wife and joy-companion, Lest a bloody fight should follow. Kullerwoinen left the smithy, Blowing on his magic bugle, Joyful left the lands of Ilma, Blowing blithely on the heather, Made the distant hills re-echo, Made the swamps and mountains tremble, Made the heather-blossoms answer To the music of his cow-horn, In its wild reverberations, To the magic of his playing. Songs were heard within the smithy, And the blacksmith stopped and listened, Hastened to the door and window, Hastened to the open court-yard, If perchance he might discover What was playing on the heather, What was sounding through the forest. Quick he learned the cruel story, Learned the cause of the rejoicing, Saw the hostess dead before him, Knew his beauteous wife had perished, Saw the lifeless form extended, In the court-yard of his dwelling. Thereupon the metal-artist Fell to bitter tears and wailings, Wept through all the dreary night-time, Deep the grief that settled o'er him, 528 Black as night his darkened future, Could not stay his tears of sorrow. Kullerwoinen hastened onward, Straying, roaming, hither, thither, Wandered on through field and forest, O'er the Hisi-plains and woodlands. When the darkness settled o'er him, When the bird of night was flitting, Sat the fatherless at evening, The forsaken sat and rested On a hillock of the forest. Thus he murmured, heavy-hearted: 'Why was I, alas! created, Why was I so ill-begotten, Since for months and years I wander, Lost among the ether-spaces? Others have their homes to dwell in, Others hasten to their firesides As the evening gathers round them: But my home is in the forest, And my bed upon the heather, And my bath-room is the rain-cloud. 'Never didst thou, God of mercy, Never in the course of ages, Give an infant birth unwisely; Wherefore then was I created, Fatherless to roam in ether, Motherless and lone to wander? Thou, O Ukko, art my father, Thou hast given me form and feature; As the sea-gull on the ocean, As the duck upon the waters, Shines the Sun upon the swallow, Shines as bright upon the sparrow, Gives the joy-birds song and gladness, Does not shine on me unhappy; Nevermore will shine the sunlight, Never will the moonlight glimmer On this hapless son and orphan; Do not know my hero-father, Cannot tell who was my mother; On the shore, perhaps the gray-duck 529 Left me in the sand to perish. Young was I and small of stature, When my mother left me orphaned; Dead, my father and my mother, Dead, my honored tribe of heroes; Shoes they left me that are icy, Stockings filled with frosts of ages, Let me on the freezing ice-plains Fall to perish in the rushes; From the giddy heights of mountains Let me tumble to destruction. 'O, thou wise and good Creator, Why my birth and what my service? I shall never fall and perish On the ice-plains, in the marshes, Never be a bridge in swamp-land, Not while I have arms of virtue That can serve my honored kindred!' Then Kullervo thought to journey To the village of Untamo, To avenge his father's murder, To avenge his mother's tortures, And the troubles of his tribe-folk. These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Wait, yea wait, thou Untamoinen, Thou destroyer of my people; When I meet thee in the combat, I will slay thee and thy kindred, I will burn thy homes to ashes!' Came a woman on the highway, Dressed in blue, the aged mother, To Kullervo spake as follows: 'Whither goest, Kullerwoinen, Whither hastes the wayward hero? Kullerwoinen gave this answer: 'I have thought that I would journey To the far-off land of strangers, To the village of Untamo, To avenge my father's murder, To avenge my mother's tortures, And the troubles of my tribe-folk.' Thus the gray-haired woman answered: 530 'Surely thou dost rest in error, For thy tribe has never perished, And thy mother still is living With thy father in the Northland, Living with the old Kalervo.' 'O, thou ancient dame beloved, Worthy mother of the woodlands, Tell me where my father liveth, Where my loving mother lingers!' 'Yonder lives thine aged father, And thy loving mother with him, On the farthest shore of Northland, On the long-point of the fish-lake!' 'Tell me, O thou woodland-mother, How to journey to my people, How to find mine honored tribe-folk.' 'Easy is the way for strangers: Thou must journey through the forest, Hasten to the river-border, Travel one day, then a second, And the third from morn till even, To the north-west, thou must journey. If a mountain comes to meet thee, Go around the nearing mountain, Westward bold thy weary journey, Till thou comest to a river, On thy right hand flowing eastward; Travel to the river border, Where three water-falls will greet thee; When thou comest to a headland, On the point thou'lt see a cottage Where the fishermen assemble; In this cottage is thy father, With thy mother and her daughters, Beautiful thy maiden sisters.' Kullerwoinen, the magician, Hastens northward on his journey, Walks one day, and then a second, Walks the third from morn till evening; To the north-west walks Kullervo, Till a mountain comes to meet him, Walks around the nearing mountain; 531 Westward, westward, holds his journey, Till he sees a river coming; Hastens to the river border, Walks along the streams and rapids Till three waterfalls accost him; Travels till he meets a headland, On the point he spies a cottage, Where the fishermen assemble. Quick he journeys to the cabin, Quick he passes through the portals Of the cottage on the headland, Where he finds his long-lost kindred; No one knows the youth, Kullervo, No one knows whence comes the stranger, Where his home, nor where he goeth. These the words of young Kullervo: 'Dost thou know me not, my mother, Dost thou know me not, my father? I am hapless Kullerwoinen Whom the heroes of Untamo Carried to their distant country, When my height was but a hand-breadth.' Quick the hopeful mother answers: 'O my worthy son, beloved, O my precious silver-buckle, Hast thou with thy mind of magic, Wandered through the fields of Northland Searching for thy home and kindred? As one dead I long have mourned thee, Had supposed thee, in Manala. Once I had two sons and heroes, Had two good and beauteous daughters, Two of these have long been absent, Elder son and elder daughter; For the wars my son departed, While my daughter strayed and perished If my son is home returning, Yet my daughter still is absent, Kullerwoinen asked his mother: 'Whither did my sister wander, What direction did she journey ? This the answer of the mother: 532 'This the story of thy sister: Went for berries to the woodlands, To the mountains went my daughter, Where the lovely maiden vanished, Where my pretty berry perished, Died some death beyond my knowledge, Nameless is the death she suffered. Who is mourning for the daughter? No one mourns her as her mother, Walks and wanders, Mourns and searches, For her fairest child and daughter; Therefore did the mother wander, Searching for thy lovely sister, Like the bear she roamed the forest, Ran the glenways like the adder, Searched one day and then a second, Searched the third from morn till even, Till she reached the mountain-summit, There she called and called her daughter, Till the distant mountains answered, Called to her who had departed: I Where art thou, my lovely maiden, Come my daughter to thy mother!' 'Thus I called, and sought thy sister, This the answer of the mountains, Thus the hills and valleys echoed: 'Call no more, thou weeping mother, Weep no more for the departed; Nevermore in all thy lifetime, Never in the course of ages, Will she join again her kindred, At her brother's landing-places, In her father's humble dwelling.'' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

224:The Kalevala - Rune Xli WAINAMOINEN'S HARP-SONGS. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song be settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored; Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled: 'Hither come, ye Northland people, Come and listen to my playing, To the harp's entrancing measures, To my songs of joy and gladness.' Then the singer of Wainola Took the harp of his creation, Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, Deftly plied his skillful fingers To the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, And the harmony of pleasure Echoed from the hills and mountains: Added singing to his playing, Out of joy did joy come welling, Now resounded marvelous music, All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. Leaped the squirrels from the branches, Merrily from birch to aspen; Climbed the ermines on the fences, 186 O'er the plains the elk-deer bounded, And the lynxes purred with pleasure; Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands, Bounded o'er the marsh and heather, And the bear his den deserted, Left his lair within the pine-wood, Settled by a fence to listen, Leaned against the listening gate-posts, But the gate-posts yield beneath him; Now he climbs the fir-tree branches That he may enjoy and wonder, Climbs and listens to the music Of the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest senior, Metsola's most noble landlord, And of Tapio, the people, Young and aged, men and maidens, Flew like red-deer up the mountains There to listen to the playing, To the harp, of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest mistress, Hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, Bound her limbs with silken ribbons, Sat upon the woodland summit, On the branches of a birch-tree, There to listen to the playing, To the high-born hero's harping, To the songs of Wainamoinen. All the birds that fly in mid-air Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens, Flew to hear the minstrel's playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles in their lofty eyrie Heard the songs of the enchanter; Swift they left their unfledged young ones, Flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, From the, clouds down swooped the falcon, Ducks arose from inland waters, Swans came gliding from the marshes; Tiny finches, green and golden, 187 Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, Came in myriads to listen ' Perched upon the head and shoulders Of the charming Wainamoinen, Sweetly singing to the playing Of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, Nature's well-beloved daughters, Listened all in rapt attention; Some were seated on the rainbow, Some upon the crimson cloudlets, Some upon the dome of heaven. In their hands the Moon's fair daughters Held their weaving-combs of silver; In their hands the Sun's sweet maidens Grasped the handles of their distaffs, Weaving with their golden shuttles, Spinning from their silver spindles, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Quick they drop their combs of silver, Drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken, Broken are the threads of silver. All the fish in Suomi-waters Heard the songs of the magician, Came on flying fins to listen To the harp of Wainamoinen. Came the trout with graceful motions, Water-dogs with awkward movements, From the water-cliffs the salmon, From the sea-caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves the bill-fish; Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, Little fish with eyes of scarlet, Leaning on the reeds and rushes, With their heads above the surface; Came to bear the harp of joyance, Hear the songs of the enchanter. Ahto, king of all the waters, 188 Ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows, In a boat of water-lilies, Glided to the coast in silence, Listened to the wondrous singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered: 'Never have I heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the sea was fashioned, As the songs of this enchanter, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen.' Satko's daughters from the blue-deep, Sisters of the wave-washed ledges, On the colored strands were sitting, Smoothing out their sea-green tresses With the combs of molten silver, With their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Fall their brushes on the billows, Fall their combs with silver handles To the bottom of the waters, Unadorned their heads remaining, And uncombed their sea-green tresses. Came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, Rising from her deep sea-castle, Swimming to the shore in wonder, Listened to the minstrel's playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, As the singer's song out-circled, Sank the hostess into slumber, On the rocks of many colors, On her watery couch of joyance, Deep the sleep that settled o'er her. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Played one day and then a second, Played the third from morn till even. There was neither man nor hero, 189 Neither ancient dame, nor maiden, Not in Metsola a daughter, Whom he did not touch to weeping; Wept the young, and wept the aged, Wept the mothers, wept the daughters Wept the warriors and heroes At the music of his playing, At the songs of the magician. Wainamoinen's tears came flowing, Welling from the master's eyelids, Pearly tear-drops coursing downward, Larger than the whortle-berries, Finer than the pearls of ocean, Smoother than the eggs of moor-hens, Brighter than the eyes of swallows. From his eves the tear-drops started, Flowed adown his furrowed visage, Falling from his beard in streamlets, Trickled on his heaving bosom, Streaming o'er his golden girdle, Coursing to his garment's border, Then beneath his shoes of ermine, Flowing on, and flowing ever, Part to earth for her possession, Part to water for her portion. As the tear-drops fall and mingle, Form they streamlets from the eyelids Of the minstrel, Wainamoinen, To the blue-mere's sandy margin, To the deeps of crystal waters, Lost among the reeds and rushes. Spake at last the ancient minstrel: 'Is there one in all this concourse, One in all this vast assembly That can gather up my tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters?' Thus the younger heroes answered, Answered thus the bearded seniors: 'There is none in all this concourse, None in all this vast assembly, That can gather up thy tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters.' 190 Spake again wise Wainamoinen: 'He that gathers up my tear-drops From the deeps of crystal waters Shall receive a beauteous plumage.' Came a raven, flying, croaking, And the minstrel thus addressed him: 'Bring, O raven, bring my tear-drops From the crystal lake's abysses; I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' But the raven failed his master. Came a duck upon the waters, And the hero thus addressed him: 'Bring O water-bird, my tear-drops; Often thou dost dive the deep-sea, Sink thy bill upon the bottom Of the waters thou dost travel; Dive again my tears to gather, I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' Thereupon the duck departed, Hither, thither, swam, and circled, Dived beneath the foam and billow, Gathered Wainamoinen's tear-drops From the blue-sea's pebbly bottom, From the deep, pellucid waters; Brought them to the great magician, Beautifully formed and colored, Glistening in the silver sunshine, Glimmering in the golden moonlight, Many-colored as the rainbow, Fitting ornaments for heroes, Jewels for the maids of beauty. This the origin of sea-pearls, And the blue-duck's beauteous plumage. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

225:The Kalevala - Rune Vi WAINAMOINEN'S HAPLESS JOURNEY. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Now arranges for a journey To the village of the Northland, To the land of cruel winters, To the land of little sunshine, To the land of worthy women; Takes his light-foot, royal racer, Then adjusts the golden bridle, Lays upon his back the saddle, Silver-buckled, copper-stirruped, Seats himself upon his courser, And begins his journey northward; Plunges onward, onward, onward, Galloping along the highway, In his saddle, gaily fashioned, On his dappled steed of magic, Plunging through Wainola's meadows, O'er the plains of Kalevala. Fast and far he galloped onward, Galloped far beyond Wainola, Bounded o'er the waste of waters, Till he reached the blue-sea's margin, Wetting not the hoofs in running. But the evil Youkahainen Nursed a grudge within his bosom, In his heart the worm of envy, Envy of this Wainamoinen, Of this wonderful enchanter. He prepares a cruel cross-bow, Made of steel and other metals, Paints the bow in many colors, Molds the top-piece out or copper, Trims his bow with snowy silver, Gold he uses too in trimming, Then he hunts for strongest sinews, Finds them in the stag of Hisi, 90 Interweaves the flax of Lempo. Ready is the cruel cross-bow, String, and shaft, and ends are finished, Beautiful the bow and mighty, Surely cost it not a trifle; On the back a painted courser, On each end a colt of beauty, Near the curve a maiden sleeping Near the notch a hare is bounding, Wonderful the bow thus fashioned; Cuts some arrows for his quiver, Covers them with finest feathers, From the oak the shafts be fashions, Makes the tips of keenest metal. As the rods and points are finished, Then he feathers well his arrows From the plumage of the swallow, From the wing-quills of the sparrow; Hardens well his feathered arrows, And imparts to each new virtues, Steeps them in the blood of serpents, In the virus of the adder. Ready now are all his arrows, Ready strung, his cruel cross-bow. Waiting for wise Wainamoinen. Youkahainen, Lapland's minstrel, Waits a long time, is not weary, Hopes to spy the ancient singer; Spies at day-dawn, spies at evening, Spies he ceaselessly at noontide, Lies in wait for the magician, Waits, and watches, as in envy; Sits he at the open window, Stands behind the hedge, and watches In the foot-path waits, and listens, Spies along the balks of meadows; On his back he hangs his quiver, In his quiver, feathered arrows Dipped in virus of the viper, On his arm the mighty cross-bow, Waits, and watches, and unwearied, Listens from the boat-house window, 91 Lingers at the end of Fog-point, By the river flowing seaward, Near the holy stream and whirlpool, Near the sacred river's fire-fall. Finally the Lapland minstrel, Youkahainen of Pohyola, At the breaking of the day-dawn, At the early hour of morning, Fixed his gaze upon the North-east, Turned his eyes upon the sunrise, Saw a black cloud on the ocean, Something blue upon the waters, And soliloquized as follows: 'Are those clouds on the horizon, Or perchance the dawn of morning? Neither clouds on the horizon, Nor the dawning of the morning; It is ancient Wainamoinen, The renowned and wise enchanter, Riding on his way to Northland; On his steed, the royal racer, Magic courser of Wainola.' Quickly now young Youkahainen, Lapland's vain and evil minstrel, Filled with envy, grasps his cross-bow, Makes his bow and arrows ready For the death of Wainamoinen. Quick his aged mother asked him, Spake these words to Youkahainen: 'For whose slaughter is thy cross-bow, For whose heart thy poisoned arrows?' Youkahainen thus made answer: 'I have made this mighty cross-bow, Fashioned bow and poisoned arrows For the death of Wainamoinen, Thus to slay the friend of waters; I must shoot the old magician, The eternal bard and hero, Through the heart, and through the liver, Through the head, and through the shoulders, With this bow and feathered arrows Thus destroy my rival minstrel.' 92 Then the aged mother answered, Thus reproving, thus forbidding. Do not slay good Wainamoinen, Ancient hero of the Northland, From a noble tribe descended, He, my sister's son, my nephew. If thou slayest Wainamoinen, Ancient son of Kalevala, Then alas! all joy will vanish, Perish all our wondrous singing; Better on the earth the gladness, Better here the magic music, Than within the nether regions, In the kingdom of Tuoni, In the realm of the departed, In the land of the hereafter.' Then the youthful Youkahainen Thought awhile and well considered, Ere he made a final answer. With one hand he raised the cross-bow But the other seemed to weaken, As he drew the cruel bow-string. Finally these words he uttered As his bosom swelled with envy: 'Let all joy forever vanish, Let earth's pleasures quickly perish, Disappear earth's sweetest music, Happiness depart forever; Shoot I will this rival minstrel, Little heeding what the end is.' Quickly now he bends his fire-bow, On his left knee rests the weapon, With his right foot firmly planted, Thus he strings his bow of envy; Takes three arrows from his quiver, Choosing well the best among them, Carefully adjusts the bow-string, Sets with care the feathered arrow, To the flaxen string he lays it, Holds the cross-bow to his shoulder, Aiming well along the margin, At the heart of Wainamoinen, 93 Waiting till he gallops nearer; In the shadow of a thicket, Speaks these words while he is waiting 'Be thou, flaxen string, elastic; Swiftly fly, thou feathered ash-wood, Swiftly speed, thou deadly missile, Quick as light, thou poisoned arrow, To the heart of Wainamoinen. If my hand too low should hold thee, May the gods direct thee higher; If too high mine eye should aim thee, May the gods direct thee lower.' Steady now he pulls the trigger; Like the lightning flies the arrow O'er the head of Wainamoinen; To the upper sky it darteth, And the highest clouds it pierces, Scatters all the flock of lamb-clouds, On its rapid journey skyward. Not discouraged, quick selecting, Quick adjusting, Youkahainen, Quickly aiming shoots a second. Speeds the arrow swift as lightning; Much too low he aimed the missile, Into earth the arrow plunges, Pierces to the lower regions, Splits in two the old Sand Mountain. Nothing daunted, Youkahainen, Quick adjusting shoots a third one. Swift as light it speeds its journey, Strikes the steed of Wainamoinen, Strikes the light-foot, ocean-swimmer, Strikes him near his golden girdle, Through the shoulder of the racer. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Headlong fell upon the waters, Plunged beneath the rolling billows, From the saddle of the courser, From his dappled steed of magic. Then arose a mighty storm-wind, Roaring wildly on the waters, Bore away old Wainamoinen 94 Far from land upon the billows, On the high and rolling billows, On the broad sea's great expanses. Boasted then young Youkahainen, Thinking Waino dead and buried, These the boastful words be uttered: 'Nevermore, old Wainamoinen, Nevermore in all thy life-time, While the golden moonlight glistens, Nevermore wilt fix thy vision On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala; Full six years must swim the ocean, Tread the waves for seven summers, Eight years ride the foamy billows, In the broad expanse of water; Six long autumns as a fir-tree, 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, 95 Slain the pride of Suwantala, Slain the hero of Wainola, Slain the joy of Kalevala.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

226:THE MAGICIAN 1 But when Zarathustra came around a rock he beheld, not far below on the same path, a man who threw his limbs around like a maniac and finally flopped down 252 on his belly. "Waitl" Zarathustra said to his heart; "that must indeed be the higher man; from him came that terrible cry of distress; let me see if he can still be helped." But when he ran to the spot where the man lay on the ground he found a trembling old man with vacant eyes; and however Zarathustra exerted himself to help the man to get up on his feet again, it was all in vain. Nor did the unfortunate man seem to notice that anybody was with him; rather he kept looking around with piteous gestures, like one abandoned and forsaken by all the world. At last, however, after many shudders, convulsions, and contortions, he began to moan thus: "Who warms me, who loves me still? Give hot hands Give a heart as glowing coalsl Stretched out, shuddering, Like something half dead whose feet one warmsShaken, alas, by unknown fevers, Shivering with piercing icy frost-arrows, Hunted by thee, 0 thought Unnamable, shrouded, terrible onel Thou hunter behind clouds Struck down by thy lightning bolt, Thou mocking eye that stares at me from the dark: Thus I lie Writhing, twisting, tormented With all eternal tortures, Hit By thee, cruelest hunter, Thou unknown god! Hit deeper Hit once more yetl Drive a stake through and break this heart! 253 Why this torture With blunt-toothed arrows? Why dost thou stare again, Not yet weary of human agony, With gods' lightning eyes that delight in suffering? Thou wouldst not kill, Only torture, torture? Why torture me, Delighted by suffering, thou unknown god? Hahl hah! Thou art crawling close? In such midnightWhat dost thou want? Speakl Thou art crowding, pressing meHah! Far too closely Awayl Awayl Thou art listening to me breathe, Thou art listening to my heart, Thou jealous one Jealous of what? Awayl Awayl Why the ladder? Wouldst thou enter The heart, Climb in, deep into my Most secret thoughts? Shameless onel Unknown thief What wouldst thou steal? What wouldst thou gain by listening? What wouldst thou gain by torture, Thou torturer! Thou hangman-godl Or should I, doglike, Roll before thee? Devotedly, frantic, beside myself, Wag love to thee? 254 In vain! Pierce on, Cruelest thorn! No, No dog-only thy game am I, Cruelest hunter! Thy proudest prisoner, Thou robber behind clouds! Speak at last! What wouldst thou, waylayer, from me? Thou lightning-shrouded onel Unknown one! Speak, What wilt thou, unknown-god? What? Ransom? Why wilt thou ransom? Demand much Thus my pride advises. And make thy speech short! That my other pride advises. Hah, hahl Me thou wilt have? Me? Me-entirely? Hah, hahl And art torturing me, fool that thou art, Torturing my pride? Give love to me-who warms me still? Who loves me still?-Give hot hands, Give a heart as glowing coals, Give me, the loneliest Whom ice, alas, sevenfold ice Teaches to languish for enemies, Even for enemies, Give, yes, give wholly, Cruelest enemy, Give me-thyself! 255 Awayl He himself fled, My last, only companion, My great enemy, My unknown, My hangman-god. Nol Do come back With all thy tortures! To the last of all that are lonely, Oh, come back! All my tear-streams run Their course to thee; And my heart's final flameFlares up for theel Oh, come back, My unknown godl My pain! My last-happiness!" At this point, however, Zarathustra could not restrain himself any longer, raised his stick, and started to beat the moaning man with all his might. "Stop itl" he shouted at him furiously. "Stop it, you actor You counterfeiter! You liar from the bottom! I recognize you well! I'll warm your legs for you, you wicked magician. I know well how to make things hot for such as you." "Leave offl" the old man said and leaped up from the ground. "Don't strike any more, Zarathustral I did all this only as a game. Such things belong to my art; it was you that I wanted to try when I treated you to this tryout. And verily, you have seen through me very well. But you too have given me no small sample of yourself to try out: you are hard, wise Zarathustra. Hard do you hit with your 'truths'; your stick forces this truth out of me." "Don't flatter!" replied Zarathustra, still excited and angry, "you actor from the bottom! You are false; why do you talk of truth? You peacock of peacocks, you sea of vanity, what were you playing before me, you wicked magician? In whom was I to believe when you were moaning in this way?" "The ascetic of the spirit," said the old man, "I played him-you yourself once coined this word-the poet and magician who at last turns his spirit against himself, the changed man who freezes to death from his evil science and conscience. And you may as well confess it: it took a long time, 0 Zarathustra, before you saw through my art and lie. You believed in my distress when you held my head with both your hands; I heard you moan, 'He has been loved too little, loved too little.' That I deceived you to that extent made my malice jubilate inside me." "You may have deceived people subtler than I," Zarathustra said harshly. "I do not guard against deceivers; I have to be without caution; thus my lot wants it. You, however, have to deceive: that far I know you. You always have to be equivocal-tri-, quadri-, quinquevocal. And what you have now confessed, that too was not nearly true enough or false enough to suit me. You wicked counterfeiter, how could you do otherwise? You would rouge even your disease when you show yourself naked to your doctor. In the same way you have just now rouged your lie when you said to me, 'I did all this only as a game.' There was seriousness in it too: you are something of an ascetic of the spirit. I solve your riddle: your magic has enchanted everybody, but no lie or cunning is left to you to use against yourself: you are disenchanted for yourself. You have harvested nausea as your one truth. Not a word of yours is genuine any more, except your 257 mouth-namely, the nausea that sticks to your mouth." "Who are you?" cried the old magician at this point, his voice defiant. "Who may speak thus to me, the greatest man alive today?" And a green lightning bolt flashed from his eye toward Zarathustra. But immediately afterward he changed and said sadly, "O Zarathustra, I am weary of it; my art nauseates me; I am not great-why do I dissemble? But you know it too: I sought greatness. I wanted to represent a great human being and I persuaded many; but this lie went beyond my strength. It is breaking me. 0 Zarathustra, everything about me is a lie; but that I am breaking-this, my breaking, is genuine." "It does you credit," said Zarathustra gloomily, looking aside to the ground, "it does you credit that you sought greatness, but it also betrays you. You are not great. You wicked old magician, this is what is best and most honest about you, and this I honor: that you wearied of yourself and said it outright: 'I am not great.' In this I honor you as an ascetic of the spirit; and even if it was only a wink and a twinkling, in this one moment you were genuine. "But speak, what are you seeking here in my woods and rocks? And lying down on my path, how did you want to try me? In what way were you seeking to test me?' Thus spoke Zarathustra, and his eyes flashed. The old magician remained silent for a while, then said, "Did I seek to test you? I-merely seek. 0 Zarathustra, I seek one who is genuine, right, simple, unequivocal, a man of all honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint of knowledge, a great human being. Do you not know it, Zarathustra? I seek Zarathustra." And at this point there began a long silence between the two. But Zarathustra became deeply absorbed and 258 closed his eyes. Then, however, returning to his partner in the conversation, he seized the hand of the magician and said, full of kindness and cunning, "Well! Up there goes the path; there lies Zarathustra's cave. There you may seek him whom you would find. And ask my animals for advice, my eagle and my serpent: they shall help you seek. But my cave is large. I myself, to be sure-I have not yet seen a great human being. For what is great, even the eyes of the subtlest today are too coarse. It is the realm of the mob. Many have I seen, swollen and straining, and the people cried, 'Behold a great manly' But what good are all bellows? In the end, the wind comes out. In the end, a frog which has puffed itself up too long will burst: the wind comes out. To stab a swollen man in the belly, I call that a fine pastime. Hear it well, little boys "Today belongs to the mob: who could still know what is great and what small? Who could still successfully seek greatness? Only a fool: fools succeed. You seek great human beings, you queer fool? Who taught you that? Is today the time for that? 0 you wicked seeker, why did you seek to test me?" Thus spoke Zarathustra, his heart comforted, and he continued on his way, laughing. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE MAGICIAN ,

227:The Kalevala - Rune Viii MAIDEN OF THE RAINBOW. Pohyola's fair and winsome daughter, Glory of the land and water, Sat upon the bow of heaven, On its highest arch resplendent, In a gown of richest fabric, In a gold and silver air-gown, Weaving webs of golden texture, Interlacing threads of silver; Weaving with a golden shuttle, With a weaving-comb of silver; Merrily flies the golden shuttle, From the maiden's nimble fingers, Briskly swings the lathe in weaving, Swiftly flies the comb of silver, From the sky-born maiden's fingers, Weaving webs of wondrous beauty. Came the ancient Wainamoinen, Driving down the highway homeward, From the ever sunless Northland, From the dismal Sariola; Few the furlongs he had driven, Driven but a little distance, When he heard the sky-loom buzzing, As the maiden plied the shuttle. Quick the thoughtless Wainamoinen Lifts his eyes aloft in wonder, Looks upon the vault of heaven, There beholds the bow of beauty, On the bow the maiden sitting, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Glory of the earth and ocean, Weaving there a golden fabric, Working with the rustling silver. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Quickly checks his fleet-foot racer, Looks upon the charming maiden, 107 Then addresses her as follows: 'Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge, By my side I wish thee seated.' Thus the Maid of Beauty answers: 'Tell me what thou wishest of me, Should I join thee in the snow-sledge.' Speaks the ancient Wainamoinen, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: 'This the reason for thy coming: Thou shalt bake me honey-biscuit, Shalt prepare me barley-water, Thou shalt fill my foaming beer-cups, Thou shalt sing beside my table, Shalt rejoice within my portals, Walk a queen within my dwelling, In the Wainola halls and chambers, In the courts of Kalevala.' Thus the Maid of Beauty answered From her throne amid the heavens: 'Yesterday at hour of twilight, Went I to the flowery meadows, There to rock upon the common, Where the Sun retires to slumber; There I heard a song-bird singing, Heard the thrush simple measures, Singing sweetly thoughts of maidens, And the minds of anxious mothers. 'Then I asked the pretty songster, Asked the thrush this simple question: 'Sing to me, thou pretty song-bird, Sing that I may understand thee, Sing to me in truthful accents, How to live in greatest pleasure, And in happiness the sweetest, As a maiden with her father, Or as wife beside her husband.' 'Thus the song-bird gave me answer, Sang the thrush this information: 'Bright and warm are days of summer, Warmer still is maiden-freedom; Cold is iron in the winter, Thus the lives of married women; 108 Maidens living with their mothers Are like ripe and ruddy berries; Married women, far too many, Are like dogs enchained in kennel, Rarely do they ask for favors, Not to wives are favors given.'' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: 'Foolish is the thrush thus singing, Nonsense is the song-bird's twitter; Like to babes are maidens treated, Wives are queens and highly honored. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, I am not despised as hero, Not the meanest of magicians; Come with me and I will make thee Wife and queen in Kalevala.' Thus the Maid of Beauty answered-'Would consider thee a hero, Mighty hero, I would call thee, When a golden hair thou splittest, Using knives that have no edges; When thou snarest me a bird's egg With a snare that I can see not.' Wainamoinen, skilled and ancient, Split a golden hair exactly, Using knives that had no edges; And he snared an egg as nicely With a snare the maiden saw not. 'Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, I have done what thou desirest.' Thus the maiden wisely answered: 'Never enter I thy snow-sledge, Till thou peelest me the sandstone, Till thou cuttest me a whip-stick From the ice, and make no splinters, Losing not the smallest fragment.' Wainamoinen, true magician, Nothing daunted, not discouraged, Deftly peeled the rounded sandstone, Deftly cut from ice a whip-stick, Cutting not the finest splinter, 109 Losing not the smallest fragment. Then again be called the maiden, To a seat within his snow-sledge. But the Maid or Beauty answered, Answered thus the great magician: I will go with that one only That will make me ship or shallop, From the splinters of my spindle, From the fragments of my distaff, In the waters launch the vessel, Set the little ship a-floating, Using not the knee to push it, Using not the arm to move it, Using not the hand to touch it, Using not the foot to turn it, Using nothing to propel it.' Spake the skilful Wainamoinen, These the words the hero uttered: 'There is no one in the Northland, No one under vault of heaven, Who like me can build a vessel, From the fragments of the distaff, From the splinters of the spindle.' Then he took the distaff-fragments, Took the splinters of the spindle, Hastened off the boat to fashion, Hastened to an iron mountain, There to join the many fragments. Full of zeal be plies the hammer, Swings the hammer and the hatchet; Nothing daunted, builds the vessel, Works one day and then a second, Works with steady hand the third day; On the evening of the third day, Evil Hisi grasps the hatchet, Lempo takes the crooked handle, Turns aside the axe in falling, Strikes the rocks and breaks to pieces; From the rocks rebound the fragments, Pierce the flesh of the magician, Cut the knee of Wainamoinen. Lempo guides the sharpened hatchet, 110 And the veins fell Hisi severs. Quickly gushes forth a blood-stream, And the stream is crimson-colored. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, The renowned and wise enchanter, Thus outspeaks in measured accents: 'O thou keen and cruel hatchet, O thou axe of sharpened metal, Thou shouldst cut the trees to fragments, Cut the pine-tree and the willow, Cut the alder and the birch-tree, Cut the juniper and aspen, Shouldst not cut my knee to pieces, Shouldst not tear my veins asunder.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Thus begins his incantations, Thus begins his magic singing, Of the origin of evil; Every word in perfect order, Makes no effort to remember, Sings the origin of iron, That a bolt he well may fashion, Thus prepare a look for surety, For the wounds the axe has given, That the hatchet has torn open. But the stream flows like a brooklet, Rushing like a maddened torrent, Stains the herbs upon the meadows, Scarcely is a bit of verdure That the blood-stream does not cover As it flows and rushes onward From the knee of the magician, From the veins of Wainamoinen. Now the wise and ancient minstrel Gathers lichens from the sandstone, Picks them from the trunks of birches, Gathers moss within the marshes, Pulls the grasses from the meadows, Thus to stop the crimson streamlet, Thus to close the wounds laid open; But his work is unsuccessful, And the crimson stream flows onward. 111 Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Feeling pain and fearing languor, Falls to weeping, heavy-hearted; Quickly now his steed he hitches, Hitches to the sledge of birch-wood, Climbs with pain upon the cross-bench, Strikes his steed in quick succession, Snaps his whip above the racer, And the steed flies onward swiftly; Like the winds he sweeps the highway, Till be nears a Northland village, Where the way is triple-parted. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Takes the lowest of the highways, Quickly nears a spacious cottage, Quickly asks before the doorway: 'Is there any one here dwelling, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet. That can check this crimson streamlet?' Sat a boy within a corner, On a bench beside a baby, And he answered thus the hero: 'There is no one in this dwelling That can know the pain thou feelest, That can heal the wounds of hatchet, That can check the crimson streamlet; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service.' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Whips his courser to a gallop, Dashes on along the highway; Only drives a little distance, On the middle of the highways, To a cabin on the road-side, Asks one standing on the threshold, Questions all through open windows, These the words the hero uses: 'Is there no one in this cabin, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet, That can check this crimson streamlet?' 112 On the floor a witch was lying, Near the fire-place lay the beldame, Thus she spake to Wainamoinen, Through her rattling teeth she answered. 'There is no one in this cabin That can know the pain thou feelest, That can heal the wounds of hatchets, That can check the crimson streamlet; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service.' Wainamoinen, nothing daunted, Whips his racer to a gallop, Dashes on along the highway; Only drives a little distance, On the upper of the highways, Gallops to a humble cottage, Asks one standing near the penthouse, Sitting on the penthouse-doorsill: 'Is there no one in this cottage, That can know the pain I suffer, That can heal this wound of hatchet, That can check this crimson streamlet?' Near the fireplace sat an old man, On the hearthstone sat the gray-beard, Thus he answered Wainamoinen: 'Greater things have been accomplished, Much more wondrous things effected, Through but three words of the master; Through the telling of the causes, Streams and oceans have been tempered, River cataracts been lessened, Bays been made of promontories, Islands raised from deep sea-bottoms.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

228:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxviii ILMARINEN'S FRUITLESS WOOING. Ilmarinen, the magician, The eternal metal-artist, Lays aside the golden image, Beauteous maid of magic metals; Throws the harness on his courser, Binds him to his sledge of birch-wood, Seats himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps the whip above the racer, Thinking once again to journey To the mansions of Pohyola, There to woo a bride in honor, Second daughter of the Northland. On he journeyed, restless, northward, Journeyed one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When he reached a Northland-village On the plains of Sariola. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Standing in the open court-yard, Spied the hero, Ilmarinen, Thus addressed the metal-worker: 'Tell me how my child is living, How the Bride of Beauty prospers, As a daughter to thy mother.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Head bent down and brow dejected, Thus addressed the Northland hostess: 'O, thou dame of Sariola, Do not ask me of thy daughter, Since, alas I in Tuonela Sleeps the Maiden of the Rainbow, Sleeps in death the Bride, of Beauty, Underneath the fragrant heather, In the kingdom of Manala. Come I for a second daughter, For the fairest of thy virgins. 568 Beauteous hostess of Pohyola, Give to me thy youngest maiden, For my former wife's compartments, For the chambers of her sister.' Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'Foolish was the Northland-hostess, When she gave her fairest virgin, In the bloom of youth and beauty To the blacksmith of Wainola, Only to be led to Mana, Like a lambkin to the slaughter! I shall never give my daughter, Shall not give my youngest maiden Bride of thine to be hereafter, Life-companion at thy fireside. Sooner would I give the fair one To the cataract and whirlpool, To the river of Manala, To the waters of Tuoni!' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Drew away his head, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Entered to the inner court-room, Where the maiden sat in waiting, Spake these measures to the daughter: 'Come with me, thou bright-eyed maiden, To the cottage where thy sister Lived and lingered in contentment, Baked for me the toothsome biscuit, Brewed for me the beer of barley, Kept my dwelling-place in order.' On the floor a babe was lying, Thus he sang to Ilmarinen: 'Uninvited, leave this mansion, Go, thou stranger, from this dwelling; Once before thou camest hither, Only bringing pain and trouble, Filling all our hearts with sorrow. Fairest daughter of my mother, Do not give this suitor welcome, Look not on his eyes with pleasure, 569 Nor admire his form and features. In his mouth are only wolf-teeth, Cunning fox-claws in his mittens, In his shoes art only bear-claws, In his belt a hungry dagger; Weapons these of blood and murder, Only worn by the unworthy.' Then the daughter spake as follows To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Follow thee this maid will never, Never heed unworthy suitors; Thou hast slain the Bride of Beauty, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow, Thou wouldst also slay her sister. I deserve a better suitor, Wish a truer, nobler husband, Wish to ride in richer sledges, Have a better home-protection; Never will I sweep the cottage And the coal-place of a blacksmith.' Then the hero, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-artist, Turned his head away, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Quickly seized the trembling maiden, Held her in his grasp of iron, Hastened from the court of Louhi To his sledge upon the highway. In his sleigh he seats the virgin, Snugly wraps her in his far-robes, Snaps his whip above the racer, Gallops on the high-road homeward; With one hand the reins be tightens, With the other holds the maiden. Speaks the virgin-daughter, weeping: We have reached the lowland-berries, Here the herbs of water-borders; Leave me here to sink and perish As a child of cold misfortune. Wicked Ilmarinen, Iisten! If thou dost not quickly free me, I will break thy sledge to pieces, 570 Throw thy fur-robes to the north-winds.' Ilmarinen makes this answer: 'When the blacksmith builds his snow-sledge, All the parts are hooped with iron; Therefore will the beauteous maiden Never beat my sledge to fragments.' Then the silver-tinselled daughter Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen: 'If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall change to ocean-salmon, Be a whiting of the waters.' 'Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a pike I'll fleetly follow.' Then the maiden of Pohyola Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen; 'If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall hasten to the forest, Mid the rocks become an ermine!' 'Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a serpent I will follow.' Then the beauty of the Northland, Wailed and wept in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake once more to Ilmarinen: 'Surely, if thou dost not free me, As a lark I'll fly the ether, Hide myself within the storm-clouds.' 'Neither wilt thou thus escape me, As an eagle I will follow.' They had gone but little distance, When the courser shied and halted, Frighted at some passing object; And the maiden looked in wonder, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: Who has run across our highway?' ''Tis the timid hare', he answered. Thereupon the stolen maiden 571 Sobbed, and moaned, in deeps of sorrow, Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 'Woe is me, ill-fated virgin! Happier far my life hereafter, If the hare I could but follow To his burrow in the woodlands! Crook-leg's fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.' Ilmarinen, the magician, Tossed his head in full resentment, Galloped on the highway homeward, Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted, Frighted at some passing stranger. Quick the maiden looked and wondered, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these measures to the blacksmith: Who has crossed our snowy pathway?' ''Tis a fox', replied the minstrel. Thereupon the beauteous virgin Moaned again in depths of anguish, Sang these accents, heavy-hearted: 'Woe is me, ill-fated maiden! Happier far my life hereafter, With the cunning fox to wander, Than with this ill-mannered suitor; Reynard's fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.' Thereupon the metal-worker Shut his lips in sore displeasure, Hastened on the highway homeward; Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted. Quick the maiden looked in wonder, in the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to the magician: Who again has crossed our pathway?' ''Tis the wolf', said Ilmarinen. Thereupon the fated daughter Fell again to bitter weeping, And Intoned these words of sorrow: 'Woe is me, a hapless maiden! 572 Happier far my life hereafter, Brighter far would be my future, If these tracks I could but follow; On the wolf the hair is finer Than the furs of Ilmarinen, Faithless suitor of the Northland.' Then the minstrel of Wainola Closed his lips again in anger, Shook his sable locks, resentful, Snapped the whip above the racer, And the steed flew onward swiftly, O'er the way to Kalevala, To the village of the blacksmith. Sad and weary from his journey, Ilmarinen, home-returning, Fell upon his couch in slumber, And the maiden laughed derision. In the morning, slowly waking, Head confused, and locks dishevelled, Spake the wizard, words as follow: 'Shall I set myself to singing Magic songs and incantations? Shall I now enchant this maiden To a black-wolf on the mountains, To a salmon of the ocean? Shall not send her to the woodlands, All the forest would be frighted; Shall not send her to the waters, All the fish would flee in terror; This my sword shall drink her life-blood, End her reign of scorn and hatred.' Quick the sword feels his intention, Quick divines his evil purpose, Speaks these words to Ilmarinen: 'Was not born to drink the life-blood Of a maiden pure and lovely, Of a fair but helpless virgin.' Thereupon the magic minstrel, Filled with rage, began his singing; Sang the very rocks asunder, Till the distant hills re-echoed; Sang the maiden to a sea-gull, 573 Croaking from the ocean-ledges, Calling from the ocean-islands, Screeching on the sandy sea-coast, Flying to the winds opposing. When his conjuring had ended, Ilmarinen joined his snow-sledge, Whipped his steed upon a gallop, Hastened to his ancient smithy, To his home in Kalevala. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Comes to meet him on the highway, Speaks these words to the magician: 'Ilmarinen, worthy brother, Wherefore comest heavy-hearted From the dismal Sariola? Does Pohyola live and prosper? Spake the minstrel, Ilmarinen: 'Why should not Pohyola prosper? There the Sampo grinds unceasing, Noisy rocks the lid in colors; Grinds one day the flour for eating, Grinds the second flour for selling, Grinds the third day flour for keeping; Thus it is Pohyola prospers. While the Sampo is in Northland, There is plowing, there is sowing, There is growth of every virtue, There is welfare never-ending.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Ilmarinen, artist-brother, Where then is the Northland-daughter, Far renowned and beauteous maiden, For whose hand thou hast been absent? These the words of Ilmarinen: 'I have changed the hateful virgin To a sea-gull on the ocean; Now she calls above the waters, Screeches from the ocean-islands; On the rocks she calls and murmurs Vainly calling for a suitor.' 574 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

229:The Kalevala - Rune Xliv BIRTH OF THE SECOND HARP. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Long reflecting, sang these measures: 'It is now the time befitting To awaken joy and gladness, Time for me to touch the harp-strings, Time to sing the songs primeval, In these spacious halls and mansions, In these homes of Kalevala; But, alas! my harp lies hidden, Sunk upon the deep-sea's bottom, To the salmon's hiding-places, To the dwellings of the whiting, To the people of Wellamo, Where the Northland-pike assemble. Nevermore will I regain it, Ahto never will return it, Joy and music gone forever! 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Forge for me a rake of iron, Thickly set the teeth of copper, Many fathoms long the handle; Make a rake to search the waters, Search the broad-sea to the bottom, Rake the weeds and reeds together, Rake them to the curving sea-shore, That I may regain my treasure, May regain my harp of fish-bow From the whiting's place of resting, From the caverns of the salmon, From the castles of Wellamo.' Thereupon young Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forges well a rake of iron, Teeth in length a hundred fathoms, And a thousand long the handle, Thickly sets the teeth of copper. 215 Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Takes the rake of magic metals, Travels but a little distance, To the cylinders of oak-wood, To the copper-banded rollers, Where be finds two ships awaiting, One was new, the other ancient. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Thus addressed the new-made vessel: 'Go, thou boat of master-magic, Hasten to the willing waters, Speed away upon the blue-sea, And without the hand to move thee; Let my will impel thee seaward.' Quick the boat rolled to the billows On the cylinders of oak-wood, Quick descended to the waters, Willingly obeyed his master. Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began to rake the sea-beds, Raked up all the water-flowers, Bits of broken reeds and rushes, Deep-sea shells and colored pebbles, Did not find his harp of fish-bone, Lost forever to Wainola! Thereupon the ancient minstrel Left the waters, homeward hastened, Cap pulled clown upon his forehead, Sang this song with sorrow laden: 'Nevermore shall I awaken With my harp-strings, joy and gladness! Nevermore will Wainamoinen Charm the people of the Northland With the harp of his creation! Nevermore my songs will echo O'er the hills of Kalevala!' Thereupon the ancient singer Went lamenting through the forest, Wandered through the sighing pine-woods, Heard the wailing of a birch-tree, Heard a juniper complaining; Drawing nearer, waits and listens, 216 Thus the birch-tree he addresses: 'Wherefore, brother, art thou weeping, Merry birch enrobed in silver, Silver-leaved and silver-tasselled? Art thou shedding tears of sorrow, Since thou art not led to battle, Not enforced to war with wizards? Wisely does the birch make answer: 'This the language of the many, Others speak as thou, unjustly, That I only live in pleasure, That my silver leaves and tassels Only whisper my rejoicings; That I have no cares, no sorrows, That I have no hours unhappy, Knowing neither pain nor trouble. I am weeping for my smallness, Am lamenting for my weakness, Have no sympathy, no pity, Stand here motionless for ages, Stand alone in fen and forest, In these woodlands vast and joyless. Others hope for coming summers, For the beauties of the spring-time; I, alas! a helpless birch-tree, Dread the changing of the seasons, I must give my bark to, others, Lose my leaves and silken tassels. Men come the Suomi children, Peel my bark and drink my life-blood: Wicked shepherds in the summer, Come and steal my belt of silver, Of my bark make berry-baskets, Dishes make, and cups for drinking. Oftentimes the Northland maidens Cut my tender limbs for birch-brooms,' Bind my twigs and silver tassels Into brooms to sweep their cabins; Often have the Northland heroes Chopped me into chips for burning; Three times in the summer season, In the pleasant days of spring-time, 217 Foresters have ground their axes On my silver trunk and branches, Robbed me of my life for ages; This my spring-time joy and pleasure, This my happiness in summer, And my winter days no better! When I think of former troubles, Sorrow settles on my visage, And my face grows white with anguish; Often do the winds of winter And the hoar-frost bring me sadness, Blast my tender leaves and tassels, Bear my foliage to others, Rob me of my silver raiment, Leave me naked on the mountain, Lone, and helpless, and disheartened!' Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 'Weep no longer, sacred birch-tree, Mourn no more, my friend and brother, Thou shalt have a better fortune; I will turn thy grief to joyance, Make thee laugh and sing with gladness.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made a harp from sacred birch-wood, Fashioned in the days of summer, Beautiful the harp of magic, By the master's hand created On the fog-point in the Big-Sea, On the island forest-covered, Fashioned from the birch the archings, And the frame-work from the aspen. These the words of the magician: 'All the archings are completed, And the frame is fitly finished; Whence the hooks and pins for tuning, That the harp may sing in concord?' Near the way-side grew an oak-tree, Skyward grew with equal branches, On each twig an acorn growing, Golden balls upon each acorn, On each ball a singing cuckoo. As each cuckoo's call resounded, 218 Five the notes of song that issued From the songster's throat of joyance; From each throat came liquid music, Gold and silver for the master, Flowing to the hills and hillocks, To the silvery vales and mountains; Thence he took the merry harp-pins, That the harp might play in concord. Spake again wise Wainamoinen: 'I the pins have well completed, Still the harp is yet unfinished; Now I need five strings for playing, Where shall I procure the harp-strings?' Then the ancient bard and minstrel Journeyed through the fen and forest. On a hillock sat a maiden, Sat a virgin of the valley; And the maiden was not weeping, Joyful was the sylvan daughter, Singing with the woodland songsters, That the eventide might hasten, In the hope that her beloved Would the sooner sit beside her. Wainamoinen, old and trusted, Hastened, tripping to the virgin, Asked her for her golden ringleta, These the words of the magician. 'Give me, maiden, of thy tresses, Give to me thy golden ringlets; I will weave them into harp-strings, To the joy of Wainamoinen, To the pleasure of his people.' Thereupon the forest-maiden Gave the singer of her tresses, Gave him of her golden ringlets, And of these he made the harp-strings. Sources of eternal pleasure To the people of Wainola. Thus the sacred harp is finished, And the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Sits upon the rock of joyance, Takes the harp within his fingers, 219 Turns the arch up, looking skyward; With his knee the arch supporting, Sets the strings in tuneful order, Runs his fingers o'er the harp-strings, And the notes of pleasure follow. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, Plays upon his harp of birch-wood. Far away is heard the music, Wide the harp of joy re-echoes; Mountains dance and valleys listen, Flinty rocks are tom asunder, Stones are hurled upon the waters, Pebbles swim upon the Big-Sea, Pines and lindens laugh with pleasure, Alders skip about the heather, And the aspen sways in concord. All the daughters of Wainola Straightway leave their shining needles, Hasten forward like the current, Speed along like rapid rivers, That they may enjoy and wonder. Laugh the younger men and maidens, Happy-hearted are the matrons Flying swift to bear the playing, To enjoy the common pleasure, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Aged men and bearded seniors, Gray-haired mothers with their daughters Stop in wonderment and listen. Creeps the babe in full enjoyment As he hears the magic singing, Hears the harp of Wainamoinen. All of Northland stops in wonder, Speaks in unison these measures: 'Never have we heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the earth was fashioned, As the songs of this magician, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen!' Far and wide the sweet tones echo, Ring throughout the seven hamlets, 220 O'er the seven islands echo; Every creature of the Northland Hastens forth to look and listen, Listen to the songs of gladness, To the harp of Wainamoinen. All the beasts that haunt the woodlands Fall upon their knees and wonder At the playing of the minstrel, At his miracles of concord. All the songsters of the forests Perch upon the trembling branches, Singing to the wondrous playing Of the harp of Wainamoinen. All the dwellers of the waters Leave their beds, and eaves, and grottoes, Swim against the shore and listen To the playing of the minstrel, To the harp of Wainamoinen. All the little things in nature, Rise from earth, and fall from ether, Come and listen to the music, To the notes of the enchanter, To the songs of the magician, To the harp of Wainamoinen. Plays the singer of the Northland, Plays in miracles of sweetness, Plays one day, and then a second, Plays the third from morn till even; Plays within the halls and cabins, In the dwellings of his people, Till the floors and ceilings echo, Till resound the roofs of pine-wood, Till the windows speak and tremble, Till the portals echo joyance, And the hearth-stones sing in pleasure. As he journeys through the forest, As he wanders through the woodlands, Pine and sorb-tree bid him welcome, Birch and willow bend obeisance, Beech and aspen bow submission; And the linden waves her branches To the measure of his playing, 221 To the notes of the magician. As the minstrel plays and wanders, Sings upon the mead and heather, Glen and hill his songs re-echo, Ferns and flowers laugh in pleasure, And the shrubs attune their voices To the music of the harp-strings, To the songs of Wainamoinen. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

230:The Kalevala - Rune Vii WAINIOINEN'S RESCUE. 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, 97 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. At the bay of Luotola, Near Youkola's foaming river, Where the evil Youkahainen Slew my steed with bow and arrow, Tried to slay me with his weapons. On the waters fell I headlong, Plunged beneath the salt-sea's surface, From the saddle of the courser, From my dappled steed of magic. 'Then arose a mighty storm-wind, From the East and West a whirlwind, Washed me seaward on the surges, 98 Seaward, seaward, further, further, Where for many days I wandered, Swam and rocked upon the billows, Where as many nights I struggled, In the dashing waves and sea-foam, With the angry winds and waters. 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Cannot solve this heavy problem, How to live nor how to perish In this cruel salt-sea water. Build I in the winds my dwelling? It will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the waters? Surely will the waves destroy it. Must I swim the sea forever, Must I live, or must I perish? What will happen if I perish, If I sink below the billows, Perish here from cold and hunger?' Thus the bird of Ether answered 'Be not in the least disheartened, Place thyself between my shoulders, On my back be firmly seated, I will lift thee from the waters, Bear thee with my pinions upward, Bear thee wheresoe'er thou willest. Well do I the day remember Where thou didst the eagle service, When thou didst the birds a favor. Thou didst leave the birch-tree standing, When were cleared the Osmo-forests, From the lands of Kalevala, As a home for weary song-birds, As a resting-place for eagles.' Then arises Wainamoinen, Lifts his head above the waters, Boldly rises from the sea-waves, Lifts his body from the billows, Seats himself upon the eagle, On the eagle's feathered shoulders. Quick aloft the huge bird bears him, Bears the ancient Wainamoinen, 99 Bears him on the path of zephyrs, Floating on the vernal breezes, To the distant shore of Northland, To the dismal Sariola, Where the eagle leaves his burden, Flies away to join his fellows. Wainamoinen, lone and weary, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, Wept and moaned in heavy accents, On the border of the blue-sea. On a cheerless promontory, With a hundred wounds tormented, Made by cruel winds and waters, With his hair and beard dishevelled By the surging of the billows. Three long days he wept disheartened Wept as many nights in anguish, Did not know what way to journey, Could not find a woodland foot-print, That would point him to the highway, To his home in Kalevala, To his much-loved home and kindred. Northland's young and slender maiden, With complexion fair and lovely, With the Sun had laid a wager, With the Sun and Moon a wager, Which should rise before the other, On the morning of the morrow. And the maiden rose in beauty, Long before the Sun had risen, Long before the Moon bad wakened, From their beds beneath the ocean. Ere the cock had crowed the day-break, Ere the Sun had broken slumber She had sheared six gentle lambkins, Gathered from them six white fleeces, Hence to make the rolls for spinning, Hence to form the threads for weaving, Hence to make the softest raiment, Ere the morning dawn had broken, Ere the sleeping Sun had risen. When this task the maid had ended, 100 Then she scrubbed the birchen tables, Sweeps the ground-floor of the stable, With a broom of leaves and branches From the birches of the Northland, Scrapes the sweepings well together On a shovel made of copper, Carries them beyond the stable, From the doorway to the meadow, To the meadow's distant border, Near the surges of the great-sea, Listens there and looks about her, Hears a wailing from the waters, Hears a weeping from the sea-shore, Hears a hero-voice lamenting. Thereupon she hastens homeward, Hastens to her mother's dwelling, These the words the maiden utters: 'I have heard a wail from ocean, Heard a weeping from the sea-coast, On the shore some one lamenting.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, toothless dame of Northland, Hastens from her door and court-yard, Through the meadow to the sea-shore, Listens well for sounds of weeping, For the wail of one in sorrow; Hears the voice of one in trouble, Hears a hero-cry of anguish. Thus the ancient Louhi answers: 'This is not the wail of children, These are not the tears of women, In this way weep bearded heroes; This the hero-cry of anguish.' Quick she pushed her boat to water, To the floods her goodly vessel, Straightway rows with lightning swiftness, To the weeping Wainamoinen; Gives the hero consolation, Comfort gives she to the minstrel Wailing in a grove of willows, In his piteous condition, Mid the alder-trees and aspens, 101 On the border of the salt-sea, Visage trembling, locks dishevelled. Ears, and eyes, and lips of sadness. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: 'Tell me what has been thy folly, That thou art in this condition.' Old and truthful Wainamoinen Lifts aloft his bead and answers: 'Well I know that it is folly That has brought me all this trouble, Brought me to this land of strangers, To these regions unbefitting Happy was I with my kindred, In my distant home and country, There my name was named in honor.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to Wainamoinen: 'I would gain the information, Should I be allowed to ask thee, Who thou art of ancient heroes, Who of all the host of heroes? This is Wainamoinen's answer: 'Formerly my name was mentioned, Often was I heard and honored, As a minstrel and magician, In the long and dreary winters, Called the 'Singer of the Northland, In the valleys of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala; No one thought that such misfortune Could befall wise Wainamoinen.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied in cheering accents 'Rise, O hero, from discomfort, From thy bed among the willows; Enter now upon the new-way, Come with me to yonder dwelling, There relate thy strange adventures, Tell the tale of thy misfortunes.' Now she takes the hapless hero, Lifts him from his bed of sorrow, 102 In her boat she safely seats him, And begins at once her rowing, Rows with steady hand and mighty To her home upon the sea-shore, To the dwellings of Pohyola. There she feeds the starving hero, Rests the ancient Wainamoinen, Gives him warmth, and food, and shelter, And the hero soon recovers. Then the hostess of Pohyola Questioned thus the ancient singer: 'Wherefore didst thou, Wainamoinen, Friend and fellow of the waters, Weep in sad and bitter accents, On the border of the ocean, Mid the aspens and the willows?' This is Wainamoinen's answer: Had good reason for my weeping, Cause enough for all my sorrow; Long indeed had I been swimming, Had been buffeting the billows, In the far outstretching waters. This the reason for my weeping; I have lived in toil and torture, Since I left my home and country, Left my native land and kindred, Came to this the land of strangers, To these unfamiliar portals. All thy trees have thorns to wound me, All thy branches, spines to pierce me, Even birches give me trouble, And the alders bring discomfort, My companions, winds and waters, Only does the Sun seem friendly, In this cold and cruel country, Near these unfamiliar portals.' Louhi thereupon made answer, Weep no longer, Wainamoinen, Grieve no more, thou friend of waters, Good for thee, that thou shouldst linger At our friendly homes and firesides; Thou shalt live with us and welcome, 103 Thou shalt sit at all our tables, Eat the salmon from our platters, Eat the sweetest of our bacon, Eat the whiting from our waters.' Answers thus old Wainamoinen, Grateful for the invitation: 'Never do I court strange tables, Though the food be rare and toothsome; One's own country is the dearest, One's own table is the sweetest, One's own home, the most attractive. Grant, kind Ukko, God above me, Thou Creator, full of mercy, Grant that I again may visit My beloved home and country. Better dwell in one's own country, There to drink Its healthful waters From the simple cups of birch-wood, Than in foreign lands to wander, There to drink the rarest liquors From the golden bowls of strangers.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to the magician: 'What reward wilt thou award me, Should I take thee where thou willest, To thy native land and kindred, To thy much-loved home and fireside, To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala?' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'What would be reward sufficient, Shouldst thou take me to my people, To my home and distant country, To the borders of the Northland, There to hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling? Shall I give thee golden treasures, Fill thy cups with finest silver?' This is Louhi's simple answer: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Only true and wise magician, Never will I ask for riches, 104 Never ask for gold nor silver; Gold is for the children's flowers, Silver for the stallion's jewels. Canst thou forge for me the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins? 'I will give thee too my daughter, Will reward thee through the maiden, Take thee to thy much-loved home-land, To the borders of Wainola, There to hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling.' Wainamoinen, much regretting, Gave this answer to her question: 'Cannot forge for thee the Sampo, Cannot make the lid in colors. Take me to my distant country, I will send thee Ilmarinen, He will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee the lid in colors, He may win thy lovely maiden; Worthy smith is Ilmarinen, In this art is first and master; He, the one that forged the heavens. Forged the air a hollow cover; Nowhere see we hammer-traces, Nowhere find a single tongs-mark.' Thus replied the hostess, Louhi: 'Him alone I'll give my daughter, Promise him my child in marriage, Who for me will forge the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins.' Thereupon the hostess Louhi, Harnessed quick a dappled courser, Hitched him to her sledge of birch-wood, 105 Placed within it Wainamoinen, Placed the hero on the cross-bench, Made him ready for his journey; Then addressed the ancient minstrel, These the words that Louhi uttered: 'Do not raise thine eyes to heaven, Look not upward on thy journey, While thy steed is fresh and frisky, While the day-star lights thy pathway, Ere the evening star has risen; If thine eyes be lifted upward, While the day-star lights thy pathway, Dire misfortune will befall thee, Some sad fate will overtake thee.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Fleetly drove upon his journey, Merrily he hastened homeward, Hastened homeward, happy-hearted From the ever-darksome Northland From the dismal Sariola. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

231:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxix WAINAMOINEN'S SAILING. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou wonder-working brother, Let us go to Sariola, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to see the lid in colors.' Ilmarinen gave this answer: 'Hard indeed to seize the Sampo, Neither can the lid be captured From the never-pleasant Northland, From the dismal Sariola. Louhi took away the Sampo, Carried off the lid in colors To the stone-mount of Pohyola; Hid it in the copper mountain, Where nine locks secure the treasure. Many young roots sprout around it, Grow nine fathoms deep in sand-earth, One great root beneath the mountain, In the cataract a second, And a third beneath the castle Built upon the mount of ages.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Brother mine, and wonder-worker, Let us go to Sariola, That we may secure the Sampo; Let us build a goodly vessel, Bring the Sampo to Wainola, Bring away the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain. Where the miracle lies anchored.' Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'By the land the way is safer, Lempo travels on the ocean, Ghastly Death upon his shoulder; 534 On the sea the waves will drift us, And the storm-winds wreck our vessel; Then our bands must do the rowing, And our feet must steer us homeward.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Safe indeed by land to journey, But the way is rough and trying, Long the road and full of turnings; Lovely is the ship on ocean, Beautiful to ride the billows, Journey easy o'er the waters, Sailing in a trusty vessel; Should the West-wind cross our pathway, Will the South-wind drive us northward. Be that as it may, my brother, Since thou dost not love the water, By the land then let us journey. Forge me now the sword of battle, Forge for me the mighty fire-sword, That I may destroy the wild-beasts, Frighten all the Northland people, As we journey for the Sampo To the cold and dismal village, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal forger-artist, Laid the metals in the furnace, In the fire laid steel and iron, In the hot-coals, gold and silver, Rightful measure of the metals; Set the workmen at the furnace, Lustily they plied the bellows. Like the wax the iron melted, Like the dough the hard steel softened, Like the water ran the silver, And the liquid gold flowed after. Then the minstrel, Ilmarinen, The eternal wonder-forger, Looks within his magic furnace, On the border of his oven, There beholds the fire-sword forming, 535 Sees the blade with golden handle; Takes the weapon from the furnace, Lays it on his heavy anvil For the falling of the hammer; Forges well the blade of magic, Well the heavy sword be tempers, Ornaments the hero-weapon With the finest gold and silver. Wainamoinen, the magician, Comes to view the blade of conquest, Lifts admiringly the fire-sword, Then these words the hero utters: 'Does the weapon match the soldier, Does the handle suit the bearer? Yea, the blade and hilt are molded To the wishes of the minstrel.' On the sword-point gleams the moonlight, On the blade the sun is shining, On the hilt the bright stars twinkle, On the edge a horse is neighing, On the handle plays a kitten, On the sheath a dog is barking. Wainamoinen wields his fire-sword, Tests it on the iron-mountain, And these words the hero utters: 'With this broadsword I could quickly Cleave in twain the mount of Pohya, Cut the flinty rocks asunder.' Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Wherewith shall I guard from danger, How protect myself from evil, From the ills by land and water? Shall I wear an iron armor, Belt of steel around my body? Stronger is a man in armor, Safer in a mail of copper.' Now the time has come to journey To the never-pleasant Northland; Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, And his brother, Ilmarinen, Hasten to the field and forest, Searching for their fiery coursers, 536 In each shining belt a bridle, With a harness on their shoulders. In the woods they find a race; In the glen a steed of battle, Ready for his master's service. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Throw the harness on the courser, Hitch him to the sledge of conquest, Hasten on their journey Northward; Drive along the broad-sea's margin Till they bear some one lamenting On the strand hear something wailing Near the landing-place of vessels. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Speaks these words in wonder, guessing, 'This must be some maiden weeping, Some fair daughter thus lamenting; Let us journey somewhat nearer, To discover whence this wailing.' Drew they nearer, nearer, nearer, Hoping thus to find a maiden Weeping on the sandy sea-shore. It was not a maiden weeping, But a vessel, sad, and lonely, Waiting on the shore and wailing. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Why art weeping, goodly vessel, What the cause of thy lamenting? Art thou mourning for thy row-locks, Is thy rigging ill-adjusted? Dost thou weep since thou art anchored On the shore in times of trouble?' Thus the war-ship spake in answer: 'To the waters would this vessel Haste upon the well-tarred rollers, As a happy maiden journeys To the cottage of her husband. I, alas! a goodly vessel, Weep because I lie at anchor, Weep and wail because no hero Sets me free upon the waters, 537 Free to ride the rolling billows. It was said when I was fashioned, Often sung when I was building, That this bark should be for battle, Should become a mighty war-ship, Carry in my hull great treasures, Priceless goods across the ocean. Never have I sailed to conquest, Never have I carried booty; Other vessels not as worthy To the wars are ever sailing, Sailing to the songs of battle. Three times in the summer season Come they home with treasures laden, In their hulls bring gold and silver; I, alas! a worthy vessel, Many months have lain at anchor, I, a war-ship well constructed, Am decaying in the harbor, Never having sailed to conquest; Worms are gnawing at my vitals, In my hull their dwelling-places, And ill-omened birds of heaven Build their nests within my rigging; Frogs and lizards of the forest Play about my oars and rudder; Three times better for this vessel Were he but a valley birch-tree, Or an aspen on the heather, With the squirrels in his branches, And the dogs beneath them barking!' Wainamoinen, old and faithfull Thus addressed the ship at anchor: 'Weep no more, thou goodly vessel, Man-of-war, no longer murmur; Thou shalt sail to Sariola, Sing the war-songs of the Northland, Sail with us to deadly combat. Wert thou built by the Creator, Thou canst sail the roughest waters, Sidewise journey o'er the ocean; Dost not need the hand to touch thee, 538 Dost not need the foot to turn thee, Needing nothing to propel thee.' Thus the weeping boat made answer: 'Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail unaided o'er the waters, Sail across the waves undriven.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Should I lead thee to the broad-sea, Wilt thou journey north unaided, Sail without the help of rowers, Sail without the aid of south-winds, Sail without the b elm to guide thee? Thus the wailing ship replying: Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail without the aid of rowers, Sail without the help of south-winds, Nor without the helm to guide them.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Wilt thou run with aid of oarsmen When the south-winds give assistance, Guided by a skillful pilot?' This the answer of the war-ship: 'Quickly can I course these waters, When my oars are manned by rowers, When my sails are filled with south-winds, All my goodly brother-vessels Sail the ocean with assistance, When the master holds the rudder.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Left the racer on the sea-side, Tied him to the sacred birch-tree, Hung the harness on a willow, Rolled the vessel to the waters, Sang the ship upon the broad-sea, Asked the boat this simple question: 'O thou vessel, well-appearing From the mighty oak constructed, Art thou strong to carry treasures As in view thou art commanding? Thus the goodly ship made answer: 539 'Strong am I to carry treasures, In my hull a golden cargo; I can bear a hundred oarsmen, And of warriors a thousand.' Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began his wondrous singing. On one side the magic vessel, Sang he youth with golden virtues, Bearded youth with strength of heroes, Sang them into mail of copper. On the other side the vessel, Sang he silver-tinselled maidens, Girded them with belts of copper, Golden rings upon their fingers. Sings again the great magician, Fills the magic ship with heroes, Ancient heroes, brave and mighty; Sings them into narrow limits, Since the young men came before them. At the helm himself be seated, Near the last beam of the vessel, Steered his goodly boat in joyance, Thus addressed the willing war-ship: 'Glide upon the trackless waters, Sail away, my ship of magic, Sail across the waves before thee, Speed thou like a dancing bubble, Like a flower upon the billows!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Set the young men to the rowing, Let the maidens sit in waiting. Eagerly the youthful heroes Bend the oars and try the row-locks, But the distance is not lessened. Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Set the maidens to the rowing, Let the young men rest in waiting. Eagerly the merry maidens Bend the aspen-oars in rowing, But the distance is not lessened. Then the master, Wainamoinen, Set the old men to the rowing, 540 Let the youth remain in waiting. Lustily the aged heroes Bend and try the oars of aspen, But the distance is not lessened. Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Grasped the oars with master-magic, And the boat leaped o'er the surges, Swiftly sped across the billows; Far and wide the oars resounded, Quickly was the distance lessened. With a rush and roar of waters Ilmarinen sped his vessel, Benches, ribs, and row-locks creaking, Oars of aspen far resounding; Flap the sails like wings of moor-cocks, And the prow dips like a white-swan; In the rear it croaks like ravens, Loud the oars and rigging rattle. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Sitting by the bending rudder, Turns his magic vessel landward, To a jutting promontory, Where appears a Northland-village. On the point stands Lemminkainen, Kaukomieli, black magician, Ahti, wizard of Wainola, Wishing for the fish of Pohya, Weeping for his fated dwelling, For his perilous adventures, Hard at work upon a vessel, On the sail-yards of a fish-boat, Near the hunger-point and island, Near the village-home deserted. Good the ears of the magician, Good the wizard's eyes for seeing; Casts his vision to the South-east, Turns his eyes upon the sunset, Sees afar a wondrous rainbow, Farther on, a cloudlet hanging; But the bow was a deception, And the cloudlet a delusion; 'Tis a vessel swiftly sailing, 541 'Tis a war-ship flying northward, O'er the blue-back of the broad-sea, On the far-extending waters, At the helm the master standing, At the oars a mighty hero. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Do not know this wondrous vessel, Not this well-constructed war-ship, Coming from the distant Suomi, Rowing for the hostile Pohya.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Called aloud in tones of thunder O'er the waters to the vessel; Made the distant hills re-echo With the music of his calling: 'Whence this vessel on the waters, Whose the war-ship sailing hither?' Spake the master of the vessel To the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Who art thou from fen or forest, Senseless wizard from the woodlands, That thou dost not know this vessel, Magic war-ship of Wainola? Dost not know him at the rudder, Nor the hero at the row-locks?' Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen: 'Well I know the helm-director, And I recognize the rower; Wainamoinen, old and trusty, At the helm directs the vessel; Ilmarinen does the rowing. Whither is the vessel sailing, Whither wandering, my heroes? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'We are sailing to the Northland, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to get the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain.' Spake the evil Lemminkainen: 'O, thou good, old Wainamoinen, Take me with thee to Pohyola, 542 Make me third of magic heroes, Since thou goest for the Sampo, Goest for the lid in colors; I shall prove a valiant soldier, When thy wisdom calls for fighting; I am skilled in arts of warfare!' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Gave assent to Ahti's wishes; Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Hastened to Wainola's war-ship, Bringing floats of aspen-timber, To the ships of Wainamoinen. Thus the hero of the Northland Speaks to reckless Lemminkainen: 'There is aspen on my vessel, Aspen-floats in great abundance, And the boat is heavy-laden. Wherefore dost thou bring the aspen To the vessel of Wainola?' Lemminkainen gave this answer: 'Not through caution sinks a vessel, Nor a hay-stack by its proppings; Seas abound in hidden dangers, Heavy storms arise and threaten Fell destruction to the sailor That would brave the angry billows.' Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 'Therefore is this warlike vessel Built of trusty steel and copper, Trimmed and bound in toughest iron, That the winds may, not destroy it, May not harm my ship of magic.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

232:The Kalevala - Rune Xxi ILMARINEN'S WEDDING-FEAST. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Ancient dame of Sariola, While at work within her dwelling, Heard the whips crack on the fenlands, 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 Pohya-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 Louhi. When the hostess of Pohyola 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, Thought 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 recognized the bridegroom 351 Mid the hosts of men and heroes, I should answer, I should tell you: 'As the hazel-bush in copses, As the oak-tree in the forest, As the Moon among the planets; Drives the groom a coal-black courser, 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 birchen cross-bow; There are seven bluebirds singing On the racer's hame and collar.' Noises hear they in the court-yard, On the highway hear the sledges, To the court comes Ilmarinen, With his body-guard 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 Pohyola: 'Hie ye hither, men and heroes, Haste, ye watchers, to the stables, There unhitch the suitor's stallion, Lower well the racer's breast-plate, 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 Louhi's yard and stables, And descended from his snow-sledge. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Come, thou servant of my bidding, Best of all my trusted servants, Take at once the bridegroom's courser 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 steed with kindness, Lead him carefully to shelter 352 By his soft and shining bridle, By his halter tipped with silver; Let him roll among the sand-hills, On the bottoms soft and even, On the borders of the snow-banks, In the fields of milky color. 'Lead the hero's steed to water, Lead him to the Pohya-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 courser of the suitor, On the sweetest corn and barley, On the summer-wheat and clover, In the caldron 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 oak-wood; Feed him on the hay the sweetest, Feed him on the corn nutritious, Give the best my barns can furnish. 'Curry well the suitor's courser With the curry-comb of fish-bone, Brush his hair with silken brushes, Put his mane and tail in order, Cover well with flannel blankets, Blankets wrought in gold and silver, Buckles forged from shining copper. 'Come, ye small lads of the village, Lead the suitor to my chambers, With your auburn locks uncovered, From your hands remove your mittens, See if ye can lead the hero Through the door without his stooping, Lifting not the upper cross-bar, Lowering not the oaken threshold, 353 Moving not the birchen casings, Great the hero who must enter. 'Ilmarinen is too stately, Cannot enter through the portals, Not the son-in-law and bridegroom, Till the portals have been heightened; Taller by a head the suitor Than the door-ways of the mansion.' Quick the servants of Pohyola Tore away the upper cross-bar, That his cap might not be lifted; Made the oaken threshold lower That the hero might not stumble; Made the birch-wood portals wider, Opened 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: 'Thanks are due to thee, O Ukko, That my son-in-law has entered! Let me now my halls examine; Make the bridal chambers ready, Finest linen on my tables, Softest furs upon my benches, Birchen flooring scrubbed to whiteness, All my rooms in perfect order.' Then the hostess of Pohyola 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, Hedge-hog bones were used for ceilings, Bones of reindeer for foundations, Bones of wolverine for door-sills, For the cross-bars bones of roebuck, Apple-wood were all the rafters, Alder-wood, the window-casings, Scales of trout adorned the windows, And the fires were set in flowers. All the seats were made of silver, 354 All the floors of copper-tiling, Gold-adorned were all the tables, On the floor were silken mattings, Every fire-place set in copper, Every hearth-stone cut from marble, On each shelf were colored sea-shells, Kalew's tree was their protection. To the court-room came the hero, Chosen suitor from Wainola, These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Send, O Ukko, health and pleasure To this ancient home and dwelling, To this mansion richly fashioned!' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Let thy coming be auspicious To these halls of thee unworthy, To the home of thine affianced, 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, Light the fagots 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, Brought it 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 as bidden, Quickly brought the lighted tapers, Made the suitor's eyeballs glisten, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy; 355 Made his eyes of sable color Sparkle 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 Pohyola Served her guests in great abundance, Richest drinks and rarest viands, First of all she, served the bridegroom On his platters, honeyed biscuit, And the sweetest river salmon, Seasoned butter, roasted bacon, All the dainties of Pohyola. Then the helpers served the others, Filled the plates of all invited With the varied food of Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Come, ye maidens from the village, Hither bring the beer in pitchers, In the urns with double handles, To the many guests in-gathered, Ere all others, serve the 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 barley, Spake the beer in merry accents Through the tongues of the magicians, Through the tongue of many a hero, Through the tongue of Wainamoinen, 356 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 hero sing thy praises, Sing thy worth in golden measures; Let the hostess start the singing, Let the bridegroom sound thy virtues! Have our songs thus quickly vanished, Have our joyful tongues 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 concord; 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 as it may, my seniors, Since the elder minstrels 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 gray-beard thus made answer: 'Not the time for children's singing, 357 Children's wisdom is too ready, Children's songs are filled with trifles, Filled with shrewd and vain deceptions, Maiden-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 Wainola, To the hero of the Northland, To the, ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon Osmoinen answered: 'Are there not some sweeter singers In this honored 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 in-gathered?' From the hearth-stone spake, the gray-beard 'Not a singer of Pohyola, 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 ballads of my people, In the vales 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 snow-shoes, Like the ship upon the ocean. 'Woe is me, my days are ended, Would not recognize my singing, All its sweetness gone to others, Flows no more like rippling waters, Makes no more the hills re-echo! 358 Now my songs are full of discord, Like the rake upon the stubble, Like the sledge upon the gravel, Like the boat upon the sea-shore!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake these words in magic measures: 'Since no other bard appeareth 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 ways of others, Follow not the paths of strangers.' Wainamoinen, famous minstrel, Song's eternal, wise supporter, Then began the songs of pleasure, Made the halls resound with joyance, Filled the 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 Wainamoinen 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 Wainamoinen, When his wonder-tales had ended: 'l have little worth or power, Am a bard of little value, Little consequence my singing, Mine abilities as nothing, If but Ukko, my Creator, Should intone his wisdom-sayings, Sing the source of good and evil, 359 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 beer the running waters, Sing to salt the rocks of ocean, Into corn-fields sing the forests, Into gold the forest-fruitage, 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 fleet-foot stallions, Kine in every field and fallow; Sing a fur-robe for the bridegroom, For the bride a coat of ermine, For the hostess, shoes of silver, For the hero, mail of copper. 'Grant O Ukko, my Creator, God of love, and truth, and justice, Grant thy blessing on our feasting, Bless this company assembled, For the good of Sariola, 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 Pohyola, 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, 360 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 honor, That we may recall with pleasure Ilmarinen's magic marriage To the Maiden of the Rainbow, Snow-white virgin of the Northland.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

233: THE (on: THE SEVEN SEALS YES AND AMEN SONG) 1 If I am a soothsayer and full of that soothsaying spirit which wanders on a high ridge between two seas, wandering like a heavy cloud between past and future, an enemy of all sultry plains and all that is weary and can neither die nor live-in its dark bosom prepared for lightning and the redemptive flash, pregnant with lightning bolts that say Yes and laugh Yes, soothsaying lightning bolts-blessed is he who is thus pregnant! And verily, long must he hang on the mountains like a dark cloud who shall one day kindle the light of the future: Oh, how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of recurrence? Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love you, 0 eternity. For I love you, 0 eternity! 2 If ever my wrath burst tombs, moved boundary stones, and rolled old tablets, broken, into steep depths; if ever my mockery blew moldy words into the wind, and I came as a broom to the cross-marked spiders and as a sweeping gust to old musty tomb chambers; if ever I sat jubilating where old gods lie buried, world-blessing, world-loving, beside the monuments of old worldslanders-for I love even churches and tombs of gods, once the sky gazes through their broken roofs with its 229 pure eyes, and like grass and red poppies, I love to sit on broken churches: Oh, how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of recurrence? Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love you, 0 eternity. For I love you, 0 eternity! 3 If ever one breath came to me of the creative breath and of that heavenly need that constrains even accidents to dance star-dances; if I ever laughed the laughter of creative lightning which is followed obediently but grumblingly by the long thunder of the deed; if I ever played dice with gods at the gods' table, the earth, till the earth quaked and burst and snorted up floods of fire-for the earth is a table for gods and trembles with creative new words and gods' throws: Oh, how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of recurrence? Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love you, 0 eternity. For I love you, 0 eternity! 4 If ever I drank full drafts from that foaming spice and blend-mug in which all things are well blended; if my hand ever poured the farthest to the nearest, and fire to spirit, and joy to pain, and the most wicked to the most gracious; if I myself am a grain of that redeeming salt which makes all things blend well in the blend-mug-for there is a salt that unites good with evil; and even the greatest evil is worthy of being used 230 as spice for the last foaming over: Oh, how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring or recurrence? Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love you, 0 eternity. For I love you, 0 eternity! 5 If I am fond of the sea and of all that is of the sea's kind, and fondest when it angrily contradicts me; if that delight in searching which drives the sails toward the undiscovered is in me, if a seafarer's delight is in my delight; if ever my jubilation cried, "The coast has vanished, now the last chain has fallen from me; the boundless roars around me, far out glisten space and time; be of good cheer, old heart!" Oh, how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of recurrence? Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love you, 0 eternity. For I love you, 0 eternity! 6 If my virtue is a dancer's virtue and I have often jumped with both feet into golden-emerald delight; if my sarcasm is a laughing sarcasm, at home under rose slopes and hedges of lilies-for in laughter all that is evil comes together, but is pronounced -holy and absolved by its own bliss; and if this is my alpha and omega, that all that is heavy and grave should become light; all that is body, dancer; all that is spirit, bird and verily, that is my alpha and omega: Oh, how should 231 I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the fing of recurrence? Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love you, 0 eternity. For I love you, 0 eternity 7 If ever I spread tranquil skies over myself and soared on my own wings into my own skies; if I swam playfully in the deep light-distances, and the bird-wisdom of my freedom came-but bird-wisdom speaks thus: "Behold, there is no above, no below Throw yourself around, out, back, you who are lightly Sing! Speak no morel Are not all words made for the grave and heavy? Are not all words lies to those who are light? Single Speak no morel" Oh, how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of recurrence? Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wanted children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love you, 0 eternity. For I love you, 0 eternity Thus Spoke Zarathustra: Fourth and Last Part Alas, where in the world has there been more folly than among the pitying? And what in the world has caused more suffering than the folly of the pitying? Woe to all who love without having a height that is above their pityl 232 Thus spoke the devil to me once: "God too has his hell: that is his love of man." And most recently I heard him say this: "God is dead; God died of his pity for man." (Zarathustra, II, p. go) TRANSLATOR'S NOTES Part Four was originally intended as an intermezzo, not as the end of the book. The very appearance of a collection of sayings is abandoned: Part Four forms a whole, and as such represents a new stylistic experiment-as well as a number of widely different stylistic experiments, held together by a unity of plot and a pervasive sense of humor. 1. The Honey Sacrifice: Prologue. The "queer fish" are not long in coming: the first of them appears in the next chapter. 2. The Cry of Distress: Beginning of the story that continues to the end of the book. The soothsayer of Part Two reappears, and Zarathustra leaves in search of the higher man. Now that he has overcome his nausea, his final trial is: pity. 3. Conversation with the Kings: The first of seven encounters in each of which Zarathustra meets men who have accepted some part of his teaching without, however, embodying the type he envisages. Their revolting and tiresome flatteries might be charged to their general inadequacy. But Zarathustra's own personality, as it emerges in chapter after chapter, poses a more serious problem. At least in part, this is clearly due to the author's deliberate malice: he does not want to be a "new idol": "I do not want to be a saint, rather even a buffoon. Perhaps I am a buffoon. And nevertheless, or rather not nevertheless-for there has never been anybody more mendacious than saints-truth speaks out of me" (Ecce Homo). Earlier in the same work he says of Shakespeare: "What must a man have suffered to have found it that necessary to be a buffoon!" In these pages Nietzsche would resemble the 233 dramatist rather than the hagiographer, and a Shakespearean fool rather than the founder of a new cult. 4. The Leech: Encounter with "the conscientious in spirit." 5. The Magician: In the magician some of Nietzsche's own features blend with some of Wagner's as conceived by Nietzsche. The poem appears again in a manuscript of a888, which bears the title "Dionysus Dithyrambs" and the motto: "These are the songs of Zarathustra which he sang to himself to endure his ultimate loneliness." In this later context, the poem is entitled "Ariadne's Lament," and a new conclusion has been added by Nietzsche: (Lightning. beauty.) Dionysus becomes DIONYSUS: visible in emerald Be clever, Ariadnel You have small ears, you have my ears: Put a clever word into them Must one not first hate each other if one is to love each other? I am your labyrinth. The song is not reducible to a single level of meaning. The outcry is (1) Nietzsche's own; and the unnamable, terrible thought near the beginning is surely that of the eternal recurrence; it is (2) projected onto Wagner, who is here imagined as feeling desperately forsaken after Nietzsche left him (note especially the penultimate stanza); it is (3) wishfully projected onto Cosima Wagner-Nietzsche's Ariadne (see my Nietzsche, i, 11)-who is here imagined as desiring and possessed by Nietzsche-Dionysus. Part Four is all but made up of similar projections. All the characters are caricatures of Nietzsche. And like the magician, he too would lie if he said: "'I did all this only as a game.' There was seriousness in it too." 6. Retired: Encounter with the last pope. Reflections on the death and inadequacies of God. 7. The Ugliest Man: The murderer of God. The sentence beginning "Has not all success . . ." reads in German: 234 War nicht aller Erfolg fisher bei den Gut-Verfolgten? Und wer gut verfolgt, lernt leicht folgen:-ist er doch einmalhinterherl 8. The Voluntary Beggar: A sermon on a mount-about cows. 9. The Shadow: An allusion to Nietzsche's earlier work, The Wanderer and His Shadow (188o). 10. At Noon: A charming intermezzo. :i. The Welcome: Zarathustra rejects his guests, though together they form a kind of higher man compared to their contemporaries. He repudiates these men of great longing and nausea as well as all those who enjoy his diatribes and denunciations and desire recognition and consideration for being out of tune with their time. What Nietzsche envisages is the creator for whom all negation is merely incidental to his great affirmation: joyous spirits, "laughing lions." 12. The Last Supper: One of the persistent themes of Part Four reaches its culmination in this chapter: Nietzsche not only satirizes the Gospels, and all hagiography generally, but he also makes fun of and laughs at himself. 13. On the Higher Man: A summary comparable to "On Old and New Tablets" in Part Three. Section 5 epitomizes Nietzsche's praise of "evir"-too briefly to be clear apart from the rest of his work-and the conclusion should be noted. The opening paragraph of section 7 takes up the same theme: Nietzsche opposes sublimation to both license and what he elsewhere calls "castratism." A fine epigram is mounted in the center of section 9. The mellow moderation of the last lines of section 15 is not usually associated with Nietzsche. And the chapter ends with a praise of laughter. 14. The Song of Melancholy: In the 3888 manuscript of the "Dionysus Dithyrambs" this is the first poem and it bears the title "Only Fooll Only Poetl" The two introductory sections of this chapter help to dissociate Nietzsche from the poem, while the subsquent references to this song show that he considered it far more depressing than it 235 appears in its context. Though his solitude sometimes flattered him, "On every parable you ride to every truth" ("The Return Home"), he also knew moments when he said to himself, "I am ashamed that I must still be a poet" ("On Old and New Tablets"). Although Zarathustra's buffooneries are certainly intended as such by the author, the thought that he might be "only" a fool, "only" a poet "climbing around on mendacious word bridges," made Nietzsche feel more than despondent. Soon it led him to abandon further attempts to ride on parables in favor of some of the most supple prose in German literature. 15. On Science: Only the origin of science is considered. The attempt to account for it in terms of fear goes back to the period of The Dawn (188i), in which Nietzsche tried to see how far he could reduce different phenomena to fear and power. Zarathustra suggests that courage is crucial -that is, the will to power over fear. i6. Among Daughters of the Wilderness: Zarathustra, about to slip out of his cave for the second time because he cannot stand the bad smell of the "higher men," is called back by his shadow, who has nowhere among men smelled better air-except once. In the following song Nietzsche's buffoonery reaches its climax. But though it can and should be read as thoroughly delightful nonsense, it is not entirely void of personal significance. Wilste means "desert" or "wilderness," and wdist can also mean wild and dissolute; and the "flimsy little fan-, flutter-, and tinsel-skirts" seem to have been suggested by the brothel to which a porter in Cologne once took the young Nietzsche, who had asked to be shown to a hotel. (He ran away, shocked; cf. my Nietzsche, 3, I.) Certainly the poem is full of sexual fantasies. But the double meaning of "date" is not present in the original. 17. The Awakening: The titles of this and the following chapter might well be reversed; for it is this chapter that culminates in the ass festival, Nietzsche's version of the Black Mass. But "the awakening' here does not refer to the moment when an angry Moses holds his people accountable 236 for their worship of the golden calf, but to the moment when "they have learned to laugh at themselves." In this art, incidentally, none of the great philosophers excelled the author of Part Four of Zarathustra. i8. The Ass Festival: Five of the participants try to justify themselves. The pope satirizes Catholicism (Luther was last made fun of at the end of the song in Chapter i6), while the conscientious in spirit develops a new theology -and suggests that Zarathustra himself is pretty close to being an ass. 19. The Drunken Song: Nietzsche's great hymn to joy invites comparison with Schiller's-minus Beethoven's music. That they use different German words is the smallest difference. Schiller writes: Suffer bravely, myriadsl Suffer for the better world Up above the firmament A great God will give rewards. Nietzsche wants the eternity of this life with all its agonies -and seeing that it flees, its eternal recurrence. As it is expressed in sections 9, io, and 3i, the conception of the eternal recurrence is certainly meaningful; but its formulation as a doctrine depended on Nietzsche's mistaken belief that science compels us to accept the hypothesis of the eternal recurrence of the same events at gigantic intervals. (See "On the Vision and the Riddle" and "The Convalescent," both in Part Three, and, for a detailed discussion, my Nietzsche, 11, II.) 20. The Sign: In "The Welcome," Zarathustra repudiated the "higher men" in favor of "laughing lions." Now a lion turns up and laughs, literally. And in place of the single dove in the New Testament, traditionally understood as a symbol of the Holy Ghost, we are presented with a whole flock. Both the lion and the doves were mentioned before ("On Old and New Tablets," section 3) as the signs for which Zarathustra must wait, and now afford Nietzsche an 237 opportunity to preserve his curious blend of myth, irony, and hymn to the very end. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE SEVEN SEALS OR THE YES AND AMEN SONG ,

234:The Kalevala - Rune Xlix RESTORATION OF THE SUN AND MOON. Thus has Fire returned to Northland But the gold Moon is not shining, Neither gleams the silver sunlight In the chambers of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala. On the crops the white-frost settled, And the cattle died of hunger, Even birds grew sick and perished. Men and maidens, faint and famished, Perished in the cold and darkness, From the absence of the sunshine, From the absence of the moonlight. Knew the pike his holes and hollows, And the eagle knew his highway, Knew the winds the times for sailing; But the wise men of the Northland Could not know the dawn of morning, On the fog-point in the ocean, On the islands forest-covered. Young and aged talked and wondered, Well reflected, long debated, How to live without the moonlight, Live without the silver sunshine, In the cold and cheerless Northland, In the homes of Kalevala. Long conjectured all the maidens, Orphans asked the wise for counsel. Spake a maid to Ilmarinen, Running to the blacksmith's furnace: 'Rise, O artist, from thy slumbers, Hasten from thy couch unworthy; Forge from gold the Moon for Northland, Forge anew the Sun from silver Cannot live without the moonlight, Nor without the silver sunshine!' From his couch arose the artist, 223 From his couch of stone, the blacksmith, And began his work of forging, Forging Sun and Moon for Northland. Came the ancient Wainamoinen, In the doorway sat and lingered, Spake, these Words to Ilmarinen: 'Blacksmith, my beloved brother, Thou the only metal-worker, Tell me why thy magic hammer Falls so heavy on thine anvil?' Spake the youthful Ilmarinen: 'Moon of gold and Sun of silver, I am forging for Wainola; I shall swing them into ether, Plant them in the starry heavens.' Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 'Senseless blacksmith of the ages, Vainly dost thou swing thy hammer, Vainly rings thy mighty anvil; Silver will not gleam as sunshine, Not of gold is born the moonlight!' Ilmarinen, little heeding, Ceases not to ply his hammer, Sun and Moon the artist forges, Wings the Moon of Magic upward, Hurls it to the pine-tree branches; Does not shine without her master. Then the silver Sun he stations In an elm-tree on the mountain. From his forehead drip the sweat-drops, Perspiration from his fingers, Through his labors at the anvil While the Sun and Moon were forging; But the Sun shone not at morning From his station in the elm-tree; And the Moon shone not at evening From the pine-tree's topmost branches. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Let the Fates be now consulted, And the oracles examined; Only thus may we discover Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden.' 224 Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Only wise and true magician, Cut three chips from trunks of alder, Laid the chips in magic order, Touched and turned them with his fingers, Spake these words of master-magic: 'Of my Maker seek I knowledge, Ask in hope and faith the answer From the great magician, Ukko: Tongue of alder, tell me truly, Symbol of the great Creator, Where the Sun and Moon are sleeping; For the Moon shines not in season, Nor appears the Sun at midday, From their stations in the sky-vault. Speak the truth, O magic alder, Speak not words of man, nor hero, Hither bring but truthful measures. Let us form a sacred compact: If thou speakest me a falsehood, I will hurl thee to Manala, Let the nether fires consume thee, That thine evil signs may perish.' Thereupon the alder answered, Spake these words of truthful import: 'Verily the Sun lies hidden And the golden Moon is sleeping In the stone-berg of Pohyola, In the copper-bearing mountain.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'I shall go at once to Northland, To the cold and dark Pohyola, Bring the Sun and Moon to gladden All Wainola's fields and forests.' Forth he hastens on his journey, To the dismal Sariola, To the Northland cold and dreary; Travels one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When appear the gates of Pohya, With her snow-clad hills and mountains. Wainamoinen, the magician, 225 At the river of Pohyola, Loudly calls the ferry-maiden: Bring a boat, O Pohya-daughter, Bring a strong and trusty vessel, Row me o'er these chilling waters, O'er this rough and rapid river! ' But the Ferry-maiden heard not, Did not listen to his calling. Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Laid a pile of well-dried brush-wood, Knots and needles of the fir-tree, Made a fire beside the river, Sent the black smoke into heaven Curling to the home of Ukko. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Hastened to her chamber window, Looked upon the bay and river, Spake these words to her attendants: 'Why the fire across the river Where the current meets the deep-sea, Smaller than the fires of foemen, Larger than the flames of hunters?' Thereupon a Pohyalander Hastened from the court of Louhi That the cause he might discover,' Bring the sought-for information To the hostess of Pohyola; Saw upon the river-border Some great hero from Wainola. Wainamoinen saw the stranger, Called again in tones of thunder: 'Bring a skiff; thou son of Northland, For the minstrel, Wainamoinen! Thus the Pohyalander answered: 'Here no skiffs are lying idle, Row thyself across the waters, Use thine arms, and feet, and fingers, To propel thee o'er the river, O'er the sacred stream of Pohya.' Wainamoinen, long reflecting, Bravely thus soliloquizes: 'I will change my form and features, 226 Will assume a second body, Neither man, nor ancient minstrel, Master of the Northland waters!' Then the singer, Wainamoinen, Leaped, a pike, upon the waters, Quickly swam the rapid river, Gained the frigid Pohya-border. There his native form resuming, Walked he as a mighty hero, On the dismal isle of Louhi, Spake the wicked sons of Northland: Come thou to Pohyola's court-room.' To Pohyola's, court he hastened. Spake again the sons of evil: Come thou to the halls of Louhi!' To Pohyola's halls he hastened. On the latch he laid his fingers, Set his foot within the fore-hall, Hastened to the inner chamber, Underneath the painted rafters, Where the Northland-heroes gather. There he found the Pohya-masters Girded with their swords of battle, With their spears and battle-axes, With their fatal bows and arrows, For the death of Wainamoinen, Ancient bard, Suwantolainen. Thus they asked the hero-stranger. 'Magic swimmer of the Northland, Son of evil, what the message That thou bringest from thy people, What thy mission to Pohyola?' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Thus addressed the hosts of Louhi: 'For the Sun I come to Northland, Come to seek the Moon in Pohya; Tell me where the Sun lies hidden, Where the golden Moon is sleeping.' Spake the evil sons of Pohya: 'Both the Sun and Moon are hidden In the rock of many colors, In the copper-bearing mountain, 227 In a cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola, Nevermore to gain their freedom, Nevermore to shine in Northland!' Spake the hero, Wainamoinen: 'If the Sun be not uncovered, If the Moon leave not her dungeon, I will challenge all Pohyola To the test of spear or broadsword, Let us now our weapons measure!' Quick the hero of Wainola Drew his mighty sword of magic; On its border shone the moonlight, On its hilt the Sun was shining, On its back, a neighing stallion, On its face a cat was mewing, Beautiful his magic weapon. Quick the hero-swords are tested, And the blades are rightly measured Wainamoinen's sword is longest By a single grain of barley, By a blade of straw, the widest. To the court-yard rushed the heroes, Hastened to the deadly combat, On the plains of Sariola. Wainamoinen, the magician, Strikes one blow, and then a second, Strikes a third time, cuts and conquers. As the house-maids slice the turnips, As they lop the heads of cabbage, As the stalks of flax are broken, So the heads of Louhi's heroes Fall before the magic broadsword Of the ancient Wainamoinen. Then victor from Wainola, Ancient bard and great magician, Went to find the Sun in slumber, And the golden Moon discover, In, the copper-bearing Mountains, In the cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola. He had gone but little distance, 228 When he found a sea-green island; On the island stood a birch-tree, Near the birch-tree stood a pillar Carved in stone of many colors; In the pillar, nine large portals Bolted in a hundred places; In the rock he found a crevice Sending forth a gleam of sunlight. Quick he drew his mighty broadsword, From the pillar struck three colors, From the magic of his weapon; And the pillar fell asunder, Three the number of the fragments. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Through the crevice looked and wondered. In the center of the pillar, From a scarlet-colored basin, Noxious serpents beer were drinking, And the adders eating spices. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Therefore has Pohyola's hostess Little drink to give to strangers, Since her beer is drank by serpents, And her spices given to adders.' Quick he draws his magic fire-blade, Cuts the vipers green in pieces, Lops the heads off all the adders, Speaks these words of master-magic: Thus, hereafter, let the serpent Drink the famous beer of barley, Feed upon the Northland-spices!' Wainamoinen, the magician, The eternal wizard-singer, Sought to open wide the portals With the hands and words of magic; But his hands had lost their cunning, And his magic gone to others. Thereupon the ancient minstrel Quick returning, heavy-hearted, To his native halls and hamlets, Thus addressed his brother-heroes: 'Woman, he without his weapons, 229 With no implements, a weakling! Sun and Moon have I discovered, But I could not force the Portals Leading to their rocky cavern In the copper bearing mountain. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Why was I not taken with thee To become, thy war-companion? Would have been of goodly service, Would have drawn the bolts or broken, All the portals to the cavern, Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden In the copper-bearing mountain!' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus replied to Lemminkainen: 'Empty Words will break no portals, Draw no bolts of any moment; Locks and bolts are never broken. With the words of little wisdom! Greater means than thou commandest Must be used to free the sunshine, Free the moonlight from her dungeon.' Wainamoinen, not discouraged, Hastened to the, forge and smithy, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou famous metal-artist, Forge for me a magic trident, Forge from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys, a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, That the Sun we may uncover In the copper-bearing mountain, In the stone-berg of Pohyola.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forged the needs of Wainamoinen, Forged for him the magic trident, Forged from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, Not the largest, nor the smallest, 230 Forged them of the right dimensions. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, Fastened wings upon her shoulders, As an eagle, sailed the heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, Over Pohya's many, waters, To the hamlets of Wainola, To the forge of Ilmarinen. Quick the famous metal-worker Went to see if winds were blowing; Found the winds at peace and silent, Found an eagle, sable-colored, Perched upon his window-casement. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'Magic bird, whom art thou seeking, Why art sitting at my window?' This the answer of the eagle: 'Art thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal iron-forger, Master of the magic metals, Northland's wonder-working artist?' Ilmarinen gave this answer: 'There is nothing here of wonder, Since I forged the dome of heaven, Forged the earth a concave cover!' Spake again the magic eagle: Why this ringing of thine anvil, Why this knocking of thy hammer, Tell me what thy hands are forging?' This the answer of the blacksmith: ''Tis a collar I am forging For the neck of wicked Louhi, Toothless witch of Sariola, Stealer of the silver sunshine, Stealer of the golden moonlight; With this collar I shall bind her To the iron-rock of Ehstland!' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Saw misfortune fast approaching, Saw destruction flying over, Saw the signs of bad-luck lower; 231 Quickly winged her way through ether To her native halls and chambers, To the darksome Sariola, There unlocked the massive portals Where the Sun and Moon were hidden, In the rock of many colors, In the cavern iron-banded, In the copper-bearing mountain. Then again the wicked Louhi Changed her withered form and features, And became a dove of good-luck; Straightway winged the starry heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala, To the forge of Ilmarinen. This the question of the blacksmith 'Wherefore comest, dove of good-luck, What the tidings that thou bringest?' Thus the magic bird made answer: 'Wherefore come I to thy smithy? Come to bring the joyful tidings That the Sun has left his cavern, Left the rock of many colors, Left the stone-berg of Pohyola; That the Moon no more is hidden In the copper-bearing mountains, In the caverns iron-banded.' Straightway hastened Ilmarinen To the threshold of his smithy, Quickly scanned the far horizon, Saw again the silver sunshine, Saw once more the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the homes of Kalevala. Thereupon the blacksmith hastened To his brother, Wainamoinen, Spake these words to the magician: 'O thou ancient bard and minstrel, The eternal wizard-singer See, the Sun again is shining, And the golden Moon is beaming 232 From their long-neglected places, From their stations in the sky-vault!' Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Straightway hastened to the court-yard, Looked upon the far horizon, Saw once more the silver sunshine, Saw again the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the people of the Northland, And the minstrel spake these measures: 'Greetings to thee, Sun of fortune, Greetings to thee, Moon of good-luck, Welcome sunshine, welcome moonlight, Golden is the dawn of morning! Free art thou, O Sun of silver, Free again, O Moon beloved, As the sacred cuckoo's singing, As the ring-dove's liquid cooings. 'Rise, thou silver Sun, each Morning, Source of light and life hereafter, Bring us, daily, joyful greetings, Fill our homes with peace and plenty, That our sowing, fishing, hunting, May be prospered by thy coming. Travel on thy daily journey, Let the Moon be ever with thee; Glide along thy way rejoicing, End thy journeyings in slumber; Rest at evening in the ocean, When the daily cares have ended, To the good of all thy people, To the pleasure Of Wainoloa, To the joy of Kalevala!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

235:The Kalevala - Rune Xvi WAINAMOINEN'S BOAT-BUILDING. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, For his boat was working lumber, Working long upon his vessel, On a fog-point jutting seaward, On an island, forest-covered; But the lumber failed the master, Beams were wanting for his vessel, Beams and scantling, ribs and flooring. Who will find for him the lumber, Who procure the timber needed For the boat of Wainamoinen, For the bottom of his vessel? Pellerwoinen of the prairies, Sampsa, slender-grown and ancient, He will seek the needful timber, He procure the beams of oak-wood For the boat of Wainamoinen, For the bottom of his vessel. Soon he starts upon his journey To the eastern fields and forests, Hunts throughout the Northland mountain To a second mountain wanders, To a third he hastens, searching, Golden axe upon his shoulder, In his hand a copper hatchet. Comes an aspen-tree to meet him Of the height of seven fathoms. Sampsa takes his axe of copper, Starts to fell the stately aspen, But the aspen quickly halting, Speaks these words to Pellerwoinen: 'Tell me, hero, what thou wishest, What the service thou art needing?' Sampsa Pellerwoinen answers: 'This indeed, the needed service 291 That I ask of thee, O aspen: Need thy lumber for a vessel, For the boat of Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers.' Quick and wisely speaks the aspen, Thus its hundred branches answer: 'All the boats that have been fashioned From my wood have proved but failures; Such a vessel floats a distance, Then it sinks upon the bottom Of the waters it should travel. All my trunk is filled with hollows, Three times in the summer seasons Worms devour my stem and branches, Feed upon my heart and tissues.' Pellerwoinen leaves the aspen, Hunts again through all the forest, Wanders through the woods of Northland, Where a pine-tree comes to meet him, Of the height of fourteen fathoms. With his axe he chops the pine-tree, Strikes it with his axe of copper, As he asks the pine this question: 'Will thy trunk give worthy timber For the boat of Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers?' Loudly does the pine-tree answer: 'All the ships that have been fashioned From my body are unworthy; I am full of imperfections, Cannot give thee needed timber Wherewithal to build thy vessel; Ravens live within ray branches, Build their nests and hatch their younglings Three times in my trunk in summer.' Sampsa leaves the lofty pine-tree, Wanders onward, onward, onward, To the woods of gladsome summer, Where an oak-tree comes to meet him, In circumference, three fathoms, And the oak he thus addresses: 'Ancient oak-tree, will thy body 292 Furnish wood to build a vessel, Build a boat for Wainamoinen, Master-boat for the magician, Wisest of the wisdom-singers?' Thus the oak replies to Sampsa: 'I for thee will gladly furnish Wood to build the hero's vessel; I am tall, and sound, and hardy, Have no flaws within my body; Three times in the months of summer, In the warmest of the seasons, Does the sun dwell in my tree-top, On my trunk the moonlight glimmers, In my branches sings the cuckoo, In my top her nestlings slumber.' Now the ancient Pellerwoinen Takes the hatchet from his shoulder, Takes his axe with copper handle, Chops the body of the oak-tree; Well he knows the art of chopping. Soon he fells the tree majestic, Fells the mighty forest-monarch, With his magic axe and power. From the stems he lops the branches, Splits the trunk in many pieces, Fashions lumber for the bottom, Countless boards, and ribs, and braces, For the singer's magic vessel, For the boat of the magician. Wainamoinen, old and skilful, The eternal wonder-worker, Builds his vessel with enchantment, Builds his boat by art of magic, From the timber of the oak-tree, From its posts, and planks, and flooring. Sings a song, and joins the frame-work; Sings a second, sets the siding; Sings a third time, sets the row-locks; Fashions oars, and ribs, and rudder, Joins the sides and ribs together. When the ribs were firmly fastened, When the sides were tightly jointed, 293 Then alas! three words were wanting, Lost the words of master-magic, How to fasten in the ledges, How the stern should be completed, How complete the boat's forecastle. Then the ancient Wainamoinen, Wise and wonderful enchanter, Heavy-hearted spake as follows: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Never will this magic vessel Pass in safety o'er the water, Never ride the rough sea-billows.' Then he thought and long considered, Where to find these words of magic, Find the lost-words of the Master: 'From the brains of countless swallows, From the heads of swans in dying, From the plumage of the gray-duck?' For these words the hero searches, Kills of swans a goodly number, Kills a flock of fattened gray-duck, Kills of swallows countless numbers, Cannot find the words of magic, Not the lost-words of the Master. Wainamoinen, wisdom-singer, Still reflected and debated: 'I perchance may find the lost-words On the tongue of summer-reindeer, In the mouth of the white squirrel.' Now again he hunts the lost-words, Hastes to find the magic sayings, Kills a countless host of reindeer, Kills a rafterful of squirrels, Finds of words a goodly number, But they are of little value, Cannot find the magic lost-word. Long he thought and well considered: 'I can find of words a hundred In the dwellings of Tuoni, In the Manala fields and castles.' Wainamoinen quickly journeys To the kingdom of Tuoni, 294 There to find the ancient wisdom, There to learn the secret doctrine; Hastens on through fen and forest, Over meads and over marshes, Through the ever-rising woodlands, Journeys one week through the brambles, And a second through the hazels, Through the junipers the third week, When appear Tuoni's islands, And the Manala fields and castles. Wainamoinen, brave and ancient, Calls aloud in tones of thunder, To the Tuonela deeps and dungeons, And to Manala's magic castle: 'Bring a boat, Tuoni's daughter, Bring a ferry-boat, O maiden, That may bear me o'er this channel, O'er this black and fatal river.' Quick the daughter of Tuoni, Magic maid of little stature, Tiny virgin of Manala, Tiny washer of the linen, Tiny cleaner of the dresses, At the river of Tuoni, In Manala's ancient castles, Speaks these words to Wainamoinen, Gives this answer to his calling: 'Straightway will I bring the row-boat, When the reasons thou hast given Why thou comest to Manala In a hale and active body.' Wainamoinen, old and artful., Gives this answer to the maiden: 'I was brought here by Tuoni, Mana raised me from the coffin.' Speaks the maiden of Manala: 'This a tale of wretched liars; Had Tuoni brought thee hither, Mana raised thee from the coffin, Then Tuoni would be with thee, Manalainen too would lead thee, With Tuoni's hat upon thee, 295 On thy hands, the gloves of Mana; Tell the truth now, Wainamoinen, What has brought thee to Manala?' Wainamoinen, artful hero, Gives this answer, still finessing: 'Iron brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoni.' Speaks the virgin of the death-land, Mana's wise and tiny daughter: 'Well I know that this is falsehood, Had the iron brought thee hither, Brought thee to Tuoni's kingdom, Blood would trickle from thy vesture, And the blood-drops, scarlet-colored. Speak the truth now, Wainamoinen, This the third time that I ask thee.' Wainamoinen, little heeding, Still finesses to the daughter: 'Water brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoui.' This the tiny maiden's answer: 'Well I know thou speakest falsely; If the waters of Manala, If the cataract and whirlpool, Or the waves had brought thee hither, From thy robes the drops would trickle, Water drip from all thy raiment. Tell the truth and I will serve thee, What has brought thee to Manala?' Then the wilful Wainamoinen Told this falsehood to the maiden: 'Fire has brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoni.' Spake again Tuoni's daughter: 'Well I know the voice of falsehood. If the fire had brought thee hither, Brought thee to Tuoni's empire, Singed would be thy locks and eyebrows, And thy beard be crisped and tangled. O, thou foolish Wainamoinen, If I row thee o'er the ferry, Thou must speak the truth in answer, 296 This the last time I will ask thee; Make an end of thy deception. What has brought thee to Manala, Still unharmed by pain or sickness, Still untouched by Death's dark angel Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'At the first I spake, not truly, Now I give thee rightful answer: I a boat with ancient wisdom, Fashioned with my powers of magic, Sang one day and then a second, Sang the third day until evening, When I broke the magic main-spring, Broke my magic sledge in pieces, Of my song the fleetest runners; Then I come to Mana's kingdom, Came to borrow here a hatchet, Thus to mend my sledge of magic, Thus to join the parts together. Send the boat now quickly over, Send me, quick, Tuoni's row-boat, Help me cross this fatal river, Cross the channel of Manala.' Spake the daughter of Tuoni, Mana's maiden thus replying: 'Thou art sure a stupid fellow, Foresight wanting, judgment lacking, Having neither wit nor wisdom, Coming here without a reason, Coming to Tuoni's empire; Better far if thou shouldst journey To thy distant home and kindred; Man they that visit Mana, Few return from Maria's kingdom.' Spake the good old Wainamoinen: 'Women old retreat from danger, Not a man of any courage, Not the weakest of the heroes. Bring thy boat, Tuoni's daughter, Tiny maiden of Manala, Come and row me o'er the ferry.' Mana's daughter does as bidden, 297 Brings her boat to Wainamoinen, Quickly rows him through the channel, O'er the black and fatal river, To the kingdom of Manala, Speaks these words to the magician: 'Woe to thee! O Wainamoinen! Wonderful indeed, thy magic, Since thou comest to Manala, Comest neither dead nor dying.' Tuonetar, the death-land hostess, Ancient hostess of Tuoni, Brings him pitchers filled with strong-beer, Fills her massive golden goblets, Speaks these measures to the stranger: 'Drink, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Drink the beer of king Tuoni!' Wainamoinen, wise and cautious, Carefully inspects the liquor, Looks a long time in the pitchers, Sees the spawning of the black-frogs, Sees the young of poison-serpents, Lizards, worms, and writhing adders, Thus addresses Tuonetar: 'Have not come with this intention, Have not come to drink thy poisons, Drink the beer of Tuonela; Those that drink Tuoni's liquors, Those that sip the cups of Mana, Court the Devil and destruction, End their lives in want and ruin.' Tuonetar makes this answer: 'Ancient minstrel, Wainamoinen, Tell me what has brought thee hither, Brought thee to the, realm of Mana, To the courts of Tuonela, Ere Tuoni sent his angels To thy home in Kalevala, There to cut thy magic life-thread.' Spake the singer, Wainamoinen: 'I was building me a vessel, At my craft was working, singing, Needed three words of the Master, 298 How to fasten in the ledges, How the stern should be completed, How complete the boat's forecastle. This the reason of my coming To the empire of Tuoni, To the castles of Manala: Came to learn these magic sayings, Learn the lost-words of the Master.' Spake the hostess, Tuonetar: 'Mana never gives these sayings, Canst not learn them from Tuoni, Not the lost-words of the Master; Thou shalt never leave this kingdom, Never in thy magic life-time, Never go to Kalevala, To Wainola's peaceful meadows. To thy distant home and country.' Quick the hostess, Tuonetar, Waves her magic wand of slumber O'er the head of Wainamoinen, Puts to rest the wisdom-hero, Lays him on the couch of Mana, In the robes of living heroes, Deep the sleep that settles o'er him. In Manala lived a woman, In the kingdom of Tuoni, Evil witch and toothless wizard, Spinner of the threads of iron, Moulder of the bands of copper, Weaver of a hundred fish-nets, Of a thousand nets of copper, Spinning in the days of summer, Weaving in the winter evenings, Seated on a rock in water. In the kingdom of Tuoni Lived a man, a wicked wizard, Three the fingers of the hero, Spinner he of iron meshes, Maker too of nets of copper, Countless were his nets of metal, Moulded on a rock in water, Through the many days of summer. 299 Mana's son with crooked fingers, Iron-pointed, copper fingers, Pulls of nets, at least a thousand, Through the river of Tuoni, Sets them lengthwise, sets them crosswise, In the fatal, darksome river, That the sleeping Wainamomen, Friend and brother of the waters, May not leave the isle of Mana, Never in the course of ages, Never leave the death-land castles, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the empire of Tuoni. Wainamoinen, wise and wary, Rising from his couch of slumber, Speaks these words as he is waking: 'Is there not some mischief brewing, Am I not at last in danger, In the chambers of Tuoni, In the Manala home and household?' Quick he changes his complexion, Changes too his form and feature, Slips into another body; Like a serpent in a circle, Rolls black-dyed upon the waters; Like a snake among the willows, Crawls he like a worm of magic, Like an adder through the grasses, Through the coal-black stream of death-land, Through a thousand nets of copper Interlaced with threads of iron, From the kingdom of Tuoni, From the castles of Manala. Mana's son, the wicked wizard, With his iron-pointed fingers, In the early morning hastens To his thousand nets of copper, Set within the Tuoni river, Finds therein a countless number Of the death-stream fish and serpents; Does not find old Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, wise and wary, 300 Friend and fellow of the waters. When the wonder-working hero Had escaped from Tuonela, Spake he thus in supplication: 'Gratitude to thee, O Ukko, Do I bring for thy protection! Never suffer other heroes, Of thy heroes not the wisest, To transgress the laws of nature; Never let another singer, While he lives within the body, Cross the river of Tuoni, As thou lovest thy creations. Many heroes cross the channel, Cross the fatal stream of Mana, Few return to tell the story, Few return from Tuonela, From Manala's courts and castles.' Wainamoinen calls his people, On the plains of Kalevala, Speaks these words of ancient wisdom, To the young men, to the maidens, To the rising generation: 'Every child of Northland, listen: If thou wishest joy eternal, Never disobey thy parents, Never evil treat the guiltless, Never wrong the feeble-minded, Never harm thy weakest fellow, Never stain thy lips with falsehood, Never cheat thy trusting neighbor, Never injure thy companion, Lest thou surely payest penance In the kingdom of Tuoni, In the prison of Manala; There, the home of all the wicked, There the couch of the unworthy, There the chambers of the guilty. Underneath Manala's fire-rock Are their ever-flaming couches, For their pillows hissing serpents, Vipers green their writhing covers, 301 For their drink the blood of adders, For their food the pangs of hunger, Pain and agony their solace; If thou wishest joy eternal, Shun the kingdom of Tuoui!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

236:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxii KULLERVO AS A SHEPHERD. Kullerwoinen, wizard-servant Of the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Purchased slave from Untamoinen, Magic son with sky-blue stockings., With a head of golden ringlets, In his shoes of marten-leather, Waiting little, asked the blacksmith, Asked the host for work at morning, In the evening asked the hostess, These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Give me work at early morning, In the evening, occupation, Labor worthy of thy servant.' Then the wife of Ilmarinen, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow, Thinking long, and long debating, How to give the youth employment, How the purchased slave could labor; Finally a shepherd made him, Made him keeper of her pastures; But the over-scornful hostess, Baked a biscuit for the herdsman, Baked a loaf of wondrous thickness, Baked the lower-half of oat-meal, And the upper-half of barley, Baked a flint-stone in the centre, Poured around it liquid butter, Then she gave it to the shepherd, Food to still the herdsman's hunger; Thus she gave the youth instructions: 'Do not eat the bread in hunger, Till the herd is in the woodlands!' Then the wife of Ilmarinen Sent her cattle to the pasture, Thus addressing Kullerwoinen: 'Drive the cows to yonder bowers, 509 To the birch-trees and the aspens, That they there may feed and fatten, Fill themselves with milk and butter, In the open forest-pastures, On the distant hills and mountains, In the glens among the birch-trees, In the lowlands with the aspens, In the golden pine-tree forests, In the thickets silver-laden. 'Guard them, thou O kind Creator, Shield them, omnipresent Ukko, Shelter them from every danger, And protect them from all evil, That they may not want, nor wander From the paths of peace and plenty. As at home Thou didst protect them In the shelters and the hurdles, Guard them now beneath the heavens, Shelter them in woodland pastures, That the herds may live and prosper To 'the joy of Northland's hostess, And against the will of Lempo. 'If my herdsman prove unworthy, If the shepherd-maids seem evil, Let the pastures be their shepherds, Let the alders guard the cattle, Make the birch-tree their protector, Let the willow drive them homeward, Ere the hostess go to seek them, Ere the milkmaids wait and worry. Should the birch-tree not protect them, Nor the aspen lend assistance, Nor the linden be their keeper, Nor the willow drive them homeward, Wilt thou give them better herdsmen, Let Creation's beauteous daughters Be their kindly shepherdesses. Thou hast many lovely maidens, Many hundreds that obey thee, In the Ether's spacious circles, Beauteous daughters of creation. 'Summer-daughter, magic maiden, 510 Southern mother of the woodlands, Pine-tree daughter, Kateyatar, Pihlayatar, of the aspen, Alder-maiden, Tapio's daughter, Daughter of the glen, Millikki, And the mountain-maid, Tellervo, Of my herds be ye protectors, Keep them from the evil-minded, Keep them safe in days of summer, In the times of fragrant flowers, While the tender leaves are whispering, While the Earth is verdure-laden. 'Summer-daughter, charming maiden, Southern mother of the woodlands, Spread abroad thy robes of safety, Spread thine apron o'er the forest, Let it cover all my cattle, And protect the unprotected, That no evil winds may harm them, May not suffer from the storm-clouds. Guard my flocks from every danger, Keep them from the hands of wild-beasts, From the swamps with sinking pathways, From the springs that bubble trouble, From the swiftly running waters, From the bottom of the whirlpool, That they may not find misfortune, May not wander to destruction, In the marshes sink and perish, Though against God's best intentions, Though against the will of Ukko. 'From a distance bring a bugle, Bring a shepherd's horn from heaven, Bring the honey-flute of Ukko, Play the music of creation, Blow the pipes of the magician, Play the flowers on the highlands, Charm the hills, and dales, and mount Charm the borders of the forest, Fill the forest-trees with honey, Fill with spice the fountain-borders. 'For my herds give food and shelter, 511 Feed them all on honeyed pastures, Give them drink at honeyed fountains Feed them on thy golden grasses, On the leaves of silver saplings, From the springs of life and beauty, From the crystal-waters flowing, From the waterfalls of Rutya, From the uplands green and golden, From the glens enriched in silver. Dig thou also golden fountains On the four sides of the willow, That the cows may drink in sweetness, And their udders swell with honey, That their milk may flow in streamlets; Let the milk be caught in vessels, Let the cow's gift be not wasted, Be not given to Manala. 'Many are the sons of evil, That to Mana take their milkings, Give their milk to evil-doers, Waste it in Tuoni's empire; Few there are, and they the worthy, That can get the milk from Mana; Never did my ancient mother Ask for counsel in the village, Never in the courts for wisdom; She obtained her milk from Mana, Took the sour-milk from the dealers, Sweet-milk from the greater distance, From the kingdom of Manala, From Tuoni's fields and pastures; Brought it in the dusk of evening, Through the by-ways in the darkness, That the wicked should not know it, That it should not find destruction. 'This the language of my mother, And these words I also echo: Whither does the cow's gift wander, Whither has the milk departed? Has it gone to feed the strangers, Banished to the distant village, Gone to feed the hamlet-lover, 512 Or perchance to feed the forest, Disappeared within the woodlands, Scattered o'er the hills and mountains, Mingled with the lakes and rivers? It shall never go to Mana, Never go to feed the stranger, Never to the village-lover; Neither shall it feed the forest, Nor be lost upon the mountains, Neither sprinkled in the woodlands, Nor be mingled with the waters; It is needed for our tables, Worthy food for all our children.' Summer-daughter, maid of beauty, Southern daughter of Creation, Give Suotikki tender fodder, To Watikki, give pure water, To Hermikki milk abundant, Fresh provisions to Tuorikki, From Mairikki let the milk flow, Fresh milk from my cows in plenty, Coming from the tips of grasses, From the tender herbs and leaflets, From the meadows rich in honey, From the mother of the forest, From the meadows sweetly dripping, From the berry-laden branches, From the heath of flower-maidens, From the verdure. maiden bowers, From the clouds of milk-providers, From the virgin of the heavens, That the milk may flow abundant From the cows that I have given To the keeping of Kullervo. 'Rise thou virgin of the valley, From the springs arise in beauty, Rise thou maiden of the fountain, Beautiful, arise in ether, Take the waters from the cloudlets, And my roaming herds besprinkle, That my cows may drink and flourish, May be ready for the coming 513 Of the shepherdess of evening. 'O Millikki, forest-hostess, Mother of the herds at pasture, Send the tallest of thy servants, Send the best of thine assistants, That my herds may well be guarded, Through the pleasant days of summer, Given us by our Creator. 'Beauteous virgin of the woodlands, Tapio's most charming daughter, Fair Tellervo, forest-maiden, Softly clad in silken raiment, Beautiful in golden ringlets, Do thou give my herds protection, In the Metsola dominions, On the hills of Tapiola; Shield them with thy hands of beauty, Stroke them gently with thy fingers, Give to them a golden lustre, Make them shine like fins of salmon, Grow them robes as soft as ermine. 'When the evening star brings darkness, When appears the hour of twilight, Send my lowing cattle homeward, Milk within their vessels coursing, Water on their backs in lakelets. When the Sun has set in ocean, When the evening-bird is singing, Thus address my herds of cattle: 'Ye that carry horns, now hasten To the sheds of Ilmarinen; Ye enriched in milk go homeward, To the hostess now in waiting, Home, the better place for sleeping, Forest-beds are full of danger; When the evening comes in darkness, Straightway journey to the milkmaids Building fires to light the pathway On the turf enriched in honey, In the pastures berry-laden! 'Thou, O Tapio's son, Nyrikki, Forest-son, enrobed in purple, 514 Cut the fir-trees on the mountains, Cut the pines with cones of beauty, Lay them o'er the streams for bridges, Cover well the sloughs of quicksand, In the swamps and in the lowlands, That my herd may pass in safety, On their long and dismal journey, To the clouds of smoke may hasten, Where the milkmaids wait their coming. If the cows heed not this order, Do not hasten home at evening, Then, O service-berry maiden, Cut a birch-rod from the glenwood, From the juniper, a whip-stick, Near to Tapio's spacious mansion, Standing on the ash-tree mountain, Drive my wayward, ]owing cattle, Into Metsola's wide milk-yards, When the evening-star is rising. 'Thou, O Otso, forest-apple, Woodland bear, with honeyed fingers, Let us make a lasting treaty, Make a vow for future ages, That thou wilt not kill my cattle, Wilt not eat my milk-providers; That I will not send my hunters To destroy thee and thy kindred, Never in the days of summer, The Creator's warmest season. 'Dost thou hear the tones of cow-bells, Hear the calling of the bugles, Ride thyself within the meadow, Sink upon the turf in slumber, Bury both thine ears in clover, Crouch within some alder-thicket Climb between the mossy ledges, Visit thou some rocky cavern, Flee away to other mountains, Till thou canst not hear the cow-bells, Nor the calling of the herdsmen. 'Listen, Otso of the woodlands, Sacred bear with honeyed fingers, 515 To approach the herd of cattle Thou thyself art not forbidden, But thy tongue, and teeth, and fingers, Must not touch my herd in summer, Must not harm my harmless creatures. Go around the scented meadows, Amble through the milky pastures, From the tones of bells and shepherds. should the herd be on the mountain, Go thou quickly to the marshes; Should my cattle browse the lowlands, Sleep thou then within the thicket; Should they feed upon the uplands, Thou must hasten to the valley; Should the herd graze at the bottom, Thou must feed upon the summit. 'Wander like the golden cuckoo, Like the dove of silver brightness, Like a little fish in ocean; Ride thy claws within thy hair-foot, Shut thy wicked teeth in darkness, That my herd may not be frightened, May not think themselves in danger. Leave my cows in peace and plenty, Let them journey home in order, Through the vales and mountain by-ways, Over plains and through the forest, Harming not my harmless creatures. 'Call to mind our former pledges, At the river of Tuoni, Near the waterfall and whirlpool, In the ears of our Creator. Thrice to Otso was it granted, In the circuit of the summer, To approach the land of cow-bells, Where the herdsmen's voices echo; But to thee it was not granted, Otso never had permission To attempt a wicked action, To begin a work of evil. Should the blinding thing of malice Come upon thee in thy roamings, 516 Should thy bloody teeth feel hunger, Throw thy malice to the mountains, And thy hunger to the pine-trees, Sink thy teeth within the aspens, In the dead limbs of the birches, Prune the dry stalks from the willows. Should thy hunger still impel thee, Go thou to the berry-mountain, Eat the fungus of the forest, Feed thy hunger on the ant-hills, Eat the red roots of the bear-tree, Metsola's rich cakes of honey, Not the grass my herd would feed on. Or if Metsola's rich honey Should ferment before the eating, On the hills of golden color, On the mountains filled with silver, There is other food for hunger, Other drink for thirsting Otso, Everlasting will the food be, And the drink be never wanting. 'Let us now agree in honor, And conclude a lasting treaty That our lives may end in pleasure, May be, merry in the summer, Both enjoy the woods in common, Though our food must be distinctive Shouldst thou still desire to fight me, Let our contests be in winter, Let our wars be, on the snow-fields. Swamps will thaw in days of summer, Warm, the water in the rivers. Therefore shouldst thou break this treaty, Shouldst thou come where golden cattle Roam these woodland hills and valleys, We will slay thee with our cross-bows; Should our arrow-men be absent, We have here some archer-women, And among them is the hostess, That can use the fatal weapon, That can bring thee to destruction, Thus will end the days of trouble 517 That thou bringest to our people, And against the will of Ukko. 'Ukko, ruler in the heavens, Lend an ear to my entreaty, Metamorphose all my cattle, Through the mighty force of magic, Into stumps and stones convert them, If the enemy should wander, Near my herd in days of summer. 'If I had been born an Otso, I would never stride and amble At the feet of aged women; Elsewhere there are hills and valleys, Farther on are honey-pastures, Where the lazy bear may wander, Where the indolent may linger; Sneak away to yonder mountain, That thy tender flesh may lessen, In the blue-glen's deep recesses, In the bear-dens of the forest, Thou canst move through fields of acorns, Through the sand and ocean-pebbles, There for thee is tracked a pathway, Through the woodlands on the sea-coast, To the Northland's farthest limits, To the dismal plains of Lapland, There 'tis well for thee to lumber, There to live will be a pleasure. Shoeless there to walk in summer, Stockingless in days of autumn, On the blue-back of the mountain, Through the swamps and fertile lowlands. 'If thou canst not journey thither, Canst not find the Lapland-highway, Hasten on a little distance, In the bear-path leading northward. To the grove of Tuonela, To the honey-plains of Kalma, Swamps there are in which to wander, Heaths in which to roam at pleasure, There are Kiryos, there are Karyos, And of beasts a countless number, 518 With their fetters strong as iron, Fattening within the forest. Be ye gracious, groves and mountains, Full of grace, ye darksome thickets, Peace and, plenty to my cattle, Through the pleasant days of summer, The Creator's warmest season. 'Knippana, O King of forests, Thou the gray-beard of the woodlands, Watch thy dogs in fen and fallow, Lay a sponge within one nostril, And an acorn in the other, That they may not scent my cattle; Tie their eyes with silken fillets, That they may not see my herdlings, May not see my cattle grazing. 'Should all this seem inefficient, Drive away thy barking children, Let them run to other forests, Let them hunt in other marshes, From these verdant strips of meadow, From these far outstretching borders, Hide thy dogs within thy caverns, Firmly tie thy yelping children, Tie them with thy golden fetters, With thy chains adorned with silver, That they may not do me damage,' May not do a deed of mischief. Should all this prove inefficient, Thou, O Ukko, King of heaven. Wise director, full of mercy, Hear the golden words I utter, Hear a voice that breathes affection, From the alder make a muzzle, For each dog, within the kennel; Should the alder prove too feeble, Cast a band of purest copper; Should the copper prove a failure, Forge a band of ductile iron; Should the iron snap asunder, In each nose a small-ring fasten, Made of molten gold and silver, 519 Chain thy dogs in forest-caverns, That my herd may not be injured. Then the wife of Ilmarinen, Life-companion of the blacksmith, Opened all her yards and stables, Led her herd across the meadow, Placed them in the herdman's keeping, In the care of Kullerwoinen. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

237:The Kalevala - Rune Xlii CAPTURE OF THE SAMPO. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, With the reckless son of Lempo, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, On the sea's smooth plain departed, On the far-extending waters, To the village, cold and dreary, To the never-pleasant Northland, Where the heroes fall and perish. Ilmarinen led the rowers On one side the magic war-ship, And the reckless Lemminkainen Led the rowers on the other. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Laid his hand upon the rudder, Steered his vessel o'er the waters, Through the foam and angry billows To Pohyola's place of landing, To the cylinders of copper, Where the war-ships lie at anchor. When they had arrived at Pohya, When their journey they had ended, On the land they rolled their vessel, On the copper-banded rollers, Straightway journeyed to the village, Hastened to the halls and hamlets Of the dismal Sariola. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Thus addressed the stranger-heroes: Magic heroes of Wainola, What the tidings ye are bringing To the people of my village?' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel. Gave this answer to the hostess: 'All the hosts of Kalevala Are inquiring for the Sampo, 192 Asking for the lid in colors; Hither have these heroes journeyed To divide the priceless treasure. Thus the hostess spake in answer: 'No one would divide a partridge, Nor a squirrel, with three heroes; Wonderful the magic Sampo, Plenty does it bring to Northland; And the colored lid re-echoes From the copper-bearing mountains, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, To the joy of its possessors.' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: 'If thou wilt not share the Sampo, Give to us an equal portion, We will take it to Wainola, With its lid of many colors, Take by force the hope of Pohya.' Thereupon the Northland hostess Angry grew and sighed for vengeance; Called her people into council, Called the hosts of Sariola, Heroes with their trusted broadswords, To destroy old Wainamoinen With his people of the Northland. Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Hastened to his harp of fish-bone, And began his magic playing; All of Pohya stopped and listened, Every warrior was silenced By the notes of the magician; Peaceful-minded grew the soldiers, All the maidens danced with pleasure, While the heroes fell to weeping, And the young men looked in wonder. Wainamoinen plays unceasing, Plays the maidens into slumber, Plays to sleep the young and aged, All of Northland sleeps and listens. Wise and wondrous Wainamoinen, The eternal bard and singer, 193 Searches in his pouch of leather, Draws therefrom his slumber-arrows, Locks the eyelids of the sleepers, Of the heroes of Pohyola, Sings and charms to deeper slumber All the warriors of the Northland. Then the heroes of Wainola Hasten to obtain the Sampo, To procure the lid in colors From the copper-bearing mountains. From behind nine locks of copper, In the stone-berg of Pohyola. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Then began his wondrous singing, Sang in gentle tones of magic, At the entrance to the mountain, At the border of the stronghold; Trembled all the rocky portals, And the iron-banded pillars Fell and crumbled at his singing. Ilmarinen, magic blacksmith, Well anointed all the hinges, All the bars and locks anointed, And the bolts flew back by magic, All the gates unlocked in silence, Opened for the great magician. Spake the minstrel Wainamoinen: 'O thou daring Lemminkainen, Friend of mine in times of trouble, Enter thou within the mountain, Bring away the wondrous Sampo, Bring away the lid in colors!' Quick the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Ever ready for a venture, Hastens to the mountain-caverns, There to find the famous Sampo, There to get the lid in colors; Strides along with conscious footsteps, Thus himself he vainly praises: 'Great am I and full of glory, Wonder-hero, son of Ukko, 194 I will bring away the Sampo, Turn about the lid in colors, Turn it on its magic hinges!' Lemminkainen finds the wonder, Finds the Sampo in the mountain, Labors long with strength heroic, Tugs with might and main to turn it; Motionless remains the treasure, Deeper sinks the lid in colors, For the roots have grown about it, Grown nine fathoms deep in sand-earth. Lived a mighty ox in Northland, Powerful in bone and sinew, Beautiful in form and color, Horns the length of seven fathoms, Mouth and eyes of wondrous beauty. Lemminkainen, reckless hero, Harnesses the ox in pasture, Takes the master-plow of Pohya, Plows the roots about the Sampo, Plows around the lid in colors, And the sacred Sampo loosens, Falls the colored lid in silence. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Brings the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Brings the daring Lemminkainen, Lastly brings the magic Sampo, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain, Hides it in his waiting vessel, In the war-ship of Wainola. Wainamoinen called his people, Called his crew of men and maidens, Called together all his heroes, Rolled his vessel to the water, Into billowy deeps and dangers. Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Whither shall we take the Sampo, Whither take the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From this evil spot of Northland?' Wainamoinen, wise and faithful, 195 Gave this answer to the question: 'Thither shall we take the Sampo, Thither take the lid in colors, To the fog-point on the waters, To the island forest-covered; There the treasure may be hidden, May remain in peace for ages, Free from trouble, free from danger, Where the sword will not molest it.' Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Joyful, left the Pohya borders, Homeward sailed, and happy-hearted, Spake these measures on departing: 'Turn, O man-of-war, from Pohya, Turn thy back upon the strangers, Turn thou to my distant country! Rock, O winds, my magic vessel, Homeward drive my ship, O billows, Lend the rowers your assistance, Give the oarsmen easy labor, On this vast expanse of waters! Give me of thine oars, O Ahto, Lend thine aid, O King of sea-waves, Guide as with thy helm in safety, Lay thy hand upon the rudder, And direct our war-ship homeward; Let the hooks of metal rattle O'er the surging of the billows, On the white-capped waves' commotion.' Then the master, Wainamoinen, Guided home his willing vessel; And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, With the lively Lemminkainen, Led the mighty host of rowers, And the war-ship glided homeward O'er the sea's unruffled surface, O'er the mighty waste of waters. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Once before I rode these billows, There were viands for the heroes, There was singing for the maidens; But to-day I hear no singing, 196 Hear no songs upon the vessel, Hear no music on the waters.' Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus wild Lemminkainen: 'Let none sing upon the blue-sea, On the waters, no rejoicing; Singing would prolong our journey, Songs disturb the host of rowers; Soon will die the silver sunlight, Darkness soon will overtake us, On this evil waste of waters, On this blue-sea, smooth and level.' These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Time will fly on equal pinions Whether we have songs or silence; Soon will disappear the daylight, And the night as quickly follow, Whether we be sad or joyous.' Wainamoinen, the magician, O'er the blue backs of the billows, Steered one day, and then a second, Steered the third from morn till even, When the wizard, Lemminkainen, Once again addressed the master: 'Why wilt thou, O famous minstrel, Sing no longer for thy people, Since the Sampo thou hast captured, Captured too the lid in colors?' These the words of Wainamoinen: ''Tis not well to sing too early! Time enough for songs of joyance When we see our home-land mansions, When our journeyings have ended!' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'At the helm, if I were sitting, I would sing at morn and evening, Though my voice has little sweetness; Since thy songs are not forthcoming Listen to my wondrous singing!' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Raised his voice above the waters, 197 O'er the sea his song resounded; But his measures were discordant, And his notes were harsh and frightful. Sang the wizard, Lemminkainen, Screeched the reckless Kaukomieli, Till the mighty war-ship trembled; Far and wide was heard his singing, Heard his songs upon the waters, Heard within the seventh village, Heard beyond the seven oceans. Sat a crane within the rushes, On a hillock clothed in verdure, And the crane his toes was counting; Suddenly he heard the singing Of the wizard, Lemminkainen; And the bird was justly frightened At the songs of the magician. Then with horrid voice, and screeching, Flew the crane across the broad-sea To the lakes of Sariola, O'er Pohyola's hills and hamlets, Screeching, screaming, over Northland, Till the people of the darkness Were awakened from their slumbers. Louhi hastens to her hurdles, Hastens to her droves of cattle, Hastens also to her garners, Counts her herds, inspects her store-house; Undisturbed she finds her treasures. Quick she journeys to the entrance To the copper-bearing mountain, Speaks these words as she approaches: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, Woe to Louhi, broken-hearted! Here the tracks of the destroyers, All my locks and bolts are broken By the hands of cruel strangers! Broken are my iron hinges, Open stand the mountain-portals Leading to the Northland-treasure. Has Pohyola lost her Sampo?' Then she hastened to the chambers 198 Where the Sampo had been grinding; But she found the chambers empty, Lid and Sampo gone to others, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From behind nine locks of copper, In the copper-bearing mountain. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Angry grew and cried for vengeance; As she found her fame departing, Found her-strength fast disappearing, Thus addressed the sea-fog virgin: 'Daughter of the morning-vapors, Sift thy fogs from distant cloud-land, Sift the thick air from the heavens, Sift thy vapors from the ether, On the blue-back of the broad-sea, On the far extending waters, That the ancient Wainamoinen, Friend of ocean-wave and billow, May not baffle his pursuers! 'Should this prayer prove unavailing, Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Raise thy head above the billows, And destroy Wainola's heroes, Sink them to thy deep sea-castles, There devour them at thy pleasure; Bring thou back the golden Sampo To the people of Pohyola! 'Should these words be ineffective, Ukko, mightiest of rulers, Golden king beyond the welkin, Sitting on a throne of silver, Fill thy skies with heavy storm-clouds, Call thy fleetest winds about thee, Send them o'er the seven broad-seas, There to find the fleeing vessel, That the ancient Wainamoinen May not baffle his pursuers!' Quick the virgin of the vapors Breathed a fog upon the waters, Made it settle on the war-ship Of the, heroes of the Northland, 199 Held the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Anchored in the fog and darkness; Bound him one day, then a second, Then a third till dawn of morning, In the middle of the blue-sea, Whence he could not flee in safety From the wrath of his pursuers. When the third night had departed, Resting in the sea, and helpless, Wainamoinen spake as follows, 'Not a man of strength and courage, Not the weakest of the heroes, Who upon the sea will suffer, Sink and perish in the vapors, Perish in the fog and darkness!' With his sword he smote the billows, From his magic blade flowed honey; Quick the vapor breaks, and rises, Leaves the waters clear for rowing; Far extend the sky and waters, Large the ring of the horizon, And the troubled sea enlarges. Time had journeyed little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, When they heard a mighty roaring, Heard a roaring and a rushing Near the border of the vessel, Where the foam was shooting skyward O'er the boat of Wainamoinen. Straightway youthful Ilmarinen Sank in gravest apprehension, From his cheeks the blood departed; Pulled his cap down o'er his forehead, Shook and trembled with emotion. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Casts his eyes upon the waters Near the broad rim of his war-ship; There perceives an ocean-wonder With his head above the sea-foam. Wainamoinen, brave and mighty, Seizes quick the water-monster, Lifts him by his ears and questions: 200 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Why art rising from the blue-sea? Wherefore dost thou leave thy castle, Show thyself to mighty heroes, To the heroes of Wainola?' Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Ocean monster, manifested Neither pleasure, nor displeasure, Was not in the least affrighted, Did not give the hero answer. Whereupon the ancient minstrel, Asked the second time the monster, Urgently inquired a third time: 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Why art rising from the waters, Wherefore dost thou leave the blue-sea? Iku-Turso gave this answer: For this cause I left my castle Underneath the rolling billows: Came I here with the intention To destroy the Kalew-heroes, And return the magic Sampo To the people of Pohyola. If thou wilt restore my freedom, Spare my life, from pain and sorrow, I will quick retrace my journey, Nevermore to show my visage To the people of Wainola, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the hills of Kalevala!' Then the singer, Wainamoinen, Freed the monster, Iku-Turso, Sent him to his deep sea-castles, Spake these words to him departing: 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Nevermore arise from ocean, Nevermore let Northland-heroes See thy face above the waters I Nevermore has Iku-Turso Risen to the ocean-level; Never since have Northland sailors Seen the head of this sea-monster. 201 Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Onward rowed his goodly vessel, Journeyed but a little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, When the King of all creators, Mighty Ukko of the heavens, Made the winds blow full of power, Made the storms arise in fury, Made them rage upon the waters. From the west the winds came roaring, From the north-east came in anger, Winds came howling from the south-west, Came the winds from all directions, In their fury, rolling, roaring, Tearing branches from the lindens, Hurling needles from the pine-trees, Blowing flowers from the heather, Grasses blowing from the meadow, Tearing up the very bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea. Roared the winds and lashed the waters Till the waves were white with fury; Tossed the war-ship high in ether, Tossed away the harp of fish-bone, Magic harp of Wainamoinen, To the joy of King Wellamo, To the pleasure of his people, To the happiness of Ahto, Ahto, rising from his caverns, On the floods beheld his people Carry off the harp of magic To their home below the billows. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 'I have lost what I created, I have lost the harp of joyance; Now my strength has gone to others, All my pleasure too departed, All my hope and comfort vanished! Nevermore the harp of fish-bone Will enchant the hosts of Suomi!' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, 202 Sorrow-laden, spake as follows: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Would that I had never journeyed On these waters filled with dangers, On the rolling waste before me, In this war-ship false and feeble. Winds and storms have I encountered, Wretched days of toil and trouble, I have witnessed in the Northland; Never have I met such dangers On the land, nor on the ocean, Never in my hero life-time!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake and these the words he uttered: 'Weep no more, my goodly comrades, In my bark let no one murmur; Weeping cannot mend disaster, Tears can never still misfortune, Mourning cannot save from evil. 'Sea, command thy warring forces, Bid thy children cease their fury! Ahto, still thy surging billows! Sink, Wellamo, to thy slumber, That our boat may move in safety. Rise, ye storm-winds, to your kingdoms, Lift your heads above the waters, To the regions of your kindred, To your people and dominions; Cut the trees within the forest, Bend the lindens of the valley, Let our vessel sail in safety!' Then the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome wizard, Kaukomieli, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, O eagle, Turyalander, Bring three feathers from thy pinions, Three, O raven, three, O eagle, To protect this bark from evil!' All the heroes of Wainola Call their forces to the rescue, And repair the sinking vessel. By the aid of master-magic, 203 Wainamoinen saved his war-ship, Saved his people from destruction, Well repaired his ship to battle With the roughest seas of Northland; Steers his mighty boat in safety Through the perils of the whirlpool, Through the watery deeps and dangers. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

238:The Kalevala - Rune X ILMARINEN FORGES THE SAMPO. Wainamoinen, the magician, Takes his steed of copper color, Hitches quick his fleet-foot courser, Puts his racer to the snow-sledge, Straightway springs upon the cross-seat, Snaps his whip adorned with jewels. Like the winds the steed flies onward, Like a lightning flash, the racer Makes the snow-sledge creak and rattle, Makes the highway quickly vanish, Dashes on through fen and forest, Over hills and through the valleys, Over marshes, over mountains, Over fertile plains and meadows; Journeys one day, then a second, So a third from morn till evening, Till the third day evening brings him To the endless bridge of Osmo, To the Osmo-fields and pastures, To the plains of Kalevala; When the hero spake as follows: 'May the wolves devour the dreamer, Eat the Laplander for dinner, May disease destroy the braggart, Him who said that I should never See again my much-loved home-land, Nevermore behold my kindred, Never during all my life-time, Never while the sunshine brightens, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala.' Then began old Wainamoinen, Ancient bard and famous singer, To renew his incantations; Sang aloft a wondrous pine-tree, 114 Till it pierced the clouds in growing With its golden top and branches, Till it touched the very heavens, Spread its branches in the ether, In the ever-shining sunlight. Now he sings again enchanting, Sings the Moon to shine forever In the fir-tree's emerald branches; In its top he sings the Great Bear. Then be quickly journeys homeward, Hastens to his golden portals, Head awry and visage wrinkled, Crooked cap upon his forehead, Since as ransom he had promised Ilmarinen, magic artist, Thus to save his life from torture On the distant fields of Northland In the dismal Sariola. When his stallion he had halted On the Osmo-field and meadow, Quickly rising in his snow-sledge, The magician heard one knocking, Breaking coal within the smithy, Beating with a heavy hammer. Wainamoinen, famous minstrel, Entering the smithy straightway, Found the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Knocking with his copper hammer. Ilmarinen spake as follows: 'Welcome, brother Wainamoinen, Old and worthy Wainamoinen! Why so long hast thou been absent, Where hast thou so long been hiding?' Wainamoinen then made answer, These the words of the magician: 'Long indeed have I been living, Many dreary days have wandered, Many cheerless nights have lingered, Floating on the cruel ocean, Weeping in the fens and woodlands Of the never-pleasant Northland, In the dismal Sariola; 115 With the Laplanders I've wandered, With the people filled with witchcraft.' Promptly answers Ilmarinen, These the words the blacksmith uses: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Famous and eternal singer, Tell me of thy journey northward, Of thy wanderings in Lapland, Of thy dismal journey homeward.' Spake the minstrel, Wainamoinen: 'I have much to tell thee, brother, Listen to my wondrous story: In the Northland lives a virgin, In a village there, a maiden, That will not accept a lover, That a hero's hand refuses, That a wizard's heart disdaineth; All of Northland sings her praises, Sings her worth and magic beauty, Fairest maiden of Pohyola, Daughter of the earth and ocean. From her temples beams the moonlight, From her breast, the gleam of sunshine, From her forehead shines the rainbow, On her neck, the seven starlets, And the Great Bear from her shoulder. 'Ilmarinen, worthy brother, Thou the only skilful blacksmith, Go and see her wondrous beauty, See her gold and silver garments, See her robed in finest raiment, See her sitting on the rainbow, Walking on the clouds of purple. Forge for her the magic Sampo, Forge the lid in many colors, Thy reward shall be the virgin, Thou shalt win this bride of beauty; Go and bring the lovely maiden To thy home in Kalevala.' Spake the brother, Ilmarinen: O thou cunning Wainamoinen, Thou hast promised me already 116 To the ever-darksome Northland, Thy devoted head to ransom, Thus to rescue thee from trouble. I shall never visit Northland, Shall not go to see thy maiden, Do not love the Bride of Beauty; Never while the moonlight glimmers, Shall I go to dreary Pohya, To the plains of Sariola, Where the people eat each other, Sink their heroes in the ocean, Not for all the maids of Lapland.' Spake the brother, Wainamoinen: 'I can tell thee greater wonders, Listen to my wondrous story: I have seen the fir-tree blossom, Seen its flowers with emerald branches, On the Osmo-fields and woodlands; In its top, there shines the moonlight, And the Bear lives in its branches.' Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'I cannot believe thy story, Cannot trust thy tale of wonder, Till I see the blooming fir-tree, With its many emerald branches, With its Bear and golden moonlight.' This is Wainamoinen's answer: 'Wilt thou not believe my story? Come with me and I will show thee If my lips speak fact or fiction.' Quick they journey to discover, Haste to view the wondrous fir-tree; Wainamoinen leads the journey, Ilmarinen closely follows. As they near the Osmo-borders, Ilmarinen hastens forward That be may behold the wonder, Spies the Bear Within the fir-top, Sitting on its emerald branches, Spies the gleam of golden moonlight. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, These the words the singer uttered: 117 Climb this tree, dear Ilmarinen, And bring down the golden moonbeams, Bring the Moon and Bear down with thee From the fir-tree's lofty branches.' Ilmarinen, full consenting, Straightway climbed the golden fir-tree, High upon the bow of heaven, Thence to bring the golden moonbeams, Thence to bring the Bear of heaven, From the fir-tree's topmost branches. Thereupon the blooming fir-tree Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou senseless, thoughtless hero, Thou hast neither wit nor instinct; Thou dost climb my golden branches, Like a thing of little judgment, Thus to get my pictured moonbeams, Take away my silver starlight, Steal my Bear and blooming branches.' Quick as thought old Wainamoinen Sang again in magic accents, Sang a storm-wind in the heavens, Sang the wild winds into fury, And the singer spake as follows: `Take, O storm-wind, take the forgeman, Carry him within thy vessel, Quickly hence, and land the hero On the ever-darksome Northland, On the dismal Sariola.' Now the storm-wind quickly darkens, Quickly piles the air together, Makes of air a sailing vessel, Takes the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Fleetly from the fir-tree branches, Toward the never-pleasant Northland, Toward the dismal Sariola. Through the air sailed Ilmarinen, Fast and far the hero travelled, Sweeping onward, sailing northward, Riding in the track of storm-winds, O'er the Moon, beneath the sunshine, On the broad back of the Great Bear, 118 Till he neared Pohyola's woodlands, Neared the homes of Sariola, And alighted undiscovered, Was Dot noticed by the hunters, Was not scented by the watch-dogs. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, toothless dame of Northland, Standing in the open court-yard, Thus addresses Ilmarinen, As she spies the hero-stranger: 'Who art thou of ancient heroes, Who of all the host of heroes, Coming here upon the storm-wind, O'er the sledge-path of the ether, Scented not by Pohya's watch-dogs? This is Ilmarinen's answer: 'I have surely not come hither To be barked at by the watch-dogs, At these unfamiliar portals, At the gates of Sariola.' Thereupon the Northland hostess Asks again the hero-stranger: 'Hast thou ever been acquainted With the blacksmith of Wainola, With the hero, Ilmarinen, With the skilful smith and artist? Long I've waited for his coming, Long this one has been expected, On the borders of the Northland, Here to forge for me the Sampo.' Spake the hero, Ilmarinen: 'Well indeed am I acquainted With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, I myself am Ilmarinen, I, the skilful smith and artist.' Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Toothless dame of Sariola, Straightway rushes to her dwelling, These the words that Louhi utters: 'Come, thou youngest of my daughters, Come, thou fairest of my maidens, Dress thyself in finest raiment, 119 Deck thy hair with rarest jewels, Pearls upon thy swelling bosom, On thy neck, a golden necklace, Bind thy head with silken ribbons, Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, And thy visage fair and winsome, Since the artist, Ilmarinen, Hither comes from Kalevala, Here to forge for us the Sampo, Hammer us the lid in colors.' Now the daughter of the Northland, Honored by the land and water, Straightway takes her choicest raiment, Takes her dresses rich in beauty, Finest of her silken wardrobe, Now adjusts her silken fillet, On her brow a band of copper, Round her waist a golden girdle, Round her neck a pearly necklace, Shining gold upon her bosom, In her hair the threads of silver. From her dressing-room she hastens, To the hall she bastes and listens, Full of beauty, full of joyance, Ears erect and eyes bright-beaming, Ruddy cheeks and charming visage, Waiting for the hero-stranger. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Leads the hero, Ilmarinen, To her dwelling-rooms in Northland, To her home in Sariola, Seats him at her well-filled table, Gives to him the finest viands, Gives him every needed comfort, Then addresses him as follows: 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Master of the forge and smithy, Canst thou forge for me the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, 120 From the finest wool of lambkins? Thou shalt have my fairest daughter, Recompense for this thy service.' These the words of Ilmarinen: 'I will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins? Since I forged the arch of heaven, Forged the air a concave cover, Ere the earth had a beginning.' Thereupon the magic blacksmith Went to forge the wondrous Sampo, Went to find a blacksmith's workshop, Went to find the tools to work with; But he found no place for forging, Found no smithy, found no bellows, Found no chimney, found no anvil, Found no tongs, and found no hammer. Then the-artist, Ilmarinen. Spake these words, soliloquizing: 'Only women grow discouraged, Only knaves leave work unfinished, Not the devils, nor the heroes, Nor the Gods of greater knowledge.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Sought a place to build a smithy, Sought a place to plant a bellows, On the borders of the Northland, On the Pohya-hills and meadows; Searched one day, and then a second; Ere the evening of the third day, Came a rock within his vision, Came a stone with rainbow-colors. There the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Set at work to build his smithy, Built a fire and raised a chimney; On the next day laid his bellows, On the third day built his furnace, And began to forge the Sampo. 121 The eternal magic artist, Ancient blacksmith, Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Mixed together certain metals, Put the mixture in the caldron, Laid it deep within the furnace, Called the hirelings to the forging. Skilfully they work the bellows, Tend the fire and add the fuel, Three most lovely days of summer, Three short nights of bright midsummer, Till the rocks begin to blossom, In the foot-prints of the workmen, From the magic heat and furnace. On the first day, Ilmarinen Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of his furnace, Thus to see what might be forming From the magic fire and metals. From the fire arose a cross-bow, 'With the brightness of the moonbeams, Golden bow with tips of silver; On the shaft was shining copper, And the bow was strong and wondrous, But alas! it was ill-natured, Asking for a hero daily, Two the heads it asked on feast-days. Ilmarinen, skilful artist, Was not pleased with this creation, Broke the bow in many pieces, Threw them back within the furnace, Kept the workmen at the bellows, Tried to forge the magic Sampo. On the second day, the blacksmith Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of the furnace; From the fire, a skiff of metals, Came a boat of purple color, All the ribs were colored golden, And the oars were forged from copper; Thus the skiff was full of beauty, But alas! a thing of evil; 122 Forth it rushes into trouble, Hastens into every quarrel, Hastes without a provocation Into every evil combat. Ilmarinen, metal artist, Is not pleased with this creation, Breaks the skiff in many fragments, Throws them back within the furnace, Keeps the workmen at the bellows, Thus to forge the magic Sampo. On the third day, Ilmarinen, First of all the metal-workers, Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of the furnace; There be saw a heifer rising, Golden were the horns of Kimmo, On her head the Bear of heaven, On her brow a disc of sunshine, Beautiful the cow of magic; But alas! she is ill-tempered, Rushes headlong through the forest, Rushes through the swamps and meadows, Wasting all her milk in running. Ilmarinen, the magician. Is not pleased with this creation, Cuts the magic cow in pieces, Throws them in the fiery furnace, Sets the workmen at the bellows, Thus to forge the magic Sampo. On the fourth day, Ilmarinen Downward bent and well examined, To the bottom of the furnace; There beheld a plow in beauty Rising from the fire of metals, Golden was the point and plowshare, And the beam was forged from copper, And the handles, molten silver, Beautiful the plow and wondrous; But alas! it is ill-mannered, Plows up fields of corn and barley, Furrows through the richest meadows. Ilmarinen, metal artist, 123 Is not pleased with this creation, Quickly breaks the plow in pieces, Throws them back within the furnace, Lets the winds attend the bellows, Lets the storm-winds fire the metals. Fiercely vie the winds of heaven, East-wind rushing, West-wind roaring, South-wind crying, North-wind howling, Blow one day and then a second, Blow the third from morn till even, When the fire leaps through the windows, Through the door the sparks fly upward, Clouds of smoke arise to heaven; With the clouds the black smoke mingles, As the storm-winds ply the bellows. On the third night Ilmarinen, Bending low to view his metals, On the bottom of the furnace, Sees the magic Sampo rising, Sees the lid in many colors. Quick the artist of Wainola Forges with the tongs and anvil, Knocking with a heavy hammer, Forges skilfully the Sampo; On one side the flour is grinding, On another salt is making, On a third is money forging, And the lid is many-colored. Well the Sampo grinds when finished, To and fro the lid in rocking, Grinds one measure at the day-break, Grinds a measure fit for eating, Grinds a second for the market, Grinds a third one for the store-house. Joyfully the dame of Northland, Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Takes away the magic Sampo, To the hills of Sariola, To the copper-bearing mountains, Puts nine locks upon the wonder, Makes three strong roots creep around it; In the earth they grow nine fathoms, 124 One large root beneath the mountain, One beneath the sandy sea-bed, One beneath the mountain-dwelling. Modestly pleads Ilmarinen For the maiden's willing answer, These the words of the magician: 'Wilt thou come with me, fair maiden, Be my wife and queen forever? I have forged for thee the Sampo, Forged the lid in many colors.' Northland's fair and lovely daughter Answers thus the metal-worker: 'Who will in the coming spring-time, Who will in the second summer, Guide the cuckoo's song and echo? Who will listen to his calling, Who will sing with him in autumn, Should I go to distant regions, Should this cheery maiden vanish From the fields of Sariola, From Pohyola's fens and forests, Where the cuckoo sings and echoes? Should I leave my father's dwelling, Should my mother's berry vanish, Should these mountains lose their cherry, Then the cuckoo too would vanish, All the birds would leave the forest, Leave the summit of the mountain, Leave my native fields and woodlands, Never shall I, in my life-time, Say farewell to maiden freedom, Nor to summer cares and labors, Lest the harvest be ungarnered, Lest the berries be ungathered, Lest the song-birds leave the forest, Lest the mermaids leave the waters, Lest I sing with them no longer.' Ilmarinen, the magician, The eternal metal-forger, Cap awry and head dejected, Disappointed, heavy-hearted, Empty-handed, well considers, 125 How to reach his distant country, Reach his much-loved home and kinded, Gain the meadows of Wainola, From the never-pleasant Northland, From the darksome Sariola. Louhi thus addressed the suitor: 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Why art thou so heavy-hearted, Why thy visage so dejected? Hast thou in thy mind to journey From the vales and hills of Pohya, To the meadows of Wainola, To thy home in Kalevala? This is Ilmarinen's answer: 'Thitherward my mind is tending, To my home-land let me journey, With my kindred let me linger, Be at rest in mine own country.' Straightway Louhi, dame of Northland, Gave the hero every comfort, Gave him food and rarest viands, Placed him in a boat of copper, In a copper-banded vessel, Called the winds to his assistance, Made the North-wind guide him homeward. Thus the skilful Ilmarinen Travels toward his native country, On the blue back of the waters, Travels one day, then a second, Till the third day evening brings him To Wainola's peaceful meadows, To his home in Kalevala. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Thus addresses Ilmarinen: 'O my brother, metal-artist, Thou eternal wonder-worker, Didst thou forge the magic Sampo, Forge the lid in many colors?' Spake the brother, Ilmarinen, These the words the master uttered: 'Yea, I forged the magic Sampo, Forged the lid in many colors; 126 To and fro the lid in rocking Grinds one measure at the day-dawn, Grinds a measure fit for eating, Grinds a second for the market, Grinds a third one for the store-house. Louhi has the wondrous Sampo, I have not the Bride of Beauty.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

239:The Ghost - Book I With eager search to dart the soul, Curiously vain, from pole to pole, And from the planets' wandering spheres To extort the number of our years, And whether all those years shall flow Serenely smooth, and free from woe, Or rude misfortune shall deform Our life with one continual storm; Or if the scene shall motley be. Alternate joy and misery, Is a desire which, more or less. All men must feel, though few confess. Hence, every place and every age Affords subsistence to the sage, Who, free from this world and its cares, Holds an acquaintance with the stars, From whom he gains intelligence Of things to come some ages hence, Which unto friends, at easy rates. He readily communicates. At its first rise, which all agree on, This noble science was Chaldean; That ancient people, as they fed Their flocks upon the mountain's head, Gazed on the stars, observed their motions, And suck'd in astrologic notions, Which they so eagerly pursue, As folks are apt whate'er is new, That things below at random rove, Whilst they're consulting things above; And when they now so poor were grown, That they'd no houses of their own, They made bold with their friends the stars, And prudently made use of theirs. To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd, And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd: The exotic science soon struck root, And flourish'd into high repute. Each learned priest, oh strange to tell! 177 Could circles make, and cast a spell; Could read and write, and taught the nation The holy art of divination. Nobles themselves, for at that time Knowledge in nobles was no crime, Could talk as learned as the priest, And prophesy as much, at least. Hence all the fortune-telling crew, Whose crafty skill mars Nature's hue, Who, in vile tatters, with smirch'd face, Run up and down from place to place, To gratify their friends' desires, From Bampfield Carew, to Moll Squires, Are rightly term'd Egyptians all; Whom we, mistaking, Gypsies call. The Grecian sages borrow'd this, As they did other sciences, From fertile Egypt, though the loan They had not honesty to own. Dodona's oaks, inspired by Jove, A learned and prophetic grove, Turn'd vegetable necromancers, And to all comers gave their answers. At Delphos, to Apollo dear, All men the voice of Fate might hear; Each subtle priest on three-legg'd stool, To take in wise men, play'd the fool. A mystery, so made for gain, E'en now in fashion must remain; Enthusiasts never will let drop What brings such business to their shop; And that great saint we Whitefield call, Keeps up the humbug spiritual. Among the Romans, not a bird Without a prophecy was heard; Fortunes of empires often hung On the magician magpie's tongue, And every crow was to the state A sure interpreter of Fate. Prophets, embodied in a college (Time out of mind your seat of knowledge; For genius never fruit can bear 178 Unless it first is planted there, And solid learning never falls Without the verge of college walls) Infallible accounts would keep When it was best to watch or sleep, To eat or drink, to go or stay, And when to fight or run away; When matters were for action ripe, By looking at a double tripe; When emperors would live or die, They in an ass's skull could spy; When generals would their station keep, Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep. In matters, whether small or great, In private families or state As amongst us, the holy seer Officiously would interfere; With pious arts and reverend skill Would bend lay bigots to his will; Would help or injure foes or friends, Just as it served his private ends. Whether in honest way of trade Traps for virginity were laid; Or if, to make their party great, Designs were form'd against the state, Regardless of the common weal, By interest led, which they call zeal, Into the scale was always thrown The will of Heaven to back their own. England--a happy land we know, Where follies naturally grow, Where without culture they arise And tower above the common size; England, a fortune-telling host, As numerous as the stars, could boast,-Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea, Who, versed in every modest lore, Can a lost maidenhead restore, Or, if their pupils rather choose it, Can show the readiest way to lose it; Gypsies, who every ill can cure, 179 Except the ill of being poor, Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepared by arts, to them best known, To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it As easily as pick a pocket; Scotchmen, who, in their country's right, Possess the gift of second-sight, Who (when their barren heaths they quit, Sure argument of prudent wit, Which reputation to maintain, They never venture back again) By lies prophetic heap up riches, And boast the luxury of breeches. Amongst the rest, in former years, Campbell (illustrious name!) appears, Great hero of futurity, Who, blind, could every thing foresee, Who, dumb, could every thing foretell, Who, Fate with equity to sell, Always dealt out the will of Heaven According to what price was given. Of Scottish race, in Highlands born, Possess'd with native pride and scorn, He hither came, by custom led, To curse the hands which gave him bread. With want of truth, and want of sense, Amply made up by impudence (A succedaneum, which we find In common use with all mankind); Caress'd and favour'd too by those Whose heart with patriot feelings glows, Who foolishly, where'er dispersed, Still place their native country first; (For Englishmen alone have sense To give a stranger preference, Whilst modest merit of their own Is left in poverty to groan) Campbell foretold just what he would, And left the stars to make it good, On whom he had impress'd such awe, 180 His dictates current pass'd for law; Submissive, all his empire own'd; No star durst smile, when Campbell frown'd. This sage deceased,--for all must die, And Campbell's no more safe than I, No more than I can guard the heart, When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,-Succeeded, ripe in art and years, Another favourite of the spheres; Another and another came, Of equal skill, and equal fame; As white each wand, as black each gown, As long each beard, as wise each frown, In every thing so like, you'd swear Campbell himself was sitting there: To all the happy art was known, To tell our fortunes, make their own. Seated in garret,--for, you know, The nearer to the stars we go The greater we esteem his art,-Fools, curious, flock'd from every part; The rich, the poor, the maid, the married, And those who could not walk, were carried. The butler, hanging down his head, By chambermaid, or cookmaid led, Inquires, if from his friend the Moon He has advice of pilfer'd spoon. The court-bred woman of condition, (Who, to approve her disposition As much superior as her birth To those composed of common earth, With double spirit must engage In every folly of the age) The honourable arts would buy, To pack the cards, and cog a die. The hero--who, for brawn and face, May claim right honourable place Amongst the chiefs of Butcher-row: Who might, some thirty years ago, If we may be allow'd to guess At his employment by his dress, Put medicines off from cart or stage, 181 The grand Toscano of the age; Or might about the country go High-steward of a puppet-show,-Steward and stewardship most meet, For all know puppets never eat: Who would be thought (though, save the mark! That point is something in the dark) The man of honour, one like those Renown'd in story, who loved blows Better than victuals, and would fight, Merely for sport, from morn to night: Who treads like Mavors firm, whose tongue Is with the triple thunder hung, Who cries to Fear, 'Stand off--aloof,' And talks as he were cannon-proof; Would be deem'd ready, when you list, With sword and pistol, stick and fist, Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks, At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box, But at the same time bears about, Within himself, some touch of doubt, Of prudent doubt, which hints--that fame Is nothing but an empty name; That life is rightly understood By all to be a real good; That, even in a hero's heart, Discretion is the better part; That this same honour may be won, And yet no kind of danger run-Like Drugger comes, that magic powers May ascertain his lucky hours; For at some hours the fickle dame, Whom Fortune properly we name, Who ne'er considers wrong or right, When wanted most, plays least in sight, And, like a modern court-bred jilt, Leaves her chief favourites in a tilt. Some hours there are, when from the heart Courage into some other part, No matter wherefore, makes retreat, And Fear usurps the vacant seat; Whence, planet-struck, we often find 182 Stuarts and Sackvilles of mankind. Farther, he'd know (and by his art A conjurer can that impart) Whether politer it is reckon'd To have, or not to have, a second; To drag the friends in, or alone To make the danger all their own; Whether repletion is not bad, And fighters with full stomachs mad; Whether, before he seeks the plain, It were not well to breathe a vein; Whether a gentle salivation, Consistently with reputation, Might not of precious use be found, Not to prevent, indeed, a wound, But to prevent the consequence Which oftentimes arises thence, Those fevers, which the patient urge on To gates of death, by help of surgeon; Whether a wind at east or west Is for green wounds accounted best; Whether (was he to choose) his mouth Should point towards the north or south; Whether more safely he might use, On these occasions, pumps or shoes; Whether it better is to fight By sunshine or by candlelight; Or, lest a candle should appear Too mean to shine in such a sphere, For who could of a candle tell To light a hero into hell; And, lest the sun should partial rise To dazzle one or t'other's eyes, Or one or t'other's brains to scorch, Might not Dame Luna hold a torch? These points with dignity discuss'd, And gravely fix'd,--a task which must Require no little time and pains, To make our hearts friends with our brains,-The man of war would next engage The kind assistance of the sage, Some previous method to direct, 183 Which should make these of none effect. Could he not, from the mystic school Of Art, produce some sacred rule, By which a knowledge might be got Whether men valiant were, or not; So he that challenges might write Only to those who would not fight? Or could he not some way dispense By help of which (without offence To Honour, whose nice nature's such She scarce endures the slightest touch) When he, for want of t'other rule, Mistakes his man, and, like a fool, With some vain fighting blade gets in, He fairly may get out again? Or should some demon lay a scheme To drive him to the last extreme, So that he must confess his fears, In mercy to his nose and ears, And like a prudent recreant knight, Rather do anything than fight, Could he not some expedient buy To keep his shame from public eye? For well he held,--and, men review, Nine in ten hold the maxim too,-That honour's like a maidenhead, Which, if in private brought to bed, Is none the worse, but walks the town, Ne'er lost, until the loss be known. The parson, too, (for now and then Parsons are just like other men, And here and there a grave divine Has passions such as yours and mine) Burning with holy lust to know When Fate preferment will bestow, 'Fraid of detection, not of sin, With circumspection sneaking in To conjurer, as he does to whore, Through some bye-alley or back-door, With the same caution orthodox Consults the stars, and gets a pox. The citizen, in fraud grown old, 184 Who knows no deity but gold, Worn out, and gasping now for breath, A medicine wants to keep off death; Would know, if that he cannot have, What coins are current in the grave; If, when the stocks (which, by his power, Would rise or fall in half an hour; For, though unthought of and unseen, He work'd the springs behind the screen) By his directions came about, And rose to par, he should sell out; Whether he safely might, or no, Replace it in the funds below? By all address'd, believed, and paid, Many pursued the thriving trade, And, great in reputation grown, Successive held the magic throne. Favour'd by every darling passion, The love of novelty and fashion, Ambition, avarice, lust, and pride, Riches pour'd in on every side. But when the prudent laws thought fit To curb this insolence of wit; When senates wisely had provided, Decreed, enacted, and decided, That no such vile and upstart elves Should have more knowledge than themselves; When fines and penalties were laid To stop the progress of the trade, And stars no longer could dispense, With honour, further influence; And wizards (which must be confess'd Was of more force than all the rest) No certain way to tell had got Which were informers, and which not; Affrighted sages were, perforce, Obliged to steer some other course. By various ways, these sons of Chance Their fortunes labour'd to advance, Well knowing, by unerring rules, Knaves starve not in the land of fools. Some, with high titles and degrees, 185 Which wise men borrow when they please, Without or trouble, or expense, Physicians instantly commence, And proudly boast an Equal skill With those who claim the right to kill. Others about the country roam, (For not one thought of going home) With pistol and adopted leg, Prepared at once to rob or beg. Some, the more subtle of their race, (Who felt some touch of coward grace, Who Tyburn to avoid had wit, But never fear'd deserving it) Came to their brother Smollett's aid, And carried on the critic trade. Attach'd to letters and the Muse, Some verses wrote, and some wrote news; Those each revolving month are seen, The heroes of a magazine; These, every morning, great appear In Ledger, or in Gazetteer, Spreading the falsehoods of the day, By turns for Faden and for Say. Like Swiss, their force is always laid On that side where they best are paid: Hence mighty prodigies arise, And daily monsters strike our eyes; Wonders, to propagate the trade, More strange than ever Baker made, Are hawk'd about from street to street, And fools believe, whilst liars eat. Now armies in the air engage, To fright a superstitious age; Now comets through the ether range, In governments portending change; Now rivers to the ocean fly So quick, they leave their channels dry; Now monstrous whales on Lambeth shore Drink the Thames dry, and thirst for more; And every now and then appears An Irish savage, numbering years More than those happy sages could 186 Who drew their breath before the flood; Now, to the wonder of all people, A church is left without a steeple; A steeple now is left in lurch, And mourns departure of the church, Which, borne on wings of mighty wind, Removed a furlong off we find; Now, wrath on cattle to discharge, Hailstones as deadly fall, and large, As those which were on Egypt sent, At once their crime and punishment; Or those which, as the prophet writes, Fell on the necks of Amorites, When, struck with wonder and amaze, The sun, suspended, stay'd to gaze, And, from her duty longer kept, In Ajalon his sister slept. But if such things no more engage The taste of a politer age, To help them out in time of need Another Tofts must rabbits breed: Each pregnant female trembling hears, And, overcome with spleen and fears, Consults her faithful glass no more, But, madly bounding o'er the floor, Feels hairs all o'er her body grow, By Fancy turn'd into a doe. Now, to promote their private ends, Nature her usual course suspends, And varies from the stated plan Observed e'er since the world began. Bodies--which foolishly we thought, By Custom's servile maxims taught, Needed a regular supply, And without nourishment must die-With craving appetites, and sense Of hunger easily dispense, And, pliant to their wondrous skill, Are taught, like watches, to stand still, Uninjured, for a month or more, Then go on as they did before. The novel takes, the tale succeeds, 187 Amply supplies its author's needs, And Betty Canning is at least, With Gascoyne's help, a six months' feast. Whilst, in contempt of all our pains, The tyrant Superstition reigns Imperious in the heart of man, And warps his thoughts from Nature's plan; Whilst fond Credulity, who ne'er The weight of wholesome doubts could bear, To Reason and herself unjust, Takes all things blindly upon trust; Whilst Curiosity, whose rage No mercy shows to sex or age, Must be indulged at the expense Of judgment, truth, and common sense, Impostures cannot but prevail; And when old miracles grow stale, Jugglers will still the art pursue, And entertain the world with new. For them, obedient to their will, And trembling at their mighty skill, Sad spirits, summon'd from the tomb, Glide, glaring ghastly, through the gloom; In all the usual pomp of storms, In horrid customary forms, A wolf, a bear, a horse, an ape, As Fear and Fancy give them shape, Tormented with despair and pain, They roar, they yell, and clank the chain. Folly and Guilt (for Guilt, howe'er The face of Courage it may wear, Is still a coward at the heart) At fear-created phantoms start. The priest--that very word implies That he's both innocent and wise-Yet fears to travel in the dark, Unless escorted by his clerk. But let not every bungler deem Too lightly of so deep a scheme; For reputation of the art, Each ghost must act a proper part, Observe Decorum's needful grace, 188 And keep the laws of Time and Place; Must change, with happy variation, His manners with his situation; What in the country might pass down, Would be impertinent in town. No spirit of discretion here Can think of breeding awe and fear; 'Twill serve the purpose more by half To make the congregation laugh. We want no ensigns of surprise, Locks stiff with gore, and saucer eyes; Give us an entertaining sprite, Gentle, familiar, and polite, One who appears in such a form As might an holy hermit warm, Or who on former schemes refines, And only talks by sounds and signs, Who will not to the eye appear, But pays her visits to the ear, And knocks so gently, 't would not fright A lady in the darkest night. Such is our Fanny, whose good-will, Which cannot in the grave lie still, Brings her on earth to entertain Her friends and lovers in Cock-lane. ~ Charles Churchill,

240:The Kalevala - Rune Xlvi OTSO THE HONEY-EATER. Came the tidings to Pohyola, To the village of the Northland, That Wainola had recovered From her troubles and misfortunes, From her sicknesses and sorrows. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Toothless dame of Sariola, Envy-laden, spake these measures: 'Know I other means of trouble, I have many more resources; I will drive the bear before me, From the heather and the mountain, Drive him from the fen and forest, Drive great Otso from the glen-wood On the cattle of Wainola, On the flocks of Kalevala.' Thereupon the Northland hostess Drove the hungry bear of Pohya From his cavern to the meadows, To Wainola's plains and pastures. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, To his brother spake as follows: 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Forge a spear from magic metals, Forge a lancet triple-pointed, Forge the handle out of copper, That I may destroy great Otso, Slay the mighty bear of Northland, That he may not eat my horses, Nor destroy my herds of cattle, Nor the flocks upon my pastures.' Thereupon the skillful blacksmith Forged a spear from magic metals, Forged a lancet triple-pointed, Not the longest, nor the shortest, Forged the spear in wondrous beauty. 242 On one side a bear was sitting, Sat a wolf upon the other, On the blade an elk lay sleeping, On the shaft a colt was running, Near the hilt a roebuck bounding. Snows had fallen from the heavens, Made the flocks as white as ermine Or the hare, in days of winter, And the minstrel sang these measures: 'My desire impels me onward To the Metsola-dominions, To the homes of forest-maidens, To the courts of the white virgins; I will hasten to the forest, Labor with the woodland-forces. 'Ruler of the Tapio-forests, Make of me a conquering hero, Help me clear these boundless woodlands. O Mielikki, forest-hostess, Tapio's wife, thou fair Tellervo, Call thy dogs and well enchain them, Set in readiness thy hunters, Let them wait within their kennels. 'Otso, thou O Forest-apple, Bear of honey-paws and fur-robes, Learn that Wainamoinen follows, That the singer comes to meet thee; Hide thy claws within thy mittens, Let thy teeth remain in darkness, That they may not harm the minstrel, May be powerless in battle. Mighty Otso, much beloved, Honey-eater of the mountains, Settle on the rocks in slumber, On the turf and in thy caverns; Let the aspen wave above thee, Let the merry birch-tree rustle O'er thy head for thy protection. Rest in peace, thou much-loved Otso, Turn about within thy thickets, Like the partridge at her brooding, In the spring-time like the wild-goose.' 243 When the ancient Wainamoinen Heard his dog bark in the forest, Heard his hunter's call and echo, He addressed the words that follow: 'Thought it was the cuckoo calling, Thought the pretty bird was singing; It was not the sacred cuckoo, Not the liquid notes of songsters, 'Twas my dog that called and murmured, 'Twas the echo of my hunter At the cavern-doors of Otso, On the border of the woodlands.' Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Finds the mighty bear in waiting, Lifts in joy the golden covers, Well inspects his shining fur-robes; Lifts his honey-paws in wonder, Then addresses his Creator: 'Be thou praised, O mighty Ukko, As thou givest me great Otso, Givest me the Forest-apple, Thanks be paid to thee unending.' To the bear he spake these measures: 'Otso, thou my well beloved, Honey-eater of the woodlands, Let not anger swell thy bosom; I have not the force to slay thee, Willingly thy life thou givest As a sacrifice to Northland. Thou hast from the tree descended, Glided from the aspen branches, Slippery the trunks in autumn, In the fog-days, smooth the branches. Golden friend of fen and forest, In thy fur-robes rich and beauteous, Pride of woodlands, famous Light-foot, Leave thy cold and cheerless dwelling, Leave thy home within the alders, Leave thy couch among the willows, Hasten in thy purple stockings, Hasten from thy walks restricted, Come among the haunts of heroes, 244 Join thy friends in Kalevala. We shall never treat thee evil, Thou shalt dwell in peace and plenty, Thou shalt feed on milk and honey, Honey is the food of strangers. Haste away from this thy covert, From the couch of the unworthy, To a couch beneath the rafters Of Wainola's ancient dwellings. Haste thee onward o'er the snow-plain, As a leaflet in the autumn; Skip beneath these birchen branches, As a squirrel in the summer, As a cuckoo in the spring-time.' Wainamoinen, the magician, The eternal wisdom-singer, O'er the snow-fields hastened homeward, Singing o'er the hills and mountains, With his guest, the ancient Otso, With his friend, the, famous Light-foot, With the Honey-paw of Northland. Far away was heard the singing, Heard the playing of the hunter, Heard the songs of Wainamoinen; All the people heard and wondered, Men and maidens, young and aged, From their cabins spake as follows: 'Hear the echoes from the woodlands, Hear the bugle from the forest, Hear the flute-notes of the songsters, Hear the pipes of forest-maidens!' Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Soon appears within the court-yard. Rush the people from their cabins, And the heroes ask these questions: 'Has a mine of gold been opened, Hast thou found a vein of silver, Precious jewels in thy pathway? Does the forest yield her treasures, Give to thee the Honey-eater? Does the hostess of the woodlands, Give to thee the lynx and adder, 245 Since thou comest home rejoicing, Playing, singing, on thy snow-shoes?' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Gave this answer to his people: 'For his songs I caught the adder, Caught the serpent for his wisdom; Therefore do I come rejoicing, Singing, playing, on my snow-shoes. Not the mountain lynx, nor serpent, Comes, however, to our dwellings; The Illustrious is coming, Pride and beauty of the forest, 'Tis the Master comes among us, Covered with his friendly fur-robe. Welcome, Otso, welcome, Light-foot, Welcome, Loved-one from the glenwood! If the mountain guest is welcome, Open wide the gates of entry; If the bear is thought unworthy, Bar the doors against the stranger.' This the answer of the tribe-folk: 'We salute thee, mighty Otso, Honey-paw, we bid thee welcome, Welcome to our courts and cabins, Welcome, Light-foot, to our tables Decorated for thy coming! We have wished for thee for ages, Waiting since the days of childhood, For the notes of Tapio's bugle, For the singing of the wood-nymphs, For the coming of dear Otso, For the forest gold and silver, Waiting for the year of plenty, Longing for it as for summer, As the shoe waits for the snow-fields, As the sledge for beaten highways, As the, maiden for her suitor, And the wife her husband's coming; Sat at evening by the windows, At the gates have, sat at morning, Sat for ages at the portals, Near the granaries in winter, Vanished, 246 Till the snow-fields warmed and Till the sails unfurled in joyance, Till the earth grew green and blossomed, Thinking all the while as follows: 'Where is our beloved Otso, Why delays our forest-treasure? Has he gone to distant Ehstland, To the upper glens of Suomi?' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Whither shall I lead the stranger, Whither take the golden Light-foot? Shall I lead him to the garner, To the house of straw conduct him?' This the answer of his tribe-folk: 'To the dining-hall lead Otso, Greatest hero of the Northland. Famous Light-foot, Forest-apple, Pride and glory of the woodlands, Have no fear before these maidens, Fear not curly-headed virgins, Clad in silver-tinselled raiment Maidens hasten to their chambers When dear Otso joins their number, When the hero comes among them.' This the prayer of Wainamoinen: 'Grant, O Ukko, peace and plenty Underneath these painted rafters, In this ornamented dweling; Thanks be paid to gracious Ukko!' Spake again the ancient minstrel: 'Whither shall we lead dear Otso, 'Whither take the fur-clad stranger? This the answer of his people: 'Hither let the fur-robed Light-foot Be saluted on his coming; Let the Honey-paw be welcomed To the hearth-stone of the penthouse, Welcomed to the boiling caldrons, That we may admire his fur-robe, May behold his cloak with joyance. Have no care, thou much-loved Otso, Let not anger swell thy bosom 247 As thy coat we view with pleasure; We thy fur shall never injure, Shall not make it into garments To protect unworthy people.' Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Pulled the sacred robe from Otso, Spread it in the open court-yard, Cut the, members into fragments, Laid them in the heating caldrons, In the copper-bottomed vesselsO'er the fire the crane was hanging, On the crane were hooks of copper, On the hooks the broiling-vessels Filled with bear-steak for the feasting, Seasoned with the salt of Dwina, From the Saxon-land imported, From the distant Dwina-waters, From the salt-sea brought in shallops. Ready is the feast of Otso; From the fire are swung the kettles On the crane of polished iron; In the centers of the tables Is the bear displayed in dishes, Golden dishes, decorated; Of the fir-tree and the linden Were the tables newly fashioned; Drinking cups were forged from copper, Knives of gold and spoons of silver; Filled the vessels to their borders With the choicest bits of Light-foot, Fragments of the Forest-apple. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen 'Ancient one with bosom golden, Potent voice in Tapio's councils Metsola's most lovely hostess, Hostess of the glen and forest, Hero-son of Tapiola, Stalwart youth in cap of scarlet, Tapio's most beauteous virgin, Fair Tellervo of the woodlands, Metsola with all her people, Come, and welcome, to the feasting, 248 To the marriage-feast of Otso! All sufficient, the provisions, Food to eat and drink abundant, Plenty for the hosts assembled, Plenty more to give the village.' This the question of the people: 'Tell us of the birth of Otso! Was be born within a manger, Was he nurtured in the bath-room Was his origin ignoble?' This is Wainamoinen's answer: 'Otso was not born a beggar, Was not born among the rushes, Was not cradled in a manger; Honey-paw was born in ether, In the regions of the Moon-land, On the shoulders of Otava, With the daughters of creation. 'Through the ether walked a maiden, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the border of the heavens, In her stockings purple-tinted, In her golden-colored sandals. In her hand she held a wool-box, With a hair-box on her shoulder; Threw the wool upon the ocean, And the hair upon the rivers; These are rocked by winds and waters, Water-currents bear them onward, Bear them to the sandy sea-shore, Land them near the Woods of honey, On an island forest-covered. 'Fair Mielikki, woodland hostess, Tapio's most cunning daughter, Took the fragments from the sea-side, Took the white wool from the waters, Sewed the hair and wool together, Laid the bundle in her basket, Basket made from bark of birch-wood, Bound with cords the magic bundle; With the chains of gold she bound it To the pine-tree's topmost branches. 249 There she rocked the thing of magic, Rocked to life the tender baby, Mid the blossoms of the pine-tree, On the fir-top set with needles; Thus the young bear well was nurtured, Thus was sacred Otso cradled On the honey-tree of Northland, In the middle of the forest. 'Sacred Otso grew and flourished, Quickly grew with graceful movements, Short of feet, with crooked ankles, Wide of mouth and broad of forehead, Short his nose, his fur-robe velvet; But his claws were not well fashioned, Neither were his teeth implanted. Fair Mielikki, forest hostess, Spake these words in meditation: 'Claws I should be pleased to give him, And with teeth endow the wonder, Would be not abuse the favor.' 'Swore the bear a promise sacred, On his knees before Mielikki, Hostess of the glen and forest, And before omniscient Ukko, First and last of all creators, That he would not harm the worthy, Never do a deed of evil. Then Mielikki, woodland hostess, Wisest maid of Tapiola, Sought for teeth and claws to give him, From the stoutest mountain-ashes, From the juniper and oak tree, From the dry knots of the alder. Teeth and claws of these were worthless, Would not render goodly service. 'Grew a fir-tree on the mountain, Grew a stately pine in Northland, And the fir had silver branches, Bearing golden cones abundant; These the sylvan maiden gathered, Teeth and claws of these she fashioned In the jaws and feet of Otso, 250 Set them for the best of uses. Then she freed her new-made creature, Let the Light-foot walk and wander, Let him lumber through the marshes, Let him amble through the forest, Roll upon the plains and pastures; Taught him how to walk a hero, How to move with graceful motion, How to live in ease and pleasure, How to rest in full contentment, In the moors and in the marshes, On the borders of the woodlands; How unshod to walk in summer, Stockingless to run in autumn; How to rest and sleep in winter In the clumps of alder-bushes Underneath the sheltering fir-tree, Underneath the pine's protection, Wrapped securely in his fur-robes, With the juniper and willow. This the origin of Otso, Honey-eater of the Northlands, Whence the sacred booty cometh. Thus again the people questioned: Why became the woods so gracious, Why so generous and friendly? Why is Tapio so humored, That he gave his dearest treasure, Gave to thee his Forest-apple, Honey-eater of his kingdom? Was he startled with thine arrows, Frightened with the spear and broadsword?' Wainamoinen, the magician, Gave this answer to the question: 'Filled with kindness was the forest, Glen and woodland full of greetings, Tapio showing greatest favor. Fair Mielikki, forest hostess, Metsola's bewitching daughter, Beauteous woodland maid, Tellervo, Gladly led me on my journey, Smoothed my pathway through the glen-wood. 251 Marked the trees upon the, mountains, Pointing me to Otso's caverns, To the Great Bear's golden island. 'When my journeyings had ended, When the bear had been discovered, Had no need to launch my javelins, Did not need to aim the arrow; Otso tumbled in his vaulting, Lost his balance in his cradle, In the fir-tree where he slumbered; Tore his breast upon the branches, Freely gave his life to others. 'Mighty Otso, my beloved, Thou my golden friend and hero, Take thy fur-cap from thy forehead, Lay aside thy teeth forever, Hide thy fingers in the darkness, Close thy mouth and still thine anger, While thy sacred skull is breaking. 'Now I take the eyes of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of seeing, Lest their former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must these be taken. 'Now I take the ears of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of 'hearing, Lest their former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must these be taken. 'Now I take the nose of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of smelling, Lest its former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must this be taken. 'Now I take the tongue of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of tasting Lest its former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must this be taken. 'Now I take the brain of Otso, Lest he lose the means of thinking, Lest his consciousness should fail him, 252 Lest his former instincts weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must this be taken. 'I will reckon him a hero, That will count the teeth of Light-foot, That will loosen Otso's fingers From their settings firmly fastened.' None he finds with strength sufficient To perform the task demanded. Therefore ancient Wainamoinen Counts the teeth of sacred Otso; Loosens all the claws of Light-foot, With his fingers strong as copper, Slips them from their firm foundations, Speaking to the bear these measures: 'Otso, thou my Honey-eater, Thou my Fur-ball of the woodlands, Onward, onward, must thou journey From thy low and lonely dwelling, To the court-rooms of the village. Go, my treasure, through the pathway Near the herds of swine and cattle, To the hill-tops forest covered, To the high and rising mountains, To the spruce-trees filled with needles, To the branches of the pine-tree; There remain, my Forest-apple, Linger there in lasting slumber, Where the silver bells are ringing, To the pleasure of the shepherd.' Thus beginning, and thus ending, Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Hastened from his emptied tables, And the children thus addressed him: 'Whither hast thou led thy booty, Where hast left thy Forest-apple, Sacred Otso of the woodlands? Hast thou left him on the iceberg, Buried him upon the snow-field? Hast thou sunk him in the quicksand, Laid him low beneath the heather?' Wainamoinen spake in answer: 253 'Have not left him on the iceberg, Have not buried him in snow-fields; There the dogs would soon devour him, Birds of prey would feast upon him; Have not hidden him in Swamp-land, Have not buried him in heather; There the worms would live upon him, Insects feed upon his body. Thither I have taken Otso, To the summit of the Gold-hill, To the copper-bearing mountain, Laid him in his silken cradle In the summit of a pine-tree, Where the winds and sacred branches Rock him to his lasting slumber, To the pleasure of the hunter, To the joy of man and hero. To the east his lips are pointing, While his eyes are northward looking; But dear Otso looks not upward, For the fierceness of the storm-winds Would destroy his sense of vision.' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Touched again his harp of joyance, Sang again his songs enchanting, To the pleasure of the evening, To the joy of morn arising. Spake the singer of Wainola: 'Light for me a torch of pine-wood, For the darkness is appearing, That my playing may be joyous And my wisdom-songs find welcome.' Then the ancient sage and singer, Wise and worthy Wainamoinen, Sweetly sang and played, and chanted, Through the long and dreary evening, Ending thus his incantation: 'Grant, O Ukko, my Creator, That the people of Wainola May enjoy another banquet In the company of Light-foot; Grant that we may long remember 254 Kalevala's feast with Otso! 'Grant, O Ukko, my Creator, That the signs may guide our footsteps, That the notches in the pine-tree May direct my faithful people To the bear-dens of the woodlands; That great Tapio's sacred bugle May resound through glen and forest; That the wood-nymph's call may echo, May be heard in field and hamlet, To the joy of all that listen! Let great Tapio's horn for ages Ring throughout the fen and forest, Through the hills and dales of Northland O'er the meadows and the mountains, To awaken song and gladness In the forests of Wainola, On the snowy plains of Suomi, On the meads of Kalevala, For the coming generations.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

241:The Kalevala - Rune Xvii WAINAMOINEN FINDS THE LOST-WORD. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Did not learn the words of magic In Tuoni'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 Wainamoinen: 'Thou canst find of words a hundred, Find a thousand wisdom-sayings, In the mouth of wise Wipunen, In the body of the hero; To the spot I know the foot-path, 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.' Wainamoinen, 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, Mold 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, 303 From the tongue of wise Wipunen.' Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'Long ago died wise Wipunen, 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.' Wainamoinen, old and hopeful, Little heeding, not discouraged, In his metal shoes and armor, Hastens forward on his journey, Runs the first day fleetly onward, On the sharpened points of needles; 'Wearily he strides the second, On the edges of the broadswords Swings himself the third day forward, On the edges of the hatchets. Wise Wipunen, 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. Wainamoinen, coming closer, Draws his sword, lays bare his hatchet From his magic leathern 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 Wipunen, Pries his mighty jaws asunder, Speaks these words of master-magic: 'Rise, thou master of magicians, 304 From the sleep of Tuonela, From thine everlasting slumber!' Wise Wipunen, 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. Wainamoinen of Wainola, In his iron-shoes and armor, Careless walking, headlong stumbles In the spacious mouth and fauces Of the magic bard, Wipunen. Wise Wipunen, full of song-charms, Opens wide his mouth and swallows Wainamoinen and his magic, Shoes, and staff, and iron armor. Then outspeaks the wise Wipunen: '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 Wainamoinen: 'Now I see the evil symbols, See misfortune hanging o'er me, In the darksome Hisi-hurdles, In the catacombs of Kalma.' Wainamoinen long considered How to live and how to prosper, How to conquer this condition. In his belt he wore a poniard, With a handle hewn from birch-wood, From the handle builds a vessel, Builds a boat through magic science; In this vessel rows he swiftly Through the entrails of the hero, Rows through every gland and vessel Of the wisest of magicians. Old Wipunen, master-singer, 305 Barely feels the hero's presence, Gives no heed to Wainamoinen. Then the artist of Wainola Straightway sets himself to forging, Sets at work to hammer metals; Makes a smithy from his armor, 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 fore-arm; 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 Wipunen, In the sorcerer's abdomen. Old Wipunen, 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; Great a mother's pain and anguish, When her child runs wild and lawless; Cannot comprehend the meaning, Nor this mystery unravel, Why thou camest here, O monster, Camest here to give me torture. Art thou Hisi sent from heaven, Some calamity from Ukko? Art, perchance, some new creation, 306 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 wert created, If some hero sent thee hither, I shall learn thy race of evil, Shall destroy thy wicked tribe-folk. 'Thence arose the violation, Thence arose the first destruction, Thence came all the evil-doings: From the neighborhood of wizards, From the homes 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 Tuoni, 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 Hisi-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 Rutya, From the limits of the storm-clouds, From the pathways of the thunders, From the flashings of the lightnings, From the distant plains of Pohya, 307 From the fatal stream and whirlpool, From the birthplace of Tuoni. '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 mine 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, To remove 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 Hisi, 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, 308 Comfort bring and full assistance, That I guiltless may not suffer, May not perish prematurely. 'Shouldst thou brave this invocation, Kapè, daughter of Creation, Come, thou beauteous, 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 Piru. 'If this call be disregarded, If thou wilt not leave me guiltless, Ukko, on the arch of heaven, In the thunder-cloud 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-enkindling bellows. 'Go, thou demon, hence to wander, Flee, thou plague of Northland heroes; Never come again for shelter, Nevermore build thou thy dwelling In the body of Wipunen; 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 meads of thy Creator, Give a signal of thy coming, Rumble like the peals 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, Wring their necks and hurl their bodies To the black-dogs of the forest. 309 'Should this prove of little value, Hover like the bird of battle, O'er the dwellings of the master, Scare the horses from the mangers, From the troughs affright the cattle, Twist their tails, and horns, and forelocks, 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 camest, On the air-path of the heavens, Perching not upon some aspen, Resting not upon the birch-tree; Fly away to copper mountains, That the copper-winds may nurse thee, Waves of ether, thy protection. 'Didst those come from high Jumala, From the hems of ragged snow-clouds, Quick ascend beyond the cloud-space, Quickly journey whence thou camest, To the snow-clouds, crystal-sprinkled, To the twinkling stars of heaven There thy fire may burn forever, There may flash thy forked lightnings, In the Sun's undying furnace. 'Wert thou sent here by the spring-floods, Driven here by river-torrents? Quickly journey whence thou camest, 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 Kalma's kingdom, From the castles of the death-land? Haste thou back to thine own country, To the Kalma-halls and castles, To the fields with envy swollen, Where contending armies perish. 'Art thou from the Hisi-woodlands, From ravines in Lempo's forest, 310 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 shall mould and crumble. Evil genius, thee I banish, Got thee hence, thou horrid monster, To the caverns of the white-bear, To the deep abysm of serpents, To the vales, and swamps, and fenlands, 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 befitting, Pitch thy tents and feast forever On the dead plains of Pohyola. 'Shouldst thou find no means of living, I will banish thee still farther, To the cataract of Rutya, To the fire-emitting whirlpool, Where the firs 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, 311 To Tuoni's coal-black river, To the endless 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 re-cross Death-river Thickly set with iron netting, Interlaced with threads of copper. 'Shouldst thou ask for steeds for saddle, Shouldst thou need a fleet-foot courser, I will give thee worthy racers, I will give thee saddle-horses; Evil Hisi 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, When a skilful master rides him. 'Should this steed be insufficient, I will give thee Lempo's snow-shoes, Give thee Hisi's shoes of elm-wood, Give to thee the staff of Piru, That with these thou mayest journey Into Hisi's courts and castles, To the woods and fields of Juutas; 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, 312 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' moonbeams, Wander hence, forever wander, To the darksome fields or Pohya. 'If at once thou dost not leave me, I will send the eagle's talons, Send to thee the beaks of vultures, To devour thine evil body, Hurl thy skeleton to Hisi. Much more quickly cruel Lempo 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!' Wainamoinen, ancient hero, Speaks at last to old Wipunen: '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 Wainamoinen. 'I shall set my forge and 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.' 313 Old Wipunen, 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 Ukko, 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 Wipunen, How the Moon was 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 Wipunen, 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 314 Fall the waves upon the deep-sea, In the bay the tides cease rising, Stop the rivers in their courses, Stops the waterfall of Rutya, Even Jordan ceases flowing, And the Wuoksen stops and listens. When the ancient Wainamoinen 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-bard, Wipunen, Leave the bosom of the master, Leave the wonderful enchanter. Spake the hero, Wainamoinen: 'O, thou Antero Wipunen, Open wide thy mouth and fauces, I have found the magic lost-words, I will leave thee now forever, Leave thee and thy wondrous singing, Will return to Kalevala, To Wainola's fields and firesides.' Thus Wipunen spake in answer: 'Many are the 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 Wainamoinen; Thou hast found what thou desirest, Found the three words of the Master; Go in peace, and ne'er returning, Take my blessing on thy going.' Thereupon the bard Wipunen Opens wide his mouth, and wider; And the good, old Wainamoinen Straightway leaves the wise enchanter, Leaves Wipunen's great abdomen; From the mouth he glides and journeys O'er the hills and vales of Northland, 315 Swift as red-deer or the forest, Swift as yellow-breasted marten, To the firesides of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala. Straightway hastes 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? Wainamoinen 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.' Wainamoinen, magic-builder, Straightway journeys to his vessel, To the spot of magic labor, Quickly fastens in the ledges, Firmly binds the stern together And completes the boat's forecastle. Thus the ancient Wainamoinen 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 Pohyola, Dowry for the Maid of Beauty Sitting on the arch of heaven, On the bow of many colors. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

242:The Kalevala - Rune Ix ORIGIN OF IRON. Wainamoinen, thus encouraged, Quickly rises in his snow-sledge, Asking no one for assistance, Straightway hastens to the cottage, Takes a seat within the dwelling. Come two maids with silver pitchers, Bringing also golden goblets; Dip they up a very little, But the very smallest measure Of the blood of the magician, From the wounds of Wainamoinen. From the fire-place calls the old man, Thus the gray-beard asks the minstrel: 'Tell me who thou art of heroes, Who of all the great magicians? Lo! thy blood fills seven sea-boats, Eight of largest birchen vessels, Flowing from some hero's veinlets, From the wounds of some magician. Other matters I would ask thee; Sing the cause of this thy trouble, Sing to me the source of metals, Sing the origin of iron, How at first it was created.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made this answer to the gray-beard: 'Know I well the source of metals, Know the origin of iron; f can tell bow steel is fashioned. Of the mothers air is oldest, Water is the oldest brother, And the fire is second brother, And the youngest brother, iron; Ukko is the first creator. Ukko, maker of the heavens, Cut apart the air and water, 54 Ere was born the metal, iron. Ukko, maker of the heavens, Firmly rubbed his hands together, Firmly pressed them on his knee-cap, Then arose three lovely maidens, Three most beautiful of daughters; These were mothers of the iron, And of steel of bright-blue color. Tremblingly they walked the heavens, Walked the clouds with silver linings, With their bosoms overflowing With the milk of future iron, Flowing on and flowing ever, From the bright rims of the cloudlets To the earth, the valleys filling, To the slumber-calling waters. 'Ukko's eldest daughter sprinkled Black milk over river channels And the second daughter sprinkled White milk over hills and mountains, While the youngest daughter sprinkled Red milk over seas and oceans. Whero the black milk had been sprinked, Grew the dark and ductile iron; Where the white milk had been sprinkled. Grew the iron, lighter-colored; Where the red milk had been sprinkled, Grew the red and brittle iron. 'After Time had gone a distance, Iron hastened Fire to visit, His beloved elder brother, Thus to know his brother better. Straightway Fire began his roarings, Labored to consume his brother, His beloved younger brother. Straightway Iron sees his danger, Saves himself by fleetly fleeing, From the fiery flame's advances, Fleeing hither, fleeing thither, Fleeing still and taking shelter In the swamps and in the valleys, In the springs that loudly bubble, 55 By the rivers winding seaward, On the broad backs of the marshes, Where the swans their nests have builded, Where the wild geese hatch their goslings. 'Thus is iron in the swamp-lands, Stretching by the water-courses, Hidden well for many ages, Hidden in the birchen forests, But he could not hide forever From the searchings of his brother; Here and there the fire has caught him, Caught and brought him to his furnace, That the spears, and swords, and axes, Might be forged and duly hammered. In the swamps ran blackened waters, From the heath the bears came ambling, And the wolves ran through the marshes. Iron then made his appearance, Where the feet of wolves had trodden, Where the paws of bears had trampled. 'Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Came to earth to work the metal; He was born upon the Coal-mount, Skilled and nurtured in the coal-fields; In one hand, a copper hammer, In the other, tongs of iron; In the night was born the blacksmith, In the morn he built his smithy, Sought with care a favored hillock, Where the winds might fill his bellows; Found a hillock in the swamp-lands, Where the iron hid abundant; There he built his smelting furnace, There he laid his leathern bellows, Hastened where the wolves had travelled, Followed where the bears had trampled, Found the iron's young formations, In the wolf-tracks of the marshes, In the foot-prints of the gray-bear. 'Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, 'Thus addressed the sleeping iron: Thou most useful of the metals, 56 Thou art sleeping in the marshes, Thou art hid in low conditions, Where the wolf treads in the swamp-lands, Where the bear sleeps in the thickets. Hast thou thought and well considered, What would be thy future station, Should I place thee in the furnace, Thus to make thee free and useful?' 'Then was Iron sorely frightened, Much distressed and filled with horror, When of Fire he heard the mention, Mention of his fell destroyer. 'Then again speaks Ilmarinen, Thus the smith addresses Iron: 'Be not frightened, useful metal, Surely Fire will not consume thee, Will not burn his youngest brother, Will not harm his nearest kindred. Come thou to my room and furnace, Where the fire is freely burning, Thou wilt live, and grow, and prosper, Wilt become the swords of heroes, Buckles for the belts of women.' 'Ere arose the star of evening, Iron ore had left the marshes, From the water-beds had risen, Had been carried to the furnace, In the fire the smith had laid it, Laid it in his smelting furnace. Ilmarinen starts the bellows, Gives three motions of the handle, And the iron flows in streamlets From the forge of the magician, Soon becomes like baker's leaven, Soft as dough for bread of barley. Then out-screamed the metal, Iron: 'Wondrous blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Take, O take me from thy furnace, From this fire and cruel torture.' 'Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'I will take thee from my furnace, 'Thou art but a little frightened, 57 Thou shalt be a mighty power, Thou shalt slay the best of heroes, Thou shalt wound thy dearest brother.' 'Straightway Iron made this promise, Vowed and swore in strongest accents, By the furnace, by the anvil, By the tongs, and by the hammer, These the words he vowed and uttered: 'Many trees that I shall injure, Shall devour the hearts of mountains, Shall not slay my nearest kindred, Shall not kill the best of heroes, Shall not wound my dearest brother; Better live in civil freedom, Happier would be my life-time, Should I serve my fellow-beings, Serve as tools for their convenience, Than as implements of warfare, Slay my friends and nearest. kindred, Wound the children of my mother.' 'Now the master, Ilmarinen, The renowned and skilful blacksmith, From the fire removes the iron, Places it upon the anvil, Hammers well until it softens, Hammers many fine utensils, Hammers spears, and swords, and axes, Hammers knives, and forks, and hatchets, Hammers tools of all descriptions. 'Many things the blacksmith needed, Many things he could not fashion, Could not make the tongue of iron, Could not hammer steel from iron, Could not make the iron harden. Well considered Ilmarinen, Deeply thought and long reflected. Then he gathered birchen ashes, Steeped the ashes in the water, Made a lye to harden iron, Thus to form the steel most needful. With his tongue he tests the mixture, Weighs it long and well considers, 58 And the blacksmith speaks as follows: 'All this labor is for nothing, Will not fashion steel from iron, Will not make the soft ore harden.' 'Now a bee flies from the meadow, Blue-wing coming from the flowers, Flies about, then safely settles Near the furnace of the smithy. ''Thus the smith the bee addresses, These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Little bee, thou tiny birdling, Bring me honey on thy winglets, On thy tongue, I pray thee, bring me Sweetness from the fragrant meadows, From the little cups of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, That we thus may aid the water To produce the steel from iron.' 'Evil Hisi's bird, the hornet, Heard these words of Ilmarinen, Looking from the cottage gable, Flying to the bark of birch-trees, While the iron bars were heating While the steel was being tempered; Swiftly flew the stinging hornet, Scattered all the Hisi horrors, Brought the blessing of the serpent, Brought the venom of the adder, Brought the poison of the spider, Brought the stings of all the insects, Mixed them with the ore and water, While the steel was being, tempered. 'Ilmarinen, skilful blacksmith, First of all the iron-workers, Thought the bee had surely brought him Honey from the fragrant meadows, From the little cups of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, And he spake the words that follow: 'Welcome, welcome, is thy coming, Honeyed sweetness from the flowers Thou hast brought to aid the water, 59 Thus to form the steel from iron!' 'Ilmarinen, ancient blacksmith, Dipped the iron into water, Water mixed with many poisons, Thought it but the wild bee's honey; Thus he formed the steel from iron. When he plunged it into water, Water mixed with many poisons, When be placed it in the furnace, Angry grew the hardened iron, Broke the vow that he had taken, Ate his words like dogs and devils, Mercilessly cut his brother, Madly raged against his kindred, Caused the blood to flow in streamlets From the wounds of man and hero. This, the origin of iron, And of steel of light blue color.' From the hearth arose the gray-beard, Shook his heavy looks and answered: 'Now I know the source of iron, Whence the steel and whence its evils; Curses on thee, cruel iron, Curses on the steel thou givest, Curses on thee, tongue of evil, Cursed be thy life forever! Once thou wert of little value, Having neither form nor beauty, Neither strength nor great importance, When in form of milk thou rested, When for ages thou wert hidden In the breasts of God's three daughters, Hidden in their heaving bosoms, On the borders of the cloudlets, In the blue vault of the heavens. 'Thou wert once of little value, Having neither form nor beauty, Neither strength nor great importance, When like water thou wert resting On the broad back of the marshes, On the steep declines of mountains, When thou wert but formless matter, 60 Only dust of rusty color. 'Surely thou wert void of greatness, Having neither strength nor beauty, When the moose was trampling on thee, When the roebuck trod upon thee, When the tracks of wolves were in thee, And the bear-paws scratched thy body. Surely thou hadst little value When the skilful Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Brought thee from the blackened swamp-lands, Took thee to his ancient smithy, Placed thee in his fiery furnace. Truly thou hadst little vigor, Little strength, and little danger, When thou in the fire wert hissing, Rolling forth like seething water, From the furnace of the smithy, When thou gavest oath the strongest, By the furnace, by the anvil, By the tongs, and by the hammer, By the dwelling of the blacksmith, By the fire within the furnace. 'Now forsooth thou hast grown mighty, Thou canst rage in wildest fury; Thou hast broken all thy pledges, All thy solemn vows hast broken, Like the dogs thou shamest honor, Shamest both thyself and kindred, Tainted all with breath of evil. Tell who drove thee to this mischief, Tell who taught thee all thy malice, Tell who gavest thee thine evil! Did thy father, or thy mother, Did the eldest of thy brothers, Did the youngest of thy sisters, Did the worst of all thy kindred Give to thee thine evil nature? Not thy father, nor thy mother, Not the eldest of thy brothers, Not the youngest of thy sisters, Not the worst of all thy kindred, 61 But thyself hast done this mischief, Thou the cause of all our trouble. Come and view thine evil doings, And amend this flood of damage, Ere I tell thy gray-haired mother, Ere I tell thine aged father. Great indeed a mother's anguish, Great indeed a father's sorrow, When a son does something evil, When a child runs wild and lawless. 'Crimson streamlet, cease thy flowing From the wounds of Wainamoinen; Blood of ages, stop thy coursing From the veins of the magician; Stand like heaven's crystal pillars, Stand like columns in the ocean, Stand like birch-trees in the forest, Like the tall reeds in the marshes, Like the high-rocks on the sea-coast, Stand by power of mighty magic! 'Should perforce thy will impel thee, Flow thou on thine endless circuit, Through the veins of Wainamoinen, Through the bones, and through the muscles, Through the lungs, and heart, and liver, Of the mighty sage and singer; Better be the food of heroes, Than to waste thy strength and virtue On the meadows and the woodlands, And be lost in dust and ashes. Flow forever in thy circle; Thou must cease this crimson out-flow; Stain no more the grass and flowers, Stain no more these golden hill-tops, Pride and beauty of our heroes. In the veins of the magician, In the heart of Wainamoinen, Is thy rightful home and storehouse. Thither now withdraw thy forces, Thither hasten, swiftly flowing; Flow no more as crimson currents, Fill no longer crimson lakelets, 62 Must not rush like brooks in spring-tide, Nor meander like the rivers. 'Cease thy flow, by word of magic, Cease as did the falls of Tyrya, As the rivers of Tuoni, When the sky withheld her rain-drops, When the sea gave up her waters, In the famine of the seasons, In the years of fire and torture. If thou heedest not this order, I shall offer other measures, Know I well of other forces; I shall call the Hisi irons, In them I shall boil and roast thee, Thus to check thy crimson flowing, Thus to save the wounded hero. 'If these means be inefficient, Should these measures prove unworthy, I shall call omniscient Ukko, Mightiest of the creators, Stronger than all ancient heroes, Wiser than the world-magicians; He will check the crimson out-flow, He will heal this wound of hatchet. 'Ukko, God of love and mercy, God and Master Of the heavens, Come thou hither, thou art needed, Come thou quickly I beseech thee, Lend thy hand to aid thy children, Touch this wound with healing fingers, Stop this hero's streaming life-blood, Bind this wound with tender leaflets, Mingle with them healing flowers, Thus to check this crimson current, Thus to save this great magician, Save the life of Wainamoinen.' Thus at last the blood-stream ended, As the magic words were spoken. Then the gray-beard, much rejoicing, Sent his young son to the smithy, There to make a healing balsam, From the herbs of tender fibre, 63 From the healing plants and flowers, From the stalks secreting honey, From the roots, and leaves, and blossoms. On the way he meets an oak-tree, And the oak the son addresses: 'Hast thou honey in thy branches, Does thy sap run full of sweetness?' Thus the oak-tree wisely answers: 'Yea, but last night dripped the honey Down upon my spreading branches, And the clouds their fragrance sifted, Sifted honey on my leaflets, From their home within the heavens.' Then the son takes oak-wood splinters, Takes the youngest oak-tree branches, Gathers many healing grasses, Gathers many herbs and flowers, Rarest herbs that grow in Northland, Places them within the furnace In a kettle made of copper; Lets them steep and boil together, Bits of bark chipped from the oak-tree, Many herbs of healing virtues; Steeps them one day, then a second, Three long days of summer weather, Days and nights in quick succession; Then he tries his magic balsam, Looks to see if it is ready, If his remedy is finished; But the balsam is unworthy. Then he added other grasses, Herbs of every healing virtue, That were brought from distant nations, Many hundred leagues from Northland, Gathered by the wisest minstrels, Thither brought by nine enchanters. Three days more be steeped the balsam, Three nights more the fire be tended, Nine the days and nights be watched it, Then again be tried the ointment, Viewed it carefully and tested, Found at last that it was ready, 64 Found the magic balm was finished. Near by stood a branching birch-tree. On the border of the meadow, Wickedly it had been broken, Broken down by evil Hisi; Quick he takes his balm of healing, And anoints the broken branches, Rubs the balsam in the fractures, Thus addresses then the birch-tree: 'With this balsam I anoint thee, With this salve thy wounds I cover, Cover well thine injured places; Now the birch-tree shall recover, Grow more beautiful than ever.' True, the birch-tree soon recovered, Grew more beautiful than ever, Grew more uniform its branches, And its bole more strong and stately. Thus it was be tried the balsam, Thus the magic salve he tested, Touched with it the splintered sandstone, Touched the broken blocks of granite, Touched the fissures in the mountains, And the broken parts united, All the fragments grew together. Then the young boy quick returning With the balsam he had finished, To the gray-beard gave the ointment, And the boy these measures uttered 'Here I bring the balm of healing, Wonderful the salve I bring thee; It will join the broken granite, Make the fragments grow together, Heat the fissures in the mountains, And restore the injured birch-tree.' With his tongue the old man tested, Tested thus the magic balsam, Found the remedy effective, Found the balm had magic virtues; Then anointed he the minstrel, Touched the wounds of Wainamoinen, Touched them with his magic balsam, 65 With the balm of many virtues; Speaking words of ancient wisdom, These the words the gray-beard uttered: 'Do not walk in thine own virtue, Do not work in thine own power, Walk in strength of thy Creator; Do not speak in thine own wisdom, Speak with tongue of mighty Ukko. In my mouth, if there be sweetness, It has come from my Creator; If my bands are filled with beauty, All the beauty comes from Ukko.' When the wounds had been anointed, When the magic salve had touched them, Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Suffered fearful pain and anguish, Sank upon the floor in torment, Turning one way, then another, Sought for rest and found it nowhere, Till his pain the gray-beard banished, Banished by the aid of magic, Drove away his killing torment To the court of all our trouble, To the highest hill of torture, To the distant rocks and ledges, To the evil-bearing mountains, To the realm of wicked Hisi. Then be took some silken fabric, Quick he tore the silk asunder, Making equal strips for wrapping, Tied the ends with silken ribbons, Making thus a healing bandage; Then he wrapped with skilful fingers Wainamoinen's knee and ankle, Wrapped the wounds of the magician, And this prayer the gray-beard uttered 'Ukko's fabric is the bandage, Ukko's science is the surgeon, These have served the wounded hero, Wrapped the wounds of the magician. Look upon us, God of mercy, Come and guard us, kind Creator, 66 And protect us from all evil! Guide our feet lest they may stumble, Guard our lives from every danger, From the wicked wilds of Hisi.' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Felt the mighty aid of magic, Felt the help of gracious Ukko, Straightway stronger grew in body, Straightway were the wounds united, Quick the fearful pain departed. Strong and hardy grew the hero, Straightway walked in perfect freedom, Turned his knee in all directions, Knowing neither pain nor trouble. Then the ancient Wainamoinen Raised his eyes to high Jumala, Looked with gratitude to heaven, Looked on high, in joy and gladness, Then addressed omniscient Ukko, This the prayer the minstrel uttered: 'O be praised, thou God of mercy, Let me praise thee, my Creator, Since thou gavest me assistance, And vouchsafed me thy protection, Healed my wounds and stilled mine anguish, Banished all my pain and trouble, Caused by Iron and by Hisi. O, ye people of Wainola, People of this generation, And the folk of future ages, Fashion not in emulation, River boat, nor ocean shallop, Boasting of its fine appearance, God alone can work completion, Give to cause its perfect ending, Never hand of man can find it, Never can the hero give it, Ukko is the only Master.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

243:The Kalevala - Rune L MARIATTA--WAINAMOINEN'S DEPARTURE. Mariatta, child of beauty, Grew to maidenhood in Northland, In the cabin of her father, In the chambers of her mother, Golden ringlets, silver girdles, Worn against the keys paternal, Glittering upon her bosom; Wore away the father's threshold With the long robes of her garments; Wore away the painted rafters With her beauteous silken ribbons; Wore away the gilded pillars With the touching of her fingers; Wore away the birchen flooring With the tramping of her fur-shoes. Mariatta, child of beauty, Magic maid of little stature, Guarded well her sacred virtue, Her sincerity and honor, Fed upon the dainty whiting, On the inner bark of birch-wood, On the tender flesh of lambkins. When she hastened in the evening To her milking in the hurdles, Spake in innocence as follows: 'Never will the snow-white virgin Milk the kine of one unworthy!' When she journeyed over snow-fields, On the seat beside her father, Spake in purity as follows: 'Not behind a steed unworthy Will I ever ride the snow-sledge!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a virgin with her mother, As a maiden highly honored, Lived in innocence and beauty, 68 Daily drove her flocks to pasture, Walking with the gentle lambkins. When the lambkins climbed the mountains, When they gamboled on the hill-tops, Stepped the virgin to the meadow, Skipping through a grove of lindens, At the calling of the cuckoo, To the songster's golden measures. Mariatta, child of beauty, Looked about, intently listened, Sat upon the berry-meadow Sat awhile, and meditated On a hillock by the forest, And soliloquized as follows: 'Call to me, thou golden cuckoo, Sing, thou sacred bird of Northland, Sing, thou silver breasted songster, Speak, thou strawberry of Ehstland, Tell bow long must I unmarried, As a shepherdess neglected, Wander o'er these bills and mountains, Through these flowery fens and fallows. Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands, Sing to me how many summers I must live without a husband, As a shepherdess neglected!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a shepherd-maid for ages, As a virgin with her mother. Wretched are the lives of shepherds, Lives of maidens still more wretched, Guarding flocks upon the mountains; Serpents creep in bog and stubble, On the greensward dart the lizards; But it was no serpent singing, Nor a sacred lizard calling, It was but the mountain-berry Calling to the lonely maiden: 'Come, O virgin, come and pluck me, Come and take me to thy bosom, Take me, tinsel-breasted virgin, Take me, maiden, copper-belted, 69 Ere the slimy snail devours me, Ere the black-worm feeds upon me. Hundreds pass my way unmindful, Thousands come within my hearing, Berry-maidens swarm about me, Children come in countless numbers, None of these has come to gather, Come to pluck this ruddy berry.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Listened to its gentle pleading, Ran to pick the berry, calling, With her fair and dainty fingers,. Saw it smiling near the meadow, Like a cranberry in feature, Like a strawberry in flavor; But be Virgin, Mariatta, Could not pluck the woodland-stranger, Thereupon she cut a charm-stick, Downward pressed upon the berry, When it rose as if by magic, Rose above her shoes of ermine, Then above her copper girdle, Darted upward to her bosom, Leaped upon the maiden's shoulder, On her dimpled chin it rested, On her lips it perched a moment, Hastened to her tongue expectant To and fro it rocked and lingered, Thence it hastened on its journey, Settled in the maiden's bosom. Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus became a bride impregnate, Wedded to the mountain-berry; Lingered in her room at morning, Sat at midday in the darkness, Hastened to her couch at evening. Thus the watchful mother wonders: 'What has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, That she throws aside her girdle, Shyly slips through hall and chamber, Lingers in her room at morning, 70 Hastens to her couch at evening, Sits at midday in the darkness?' On the floor a babe was playing, And the young child thus made answer: 'This has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, This misfortune to the maiden: She has lingered by the meadows, Played too long among the lambkins, Tasted of the mountain-berry.' Long the virgin watched and waited, Anxiously the days she counted, Waiting for the dawn of trouble. Finally she asked her mother, These the words of Mariatta: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Mother whom I love and cherish, Make for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the mother: 'Woe to thee, thou Hisi-maiden, Since thou art a bride unworthy, Wedded only to dishonor!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus replied in truthful measures: 'I am not a maid of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; As a shepherdess I wandered With the lambkins to the glen-wood, Wandered to the berry-mountain, Where the strawberry had ripened; Quick as thought I plucked the berry, On my tongue I gently laid it, To and fro it rocked and lingered, Settled in my heaving bosom. This the source of all my trouble, Only cause of my dishonor!' As the mother was relentless, Asked the maiden of her father, This the virgin-mother's pleading: 71 O my father, full of pity, Source of both my good and evil, Build for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the father, Of the father unforgiving: 'Go, thou evil child of Hisi, Go, thou child of sin and sorrow, Wedded only to dishonor, To the Great Bear's rocky chamber, To the stone-cave of the growler, There to lessen all thy troubles, There to cast thy heavy burdens!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus made answer to her father: 'I am not a child of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; I shall bear a noble hero, I shall bear a son immortal, Who will rule among the mighty, Rule the ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Wandered hither, wandered thither, Seeking for a place befitting, Seeking for a worthy birth-place For her unborn son and hero; Finally these words she uttered 'Piltti, thou my youngest maiden, Trustiest of all my servants, Seek a place within the village, Ask it of the brook of Sara, For the troubled Mariatta, Child of sorrow and misfortune.' Thereupon the little maiden, Piltti, spake these words in answer: 'Whom shall I entreat for succor, Who will lend me his assistance? These the words of Mariatta: 'Go and ask it of Ruotus, Where the reed-brook pours her waters.' 72 Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Ever hopeful, ever willing, Hastened to obey her mistress, Needing not her exhortation; Hastened like the rapid river, Like the flying smoke of battle To the cabin of Ruotus. When she walked the hill-tops tottered, When she ran the mountains trembled; Shore-reeds danced upon the pasture, Sandstones skipped about the heather As the maiden, Piltti, hastened To the dwelling of Ruotus. At his table in his cabin Sat Ruotus, eating, drinking, In his simple coat of linen. With his elbows on the table Spake the wizard in amazement: 'Why hast thou, a maid of evil, Come to see me in my cavern, What the message thou art bringing? Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Gave this answer to the wizard: 'Seek I for a spot befitting, Seek I for a worthy birth-place, For an unborn child and hero; Seek it near the Sara-streamlet, Where the reed-brook pours her waters. Came the wife of old Ruotus, Walking with her arms akimbo, Thus addressed the maiden, Piltti: 'Who is she that asks assistance, Who the maiden thus dishonored, What her name, and who her kindred?' 'I have come for Mariatta, For the worthy virgin-mother.' Spake the wife of old Ruotus, Evil-minded, cruel-hearted: 'Occupied are all our chambers, All our bath-rooms near the reed-brook; in the mount of fire are couches, is a stable in the forest, 73 For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta!' Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Hastened to her anxious mistress, Spake these measures, much regretting. 'There is not a place befitting, on the silver brook of Sara. Spake the wife of old Ruotus: 'Occupied are all the chambers, All the bath-rooms near the reed-brook; In the mount of fire are couches, Is a stable, in the forest, For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger, Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta.'' Thereupon the hapless maiden, Mariatta, virgin-mother, Fell to bitter tears and murmurs, Spake these words in depths of sorrow: 'I, alas! must go an outcast, Wander as a wretched hireling, Like a servant in dishonor, Hasten to the burning mountain, To the stable in the forest, Make my bed within a manger, Near the flaming steed of Hisi!' Quick the hapless virgin-mother, Outcast from her father's dwelling, Gathered up her flowing raiment, Grasped a broom of birchen branches, Hastened forth in pain and sorrow To the stable in the woodlands, On the heights of Tapio's mountains, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, I pray thee, my Creator, Only friend in times of trouble, Come to me and bring protection 74 To thy child, the virgin-mother, To the maiden, Mariatta, In this hour of sore affliction. Come to me, benignant Ukko, Come, thou only hope and refuge, Lest thy guiltless child should perish, Die the death of the unworthy!' When the virgin, Mariatta, Had arrived within the stable Of the flaming horse of Hisi, She addressed the steed as follows: 'Breathe, O sympathizing fire-horse, Breathe on me, the virgin-mother, Let thy heated breath give moisture, Let thy pleasant warmth surround me, Like the vapor of the morning; Let this pure and helpless maiden Find a refuge in thy manger!' Thereupon the horse, in pity, Breathed the moisture of his nostrils On the body of the virgin, Wrapped her in a cloud of vapor, Gave her warmth and needed comforts, Gave his aid to the afflicted, To the virgin, Mariatta. There the babe was born and cradled Cradled in a woodland-manger, Of the virgin, Mariatta, Pure as pearly dews of morning, Holy as the stars in heaven. There the mother rocks her infant, In his swaddling clothes she wraps him, Lays him in her robes of linen; Carefully the babe she nurtures, Well she guards her much-beloved, Guards her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver. But alas! the child has vanished, Vanished while the mother slumbered. Mariatta, lone and wretched, Fell to weeping, broken-hearted, Hastened off to seek her infant. 75 Everywhere the mother sought him, Sought her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver; Sought him underneath the millstone, In the sledge she sought him vainly, Underneath the sieve she sought him, Underneath the willow-basket, Touched the trees, the grass she parted, Long she sought her golden infant, Sought him on the fir-tree-mountain, In the vale, and hill, and heather; Looks within the clumps of flowers, Well examines every thicket, Lifts the juniper and willow, Lifts the branches of the alder. Lo! a star has come to meet her, And the star she thus beseeches-. 'O, thou guiding-star of Northland, Star of hope, by God created, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Thus the star of Northland answers: 'If I knew, I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Set me here to watch at evening, In the cold to shine forever, Here to twinkle in the darkness.' Comes the golden Moon to meet her, And the Moon she thus beseeches: 'Golden Moon, by Ukko fashioned, Hope and joy of Kalevala, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden? Speaks the golden Moon in answer: 'If I knew I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Here to wander in the darkness, All alone at eve to wander On my cold and cheerless journey, Sleeping only in the daylight, 76 Shining for the good of others.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Falls again to bitter weeping, Hastens on through fen and forest, Seeking for her babe departed. Comes the silver Sun to meet her, And the Sun she thus addresses: 'Silver Sun by Ukko fashioned, Source of light and life to Northland, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Wisely does the Sun make answer: 'Well I know thy babe's dominions, Where thy holy child is sleeping, Where Wainola's light lies hidden; 'Tis thy child that me created, Made me king of earth and ether, Made the Moon and Stars attend me, Set me here to shine at midday, Makes me shine in silver raiment, Lets me sleep and rest at evening; Yonder is thy golden infant, There thy holy babe lies sleeping, Hidden to his belt in water, Hidden in the reeds and rushes.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Virgin-mother of the Northland, Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land, Finds him in the reeds and rushes; Takes the young child on her bosom To the dwelling of her father. There the infant grew in beauty, Gathered strength, and light, and wisdom, All of Suomi saw and wondered. No one knew what name to give him; When the mother named him, Flower, Others named him, Son-of-Sorrow. When the virgin, Mariatta, Sought the priesthood to baptize him, Came an old man, Wirokannas, With a cup of holy water, 77 Bringing to the babe his blessing; And the gray-beard spake as follows: 'I shall not baptize a wizard, Shall not bless a black-magician With the drops of holy water; Let the young child be examined, Let us know that he is worthy, Lest he prove the son of witchcraft.' Thereupon old Wirokannas Called the ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, To inspect the infant-wonder, To report him good or evil. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Carefully the child examined, Gave this answer to his people: 'Since the child is but an outcast, Born and cradled in a manger, Since the berry is his father; Let him lie upon the heather, Let him sleep among the rushes, Let him live upon the mountains; Take the young child to the marshes, Dash his head against the birch-tree.' Then the child of Mariatta, Only two weeks old, made answer: 'O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Son of Folly and Injustice, Senseless hero of the Northland, Falsely hast thou rendered judgment. In thy years, for greater follies, Greater sins and misdemeanors, Thou wert not unjustly punished. In thy former years of trouble, When thou gavest thine own brother, For thy selfish life a ransom, Thus to save thee from destruction, Then thou wert not sent to Swamp-land To be murdered for thy follies. In thy former years of sorrow, When the beauteous Aino perished In the deep and boundless blue-sea, 78 To escape thy persecutions, Then thou wert not evil-treated, Wert not banished by thy people.' Thereupon old Wirokannas, Of the wilderness the ruler, Touched the child with holy water, Crave the wonder-babe his blessing, Gave him rights of royal heirship, Free to live and grow a hero, To become a mighty ruler, King and Master of Karyala. As the years passed Wainamoinen Recognized his waning powers, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Sang his farewell song to Northland, To the people of Wainola; Sang himself a boat of copper, Beautiful his bark of magic; At the helm sat the magician, Sat the ancient wisdom-singer. Westward, westward, sailed the hero O'er the blue-back of the waters, Singing as he left Wainola, This his plaintive song and echo: 'Suns may rise and set in Suomi, Rise and set for generations, When the North will learn my teachings, Will recall my wisdom-sayings, Hungry for the true religion. Then will Suomi need my coming, Watch for me at dawn of morning, That I may bring back the Sampo, Bring anew the harp of joyance, Bring again the golden moonlight, Bring again the silver sunshine, Peace and plenty to the Northland.' Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, In his copper-banded vessel, Left his tribe in Kalevala, Sailing o'er the rolling billows, Sailing through the azure vapors, Sailing through the dusk of evening, 79 Sailing to the fiery sunset, To the higher-landed regions, To the lower verge of heaven; Quickly gained the far horizon, Gained the purple-colored harbor. There his bark be firmly anchored, Rested in his boat of copper; But be left his harp of magic, Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, To the lasting joy of Suomi. EPILOGUE. Now I end my measured singing, Bid my weary tongue keep silence, Leave my songs to other singers. Horses have their times of resting After many hours of labor; Even sickles will grow weary When they have been long at reaping; Waters seek a quiet haven After running long in rivers; Fire subsides and sinks in slumber At the dawning of the morning Therefore I should end my singing, As my song is growing weary, For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of morn arising. Often I have heard it chanted, Often heard the words repeated: 'Worthy cataracts and rivers Never empty all their waters.' Thus the wise and worthy singer Sings not all his garnered wisdom; Better leave unsung some sayings Than to sing them out of season. Thus beginning, and thus ending, Do I roll up all my legends, Roll them in a ball for safety, In my memory arrange them, In their narrow place of resting, Lest the songs escape unheeded, While the lock is still unopened, While the teeth remain unparted, 80 And the weary tongue is silent. Why should I sing other legends, Chant them in the glen and forest, Sing them on the hill and heather? Cold and still my golden mother Lies beneath the meadow, sleeping, Hears my ancient songs no longer, Cannot listen to my singing; Only will the forest listen, Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees, Junipers endowed with kindness, Alder-trees that love to bear me, With the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me, Young was I, and low of stature; Like the cuckoo of the forest, Like the thrush upon the heather, Like the lark I learned to twitter, Learned to sing my simple measures, Guided by a second mother, Stern and cold, without affection; Drove me helpless from my chamber To the wind-side of her dwelling, To the north-side of her cottage, Where the chilling winds in mercy Carried off the unprotected. As a lark I learned to wander, Wander as a lonely song-bird, Through the forests and the fenlands Quietly o'er hill and heather; Walked in pain about the marshes, Learned the songs of winds and waters, Learned the music of the ocean, And the echoes of the woodlands. Many men that live to murmur, Many women live to censure, Many speak with evil motives; Many they with wretched voices Curse me for my wretched singing, Blame my tongue for speaking wisdom, Call my ancient songs unworthy, Blame the songs and curse the singer. 81 Be not thus, my worthy people, Blame me not for singing badly, Unpretending as a minstrel. I have never had the teaching, Never lived with ancient heroes, Never learned the tongues of strangers, Never claimed to know much wisdom. Others have had language-masters, Nature was my only teacher, Woods and waters my instructors. Homeless, friendless, lone, and needy, Save in childhood with my mother, When beneath her painted rafters, Where she twirled the flying spindle, By the work-bench of my brother, By the window of my sister, In. the cabin of my father, In my early days of childhood. Be this as it may, my people, This may point the way to others, To the singers better gifted, For the good of future ages, For the coming generations, For the rising folk of Suomi. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

244:The Kalevala - Rune Xxix THE ISLE OF REFUGE. Lemminkainen, full of joyance, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Took provisions in abundance, Fish and butter, bread and bacon, Hastened to the Isle of Refuge, Sailed away across the oceans, Spake these measures on departing: 'Fare thee well, mine Island-dwelling, I must sail to other borders, To an island more protective, Till the second summer passes; Let the serpents keep the island, Lynxes rest within the glen-wood, Let the blue-moose roam the mountains, Let the wild-geese cat the barley. Fare thee well, my helpful mother! When the warriors of the Northland, From the dismal Sariola, Come with swords, and spears, and cross-bows, Asking for my head in vengeance, Say that I have long departed, Left my mother's Island-dwelling, When the barley had been garnered.' Then he launched his boat of copper, Threw the vessel to the waters, From the iron-banded rollers, From the cylinders of oak-wood, On the masts the sails he hoisted, Spread the magic sails of linen, In the stern the hero settled And prepared to sail his vessel, One hand resting on the rudder. Then the sailor spake as follows, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Blow, ye winds, and drive me onward, Blow ye steady, winds of heaven, 409 Toward the island in the ocean, That my bark may fly in safety To my father's place of refuge, To the far and nameless island!' Soon the winds arose as bidden, Rocked the vessel o'er the billows, O'er the blue-back of the waters, O'er the vast expanse of ocean; Blew two months and blew unceasing, Blew a third month toward the island, Toward his father's Isle of Refuge. Sat some maidens on the seaside, On the sandy beach of ocean, Turned about in all directions, Looking out upon the billows; One was waiting for her brother, And a second for her father, And a third one, anxious, waited For the, coming of her suitor; There they spied young Lemminkainen, There perceived the hero's vessel Sailing o'er the bounding billows; It was like a hanging cloudlet, Hanging twixt the earth and heaven. Thus the island-maidens wondered, Thus they spake to one another: 'What this stranger on the ocean, What is this upon the waters? Art thou one of our sea-vessels? Wert thou builded on this island? Sail thou straightway to the harbor, To the island-point of landing That thy tribe may be discovered.' Onward did the waves propel it, Rocked his vessel o'er the billows, Drove it to the magic island, Safely landed Lemminkainen On the sandy shore and harbor. Spake he thus when he had landed, These the words that Ahti uttered: 'Is there room upon this island, Is there space within this harbor, 410 Where my bark may lie at anchor, Where the sun may dry my vessel?' This the answer of the virgins, Dwellers on the Isle of Refuge: 'There is room within this harbor, On this island, space abundant, Where thy bark may lie at anchor, Where the sun may dry thy vessel; Lying ready are the rollers, Cylinders adorned with copper; If thou hadst a hundred vessels, Shouldst thou come with boats a thousand, We would give them room in welcome.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Rolled his vessel in the harbor, On the cylinders of copper, Spake these words when he had ended: 'Is there room upon this island, Or a spot within these forests, Where a hero may be hidden From the coming din of battle, From the play of spears and arrows? Thus replied the Island-maidens: 'There are places on this island, On these plains a spot befitting Where to hide thyself in safety, Hero-son of little valor. Here are many, many castles, Many courts upon this island; Though there come a thousand heroes, Though a thousand spearmen. follow, Thou canst hide thyself in safety.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Is there room upon this island, Where the birch-tree grows abundant, Where this son may fell the forest, And may cultivate the fallow? ' Answered thus the Island-maidens: 'There is not a spot befitting, Not a place upon the island, Where to rest thy wearied members, Not the smallest patch of birch-wood, 411 Thou canst bring to cultivation. All our fields have been divided, All these woods have been apportioned, Fields and forests have their owners.' Lemminkainen asked this question, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Is there room upon this island, Worthy spot in field or forest, Where to Sing my songs of magic, Chant my gathered store of wisdom, Sing mine ancient songs and legends?' Answered thus the Island-maidens: 'There is room upon this island, Worthy place in these dominions, Thou canst sing thy garnered wisdom, Thou canst chant thine ancient legends, Legends of the times primeval, In the forest, in the castle, On the island-plains and pastures.' Then began the reckless minstrel To intone his wizard-sayings; Sang he alders to the waysides, Sang the oaks upon the mountains, On the oak-trees sang be branches, On each branch he sang an acorn, On the acorns, golden rollers, On each roller, sang a cuckoo; Then began the cuckoos, calling, Gold from every throat came streaming, Copper fell from every feather, And each wing emitted silver, Filled the isle with precious metals. Sang again young Lemminkainen, Conjured on, and sang, and chanted, Sang to precious stones the sea-sands, Sang the stones to pearls resplendent, Robed the groves in iridescence, Sang the island full of flowers, Many-colored as the rainbow. Sang again the magic minstrel, In the court a well he conjured, On the well a golden cover, 412 On the lid a silver dipper, That the boys might drink the water, That the maids might lave their eyelids. On the plains he conjured lakelets, Sang the duck upon the waters, Golden-cheeked and silver-headed, Sang the feet from shining copper; And the Island-maidens wondered, Stood entranced at Ahti's wisdom, At the songs of Lemminkainen, At the hero's magic power. Spake the singer, Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'I would sing a wondrous legend, Sing in miracles of sweetness, If within some hall or chamber, I were seated at the table. If I sing not in the castle, In some spot by walls surrounded Then I sing my songs to zephyrs, Fling them to the fields and forests.' Answered thus the Island-maidens: 'On this isle are castle-chambers, Halls for use of magic singers, Courts complete for chanting legends, Where thy singing will be welcome, Where thy songs will not be scattered To the forests of the island, Nor thy wisdom lost in ether.' Straightway Lemminkainen journeyed With the maidens to the castle; There he sang and conjured pitchers On the borders of the tables, Sang and conjured golden goblets Foaming with the beer of barley; Sang he many well-filled vessels, Bowls of honey-drink abundant, Sweetest butter, toothsome biscuit, Bacon, fish, and veal, and venison, All the dainties of the Northland, Wherewithal to still his hunger. But the proud-heart, Lemminkainen, 413 Was not ready for the banquet, Did not yet begin his feasting, Waited for a knife of silver, For a knife of golden handle; Quick he sang the precious metals, Sang a blade from purest silver, To the blade a golden handle, Straightway then began his feasting, Quenched his thirst and stilled his hunger, Charmed the maidens on the island. Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Roamed throughout the island-hamlets, To the joy of all the virgins, All the maids of braided tresses; Wheresoe'er he turned his footsteps, There appeared a maid to greet him; When his hand was kindly offered, There his band was kindly taken; When he wandered out at evening, Even in the darksome places, There the maidens bade him welcome; There was not an island-village Where there were not seven castles, In each castle seven daughters, And the daughters stood in waiting, Gave the hero joyful greetings, Only one of all the maidens Whom he did not greet with pleasure. Thus the merry Lemminkainen Spent three summers in the ocean, Spent a merry time in refuge, In the hamlets on the island, To the pleasure of the maidens, To the joy of all the daughters; Only one was left neglected, She a poor and graceless spinster, On the isle's remotest border, In the smallest of the hamlets. 'Then he thought about his journey O'er the ocean to his mother, To the cottage of his father. There appeared the slighted spinster, 414 To the Northland son departing, Spake these words to Lemminkainen: 'O, thou handsome Kaukomieli, Wisdom-bard, and magic singer, Since this maiden thou hast slighted, May the winds destroy thy vessel, Dash thy bark to countless fragments On the ocean-rocks and ledges!' Lemminkainen's thoughts were homeward, Did not heed the maiden's murmurs, Did not rise before the dawning Of the morning on the island, To the pleasure of the maiden Of the much-neglected hamlet. Finally at close of evening, He resolved to leave the island, He resolved to waken early, Long before the dawn of morning; Long before the time appointed, He arose that he might wander Through the hamlets of the island, Bid adieu to all the maidens, On the morn of his departure. As he wandered hither, thither, Walking through the village path-ways To the last of all the hamlets; Saw he none of all the castle-, Where three dwellings were not standing; Saw he none of all the dwellings Where three heroes were not watching; Saw he none of all the heroes, Who was not engaged in grinding Swords, and spears, and battle-axes, For the death of Lemminkainen. And these words the hero uttered: 'Now alas! the Sun arises From his couch within the ocean, On the frailest of the heroes, On the saddest child of Northland; On my neck the cloak of Lempo Might protect me from all evil, Though a hundred foes assail me, 415 Though a thousand archers follow.' Then he left the maids ungreeted, Left his longing for the daughters Of the nameless Isle of Refuge, With his farewell-words unspoken, Hastened toward the island-harbor, Toward his magic bark at anchor; But he found it burned to ashes, Sweet revenge had fired his vessel, Lighted by the slighted spinster. Then he saw the dawn of evil, Saw misfortune hanging over, Saw destruction round about him. Straightway he began rebuilding Him a magic sailing-vessel, New and wondrous, full of beauty; But the hero needed timber, Boards, and planks, and beams, and braces, Found the smallest bit of lumber, Found of boards but seven fragments, Of a spool he found three pieces, Found six pieces of the distaff; With these fragments builds his vessel, Builds a ship of magic virtue, Builds the bark with secret knowledge, Through the will of the magician; Strikes one blow, and builds the first part, Strikes a second, builds the centre, Strikes a third with wondrous power, And the vessel is completed. Thereupon the ship he launches, Sings the vessel to the ocean, And these words the hero utters: 'Like a bubble swim these waters, Like a flower ride the billows; Loan me of thy magic feathers, Three, O eagle, four, O raven, For protection to my vessel, Lest it flounder in the ocean!' Now the sailor, Lemminkainen, Seats himself upon the bottom Of the vessel he has builded, 416 Hastens on his journey homeward, Head depressed and evil-humored, Cap awry upon his forehead, Mind dejected, heavy-hearted, That he could not dwell forever In the castles of the daughters Of the nameless Isle of Refuge. Spake the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Leave I must this merry island, Leave her many joys and pleasures, Leave her maids with braided tresses, Leave her dances and her daughters, To the joys of other heroes; But I take this comfort with me: All the maidens on the island, Save the spinster who was slighted, Will bemoan my loss for ages, Will regret my quick departure; They will miss me at the dances, In the halls of mirth and joyance, In the homes of merry maidens, On my father's Isle of Refuge.' Wept the maidens on the island, Long lamenting, loudly calling To the hero sailing homeward: 'Whither goest, Lemminkainen, Why depart, thou best of heroes? Dost thou leave from inattention, Is there here a dearth of maidens, Have our greetings been unworthy?' Sang the magic Lemminkainen To the maids as he was sailing, This in answer to their calling: 'Leaving not for want of pleasure, Do not go from dearth of women Beautiful the island-maidens, Countless as the sands their virtues. This the reason of my going, I am longing for my home-land, Longing for my mother's cabins, For the strawberries of Northland, 417 For the raspberries of Kalew, For the maidens of my childhood, For the children of my mother.' Then the merry Lemminkainen Bade farewell to all the island; Winds arose and drove his vessel On the blue-back of the ocean, O'er the far-extending waters, Toward the island of his mother. On the shore were grouped the daughters Of the magic Isle of Refuge, On the rocks sat the forsaken, Weeping stood the island-maidens, Golden daughters, loud-lamenting. Weep the maidens of the island While the sail-yards greet their vision, While the copper-beltings glisten; Do not weep to lose the sail-yards, Nor to lose the copper-beltings; Weep they for the loss of Ahti, For the fleeing Kaukomieli Guiding the departing vessel. Also weeps young Lemminkainen, Sorely weeps, and loud-lamenting, Weeps while he can see the island, While the island hill-tops glisten; Does not mourn the island-mountains, Weeps he only for the maidens, Left upon the Isle of Refuge. Thereupon sailed Kaukomieli On the blue-back of the ocean; Sailed one day, and then a second, But, alas! upon the third day, There arose a mighty storm-wind, And the sky was black with fury. Blew the black winds from the north-west, From the south-east came the whirlwind, Tore away the ship's forecastle, Tore away the vessel's rudder, Dashed the wooden hull to pieces. Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Headlong fell upon the waters; 418 With his head he did the steering, With his hands and feet, the rowing; Swam whole days and nights unceasing, Swam with hope and strength united, Till at last appeared a cloudlet, Growing cloudlet to the westward, Changing to a promontory, Into land within the ocean. Swiftly to the shore swam Ahti, Hastened to a magic castle, Found therein a hostess baking, And her daughters kneading barley, And these words the hero uttered: 'O, thou hostess, filled with kindness, Couldst thou know my pangs of hunger, Couldst thou guess my name and station, Thou wouldst hasten to the storehouse, Bring me beer and foaming liquor, Bring the best of thy provisions, Bring me fish, and veal, and bacon, Butter, bread, and honeyed biscuits, Set for me a wholesome dinner, Wherewithal to still my hunger, Quench the thirst of Lemminkainen. Days and nights have I been swimming, Buffeting the waves of ocean, Seemed as if the wind protected, And the billows gave me shelter,' Then the hostess, filled with kindness, Hastened to the mountain storehouse, Cut some butter, veal, and bacon, Bread, and fish, and honeyed biscuit, Brought the best of her provisions, Brought the mead and beer of barley, Set for him a toothsome dinner, Wherewithal to still his hunger, Quench the thirst of Lemminkainen. When the hero's feast had ended, Straightway was a magic vessel Given by the kindly hostess To the weary Kaukomieli, Bark of beauty, new and hardy, 419 Wherewithal to aid the stranger In his journey to his home-land, To the cottage of his mother. Quickly sailed wild Lemminkainen On the blue-back of the ocean; Sailed he days and nights unceasing, Till at last he reached the borders Of his own loved home and country; There beheld he scenes familiar, Saw the islands, capes, and rivers, Saw his former shipping-stations, Saw he many ancient landmarks, Saw the mountains with their fir-trees, Saw the pine-trees on the hill-tops, Saw the willows in the lowlands; Did not see his father's cottage, Nor the dwellings of his mother. Where a mansion once had risen, There the alder-trees were growing, Shrubs were growing on the homestead, Junipers within the court-yard. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'In this glen I played and wandered, On these stones I rocked for ages, On this lawn I rolled and tumbled, Frolicked on these woodland-borders, When a child of little stature. Where then is my mother's dwelling, Where the castles of my father? Fire, I fear, has found the hamlet, And the winds dispersed the ashes.' Then he fell to bitter weeping, Wept one day and then a second, Wept the third day without ceasing; Did not mourn the ancient homestead, Nor the dwellings of his father; Wept he for his darling mother, Wept he for the dear departed, For the loved ones of the island. Then he saw the bird of heaven, Saw an eagle flying near him, And he asked the bird this question: 420 'Mighty eagle, bird majestic, Grant to me the information, Where my mother may have wandered, Whither I may go and find her!' But the eagle knew but little, Only knew that Ahti's people Long ago together perished; And the raven also answered That his people had been scattered By the, swords, and spears, and arrows, Of his enemies from Pohya. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Faithful mother, dear departed, Thou who nursed me in my childhood, Art thou dead and turned to ashes, Didst thou perish for my follies, O'er thy head are willows weeping, Junipers above thy body, Alders watching o'er thy slumbers? This my punishment for evil, This the recompense of folly! Fool was I, a son unworthy, That I measured swords in Northland With the landlord of Pohyola, To my tribe came fell destruction, And the death of my dear mother, Through my crimes and misdemeanors.' Then the ministrel [sic] looked about him, Anxious, looked in all directions, And beheld some gentle foot-prints, Saw a pathway lightly trodden Where the heather had been beaten. Quick as thought the path he followed, Through the meadows, through the brambles, O'er the hills, and through the valleys, To a forest, vast and cheerless; Travelled far and travelled farther, Still a greater distance travelled, To a dense and hidden glenwood, In the middle of the island; Found therein a sheltered cabin, Found a small and darksome dwelling 421 Built between the rocky ledges, In the midst of triple pine-trees; And within he spied his mother, Found his gray-haired mother weeping. Lemminkainen loud rejoices, Cries in tones of joyful greetings, These the words that Ahti utters: 'Faithful mother, well-beloved, Thou that gavest me existence, Happy I, that thou art living, That thou hast not yet departed To the kingdom of Tuoni, To the islands of the blessed, I had thought that thou hadst perished, Hadst been murdered by my foemen, Hadst been slain with bows and arrows. Heavy are mine eyes from weeping, And my checks are white with sorrow, Since I thought my mother slaughtered For the sins I had committed!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Long, indeed, hast thou been absent, Long, my son, hast thou been living In thy father's Isle of Refuge, Roaming on the secret island, Living at the doors of strangers, Living in a nameless country, Refuge from the Northland foemen.' Spake the, hero, Lemminkainen: 'Charming is that spot for living, Beautiful the magic island, Rainbow-colored was the forest, Blue the glimmer of the meadows, Silvered were, the pine-tree branches, Golden were the heather-blossoms; All the woodlands dripped with honey, Eggs in every rock and crevice, Honey flowed from birch and sorb-tree, Milk in streams from fir and aspen, Beer-foam dripping from the willows, Charming there to live and linger, All their edibles delicious. 422 This their only source of trouble: Great the fear for all the maidens, All the heroes filled with envy, Feared the coming of the stranger; Thought that all the island-maidens, Thought that all the wives and daughters, All the good, and all the evil, Gave thy son too much attention; Thought the stranger, Lemminkainen, Saw the Island-maids too often; Yet the virgins I avoided, Shunned the good and shunned the evil, Shunned the host of charming daughters, As the black-wolf shuns the sheep-fold, As the hawk neglects the chickens.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

245:The Kalevala - Rune Iii WAINAMOINEN AND YOUKAHAINEN. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Passed 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, 23 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, 24 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. 25 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, 26 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; Spawns the pike in coldest weather, And defies the storms of winter. Slowly perches swim in Autumn, Wry-backed, hunting deeper water, Spawn in shallows in the summer, Bounding on the shore 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. 27 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 titmouse-fountains, Pretty birdling is the titmouse; 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; God 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, 28 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-spaces, 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-spaces, 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.' 29 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, 30 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 trimmings Floats like brushwood on the billows; Sings his braces into reed-grass, 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-grass. 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. 31 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.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'What the ransom thou wilt give me If I cease from mine enchantment, If I turn away my magic, Lift thee from thy slough of horror, Loose thee from thy stony prison, Free thee from thy killing torment?' Answered youthful Youkahainen: 'Have at home two magic cross-bows, Pair of bows of wondrous power, One so light a child can bend it, Only strength can bend the other, Take of these the one that pleases.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Do not wish thy magic cross-bows, Have a few of such already, Thine to me are worse than useless 32 I have bows in great abundance, Bows on every nail and rafter, Bows that laugh at all the hunters, Bows that go themselves a-hunting.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Sang alas! poor Youkahainen Deeper into mud and water, Deeper in the slough of torment. Youkahainen thus made answer: 'Have at home two magic shallops, Beautiful the boats and wondrous; One rides light upon the ocean, One is made for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Do not wish thy magic shallops, Have enough of such already; All my bays are full of shallops, All my shores are lined with shallops, Some before the winds are sailors, Some were built to sail against them.' Still the Wainola bard and minstrel Sings again poor Youkahainen Deeper, deeper into torment, Into quicksand to his girdle, Till the Lapland bard in anguish Speaks again to Wainamoinen: 'Have at home two magic stallions, One a racer, fleet as lightning, One was born for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Neither do I wish thy stallions, Do not need thy hawk-limbed stallions, Have enough of these already; Magic stallions swarm my stables, Eating corn at every manger, Broad of back to hold the water, Water on each croup in lakelets.' Still the bard of Kalevala Sings the hapless Lapland minstrel Deeper, deeper into torment, 33 To his shoulders into water. Spake again young Youkahainen: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Thou the only true magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment, Only turn away thy magic, I will give thee gold abundant, Countless stores of shining silver; From the wars my father brought it, Brought it from the hard-fought battles.' Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 'For thy gold I have no longing, Neither do I wish thy silver, Have enough of each already; Gold abundant fills my chambers, On each nail hang bags of silver, Gold that glitters in the sunshine, Silver shining in the moonlight.' Sank the braggart, Youkahainen, Deeper in his slough of torment, To his chin in mud and water, Ever praying, thus beseeching: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Greatest of the old magicians, Lift me from this pit of horror, From this prison-house of torture; I will give thee all my corn-fields, Give thee all my corn in garners, Thus my hapless life to ransom, Thus to gain eternal freedom.' Wainamoinen thus made answer: 'Take thy corn to other markets, Give thy garners to the needy; I have corn in great abundance, Fields have I in every quarter, Corn in all my fields is growing; One's own fields are always richer, One's own grain is much the sweeter.' Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, Sorrow-laden, thus enchanted, Deeper sinks in mud and water, Fear-enchained and full of anguish, 34 In the mire, his beard bedrabbled, Mouth once boastful filled with sea-weed, In the grass his teeth entangled, Youkahainen thus beseeches: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers, Cease at last thine incantations, Only turn away thy magic, And my former life restore me, Lift me from this stifling torment, Free mine eyes from sand and water, I will give thee sister, Aino, Fairest daughter of my mother, Bride of thine to be forever, Bride of thine to do thy pleasure, Sweep the rooms within thy cottage, Keep thy dwelling-place in order, Rinse for thee the golden platters, Spread thy couch with finest linens, For thy bed, weave golden covers, Bake for thee the honey-biscuit.' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Finds at last the wished-for ransom, Lapland's young and fairest daughter, Sister dear of Youkahainen; Happy he, that he has won him, In his age a beauteous maiden, Bride of his to be forever, Pride and joy of Kalevala. Now the happy Wainamoinen, Sits upon the rock of gladness, Joyful on the rock of music, Sings a little, sings and ceases, Sings again, and sings a third time, Thus to break the spell of magic, Thus to lessen the enchantment, Thus the potent charm to banish. As the magic spell is broken, Youkahainen, sad, but wiser, Drags his feet from out the quicksand, Lifts his beard from out the water, From the rocks leads forth his courser, 35 Brings his sledge back from the rushes, Calls his whip back from the ocean, Sets his golden sledge in order, Throws himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps his whip and hies him homeward, Hastens homeward, heavy-hearted, Sad indeed to meet his mother, Aino's mother, gray and aged. Careless thus be hastens homeward, Nears his home with noise and bustle, Reckless drives against the pent-house, Breaks the shafts against the portals, Breaks his handsome sledge in pieces. Then his mother, quickly guessing, Would have chided him for rashness, But the father interrupted: 'Wherefore dost thou break thy snow-sledge, Wherefore dash thy thills in fragments, Wherefore comest home so strangely, Why this rude and wild behavior?' Now alas! poor Youkahainen, Cap awry upon his forehead, Falls to weeping, broken-hearted, Head depressed and mind dejected, Eyes and lips expressing sadness, Answers not his anxious father. Then the mother quickly asked him, Sought to find his cause for sorrow: 'Tell me, first-born, why thou weepest, Why thou weepest, heavy-hearted, Why thy mind is so dejected, Why thine eyes express such sadness.' Youkahainen then made answer: 'Golden mother, ever faithful, Cause there is to me sufficient, Cause enough in what has happened, Bitter cause for this my sorrow, Cause for bitter tears and murmurs: All my days will pass unhappy, Since, O mother of my being, I have promised beauteous Aino, Aino, thy beloved daughter, 36 Aino, my devoted sister, To decrepit Wainamoinen, Bride to be to him forever, Roof above him, prop beneath him, Fair companion at his fire-side.' Joyful then arose the mother, Clapped her hands in glee together, Thus addressing Youkahainen: 'Weep no more, my son beloved, Thou hast naught to cause thy weeping, Hast no reason for thy sorrow, Often I this hope have cherished; Many years have I been praying That this mighty bard and hero, Wise and valiant Wainamoinen, Spouse should be to beauteous Aino, Son-in-law to me, her mother.' But the fair and lovely maiden, Sister dear of Youkahainen, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, On the threshold wept and lingered, Wept all day and all the night long, Wept a second, then a third day, Wept because a bitter sorrow On her youthful heart had fallen. Then the gray-haired mother asked her: 'Why this weeping, lovely Aino? Thou hast found a noble suitor, Thou wilt rule his spacious dwelling, At his window sit and rest thee, Rinse betimes his golden platters, Walk a queen within his dwelling.' Thus replied the tearful Aino: 'Mother dear, and all-forgiving, Cause enough for this my sorrow, Cause enough for bitter weeping: I must loose my sunny tresses, Tresses beautiful and golden, Cannot deck my hair with jewels, Cannot bind my head with ribbons, All to be hereafter hidden Underneath the linen bonnet 37 That the wife. must wear forever; Weep at morning, weep at evening, Weep alas! for waning beauty, Childhood vanished, youth departed, Silver sunshine, golden moonlight, Hope and pleasure of my childhood, Taken from me now forever, And so soon to be forgotten At the tool-bench of my brother, At the window of my sister, In the cottage of my father.' Spake again the gray-haired mother To her wailing daughter Aino: 'Cease thy sorrow, foolish maiden, By thy tears thou art ungrateful, Reason none for thy repining, Not the slightest cause for weeping; Everywhere the silver sunshine Falls as bright on other households; Not alone the moonlight glimmers Through thy father's open windows, On the work-bench of thy brother; Flowers bloom in every meadow, Berries grow on every mountain; Thou canst go thyself and find them, All the day long go and find them; Not alone thy brother's meadows Grow the beauteous vines and flowers; Not alone thy father's mountains Yield the ripe, nutritious berries; Flowers bloom in other meadows, Berries grow on other mountains, There as here, my lovely Aino.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

246:The Kalevala - Rune Xxv WAINAMOINEN'S WEDDING-SONGS. At the home of Ilmarinen Long had they been watching, waiting, For the coming of the blacksmith, With his bride from Sariola. Weary were the eyes of watchers, Waiting from the father's portals, Looking from the mother's windows; Weary were the young knees standing At the gates of the magician; Weary grew the feet of children, Tramping to the walls and watching; Worn and torn, the shoes of heroes, Running on the shore to meet him. Now at last upon a morning Of a lovely day in winter, Heard they from the woods the rumble Of a snow-sledge swiftly bounding. Lakko, hostess of Wainola, She the lovely Kalew-daughter, Spake these words in great excitement: ''Tis the sledge of the magician, Comes at last the metal-worker From the dismal Sariola, By his side the Bride of Beauty! Welcome, welcome, to this hamlet, Welcome to thy mother's hearth-stone, To the dwelling of thy father, By thine ancestors erected!' Straightway came great Ilmarinen To his cottage drove the blacksmith, To the fireside of his father, To his mother's ancient dwelling. Hazel-birds were sweetly singing On the newly-bended collar; Sweetly called the sacred cuckoos From the summit of the break-board; 424 Merry, jumped the graceful squirrel On the oaken shafts and cross-bar. Lakko, Kalew's fairest hostess, Beauteous daughter of Wainola, Spake these words of hearty welcome: 'For the new moon hopes the village, For the sun, the happy maidens, For the boat, the swelling water; I have not the moon expected, For the sun have not been waiting, I have waited for my hero, Waited for the Bride of Beauty; Watched at morning, watched at evening, Did not know but some misfortune, Some sad fate had overtaken Bride and bridegroom on their journey; Thought the maiden growing weary, Weary of my son's attentions, Since he faithfully had promised To return to Kalevala, Ere his foot-prints had departed From the snow-fields of his father. Every morn I looked and listened, Constantly I thought and wondered When his sledge would rumble homeward, When it would return triumphant To his home, renowned and ancient. Had a blind and beggared straw-horse Hobbled to these shores awaiting, With a sledge of but two pieces, Well the steed would have been lauded, Had it brought my son beloved, Had it brought the Bride of Beauty. Thus I waited long, impatient, Looking out from morn till even, Watching with my head extended, With my tresses streaming southward, With my eyelids widely opened, Waiting for my son's returning To this modest home of heroes, To this narrow place of resting. Finally am I rewarded, 425 For the sledge has come triumphant, Bringing home my son and hero, By his side the Rainbow maiden, Red her cheeks, her visage winsome, Pride and joy of Sariola. 'Wizard-bridegroom of Wainola, Take thy-courser to the stable, Lead him to the well-filled manger, To the best of grain and clover; Give to us thy friendly greetings, Greetings send to all thy people. When thy greetings thou hast ended, Then relate what has befallen To our hero in his absence. Hast thou gone without adventure To the dark fields of Pohyola, Searching for the Maid of Beauty? Didst thou scale the hostile ramparts, Didst thou take the virgin's mansion, Passing o'er her mother's threshold, Visiting the halls of Louhi? 'But I know without the asking, See the answer to my question: Comest from the North a victor, On thy journey well contented; Thou hast brought the Northland daughter, Thou hast razed the hostile portals, Thou hast stormed the forts of Louhi, Stormed the mighty walls opposing, On thy journey to Pohyola, To the village of the father. In thy care the bride is sitting, In thine arms, the Rainbow-maiden, At thy side, the pride of Northland, Mated to the highly-gifted. Who has told the cruel story, Who the worst of news has scattered, That thy suit was unsuccessful, That in vain thy steed had journeyed? Not in vain has been thy wooing, Not in vain thy steed has travelled To the dismal homes of Lapland; 426 He has journeyed heavy laden, Shaken mane, and tail, and forelock, Dripping foam from lips and nostrils, Through the bringing of the maiden, With the burden of the husband. 'Come, thou beauty, from the snow-sledge, Come, descend thou from the cross-bench, Do not linger for assistance, Do not tarry to be carried; If too young the one that lifts thee, If too proud the one in waiting, Rise thou, graceful, like a young bird, Hither glide along the pathway, On the tan-bark scarlet- colored, That the herds of kine have evened, That the gentle lambs have trodden, Smoothened by the tails of horses. Haste thou here with gentle footsteps, Through the pathway smooth and tidy, On the tiles of even surface, On thy second father's court-yard, To thy second mother's dwelling, To thy brother's place of resting, To thy sister's silent chambers. Place thy foot within these portals, Step across this waiting threshold, Enter thou these halls of joyance, Underneath these painted rafters, Underneath this roof of ages. During all the winter evenings, Through the summer gone forever, Sang the tiling made of ivory, Wishing thou wouldst walk upon it; Often sang the golden ceiling, Hoping thou wouldst walk beneath it, And the windows often whistled, Asking thee to sit beside them; Even on this merry morning, Even on the recent evening, Sat the aged at their windows, On the sea-shore ran the children, Near the walls the maidens waited, 427 Ran the boys upon the highway, There to watch the young bride's coming, Coming with her hero-husband. 'Hail, ye courtiers of Wainola, With the heroes of the fathers, Hail to thee, Wainola's hamlet, Hail, ye halls with heroes peopled, Hail, ye rooms with all your inmates, Hail to thee, sweet golden moonlight, Hail to thee, benignant Ukko, Hail companions of the bridegroom! Never has there been in Northland Such a wedding-train of honor, Never such a bride of beauty. 'Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, Now untie the scarlet ribbons, And remove the silken muffler, Let us see the honey-maiden, See the Daughter of the Rainbow. Seven years hast thou been wooing, Hast thou brought the maid affianced, Wainamoinen's Wedding-Songs. Hast thou sought a sweeter cuckoo, Sought one fairer than the moonlight, Sought a mermaid from the ocean? But I know without the asking, See the answer to my question: Thou hast brought the sweet-voiced cuckoo, Thou hast found the swan of beauty Plucked the sweetest flower of Northland, Culled the fairest of the jewels, Gathered Pohya's sweetest berry!' Sat a babe upon the matting, And the young child spake as follows: 'Brother, what is this thou bringest, Aspen-log or trunk of willow, Slender as the mountain-linden? Bridegroom, well dost thou remember, Thou hast hoped it all thy life-time, Hoped to bring the Maid of Beauty, Thou a thousand times hast said it, Better far than any other, 428 Not one like the croaking raven, Nor the magpie from the border, Nor the scarecrow from the corn-fields, Nor the vulture from the desert. What has this one done of credit, In the summer that has ended? Where the gloves that she has knitted, Where the mittens she has woven? Thou hast brought her empty-handed, Not a gift she brings thy father; In thy chests the nice are nesting, Long-tails feeding on thy vestments, And thy bride, cannot repair them.' Lakko hostess of Wainola, She the faithful Kalew-daughter, Hears the young child's speech in wonder, Speaks these words of disapproval: Silly prattler, cease thy talking, Thou Last spoken in dishonor; Let all others be astonished, Reap thy malice on thy kindred, must not harm the Bride of Beauty, Rainbow-daughter of the Northland. False indeed is this thy Prattle, All thy words are full or evil, Fallen from thy tongue of mischief From the lips of one unworthy. Excellent the hero 's young bride, Best of all in Sariola, Like the, strawberry in summer, Like the daisy from the meadow, Like the cuckoo from the forest, Like the bluebird from the aspen, Like the redbreast from the heather, Like the martin. from the linden; Never couldst thou find in Ehstland Such a virgin as this daughter, Such a graceful beauteous maiden, With such dignity of Carriage, With such arms of pearly whiteness, With. a neck so fair and lovely. Neither is she empty-handed, 429 She has brought us furs abundant, Brought us many silken garments, Richest weavings of Pohyola. Many beauteous things the maiden, With the spindle has accomplished, Spun and woven with her fingers Dresses of the finest texture She in winter has upfolded, Bleached them in the days of spring-time, Dried them at the hour of noon-day, For our couches finest linen, For our heads the softest pillows, For our comfort woollen blankets, For our necks the silken ribbons.' To the bride speaks gracious Lakko: 'Goodly wife, thou Maid of Beauty, Highly wert thou praised as daughter, In thy father's distant country; Here thou shalt be praised forever By the kindred of thy husband; Thou shalt never suffer sorrow, Never give thy heart to grieving; In the swamps thou wert not nurtured, Wert not fed beside the brooklets; Thou wert born 'neath stars auspicious, Nurtured from the richest garners, Thou wert taken to the brewing Of the sweetest beer in Northland. 'Beauteous bride from Sariola, Shouldst thou see me bringing hither Casks of corn, or wheat, or barley; Bringing rye in great abundance, They belong to this thy household; Good the plowing of thy husband. Good his sowing and his reaping. 'Bride of Beauty from the Northland, Thou wilt learn this home to manage, Learn to labor with thy kindred; Good the home for thee to dwell in, Good enough for bride and daughter. At thy hand will rest the milk-pail, And the churn awaits thine order; 430 It is well here for the maiden, Happy will the young bride labor, Easy are the resting-benches; Here the host is like thy father, Like thy mother is the hostess, All the sons are like thy brothers, Like thy sisters are the daughters. 'Shouldst thou ever have a longing For the whiting of the ocean, For thy, father's Northland salmon, For thy brother's hazel-chickens, Ask them only of thy husband, Let thy hero-husband bring them. There is not in all of Northland, Not a creature of the forest, Not a bird beneath the ether, Not a fish within the waters, Not the largest, nor the smallests That thy husband cannot capture. It is well here for the maiden, Here the bride may live in freedom, Need not turn the heavy millstone, Need not move the iron pestle; Here the wheat is ground by water, For the rye, the swifter current, While the billows wash the vessels And the surging waters rinse them. Thou hast here a lovely village, Finest spot in all of Northland, In the lowlands sweet the verdure, in the uplands, fields of beauty, With the lake-shore near the hamlet, Near thy home the running water, Where the goslings swim and frolic, Water-birds disport in numbers.' Thereupon the bride and bridegroom Were refreshed with richest viands, Given food and drink abundant, Fed on choicest bits of reindeer, On the sweetest loaves of barley, On the best of wheaten biscuits, On the richest beer of Northland. 431 Many things were on the table, Many dainties of Wainola, In the bowls of scarlet color, In the platters deftly painted, Many cakes with honey sweetened, To each guest was butter given, Many bits of trout and whiting, Larger salmon carved in slices, With the knives of molten silver, Rimmed with gold the silver handles, Beer of barley ceaseless flowing, Honey-drink that was not purchased, In the cellar flows profusely, Beer for all, the tongues to quicken, Mead and beer the minds to freshen. Who is there to lead the singing, Lead the songs of Kalevala? Wainamoinen, old and truthful, The eternal, wise enchanter, Quick begins his incantations, Straightway sings the songs that follow. 'Golden brethren, dearest kindred, Ye, my loved ones, wise and worthy Ye companions, highly-gifted, Listen to my simple sayings: Rarely stand the geese together, Sisters do not mate each other, Not together stand the brothers, Nor the children of one mother, In the countries of the Northland. 'Shall we now begin the singing, Sing the songs of old tradition? Singers can but sing their wisdom, And the cuckoo call the spring-time, And the goddess of the heavens Only dyes the earth in beauty; So the goddesses of weaving Can but weave from dawn till twilight, Ever sing the youth of Lapland In their straw-shoes full of gladness, When the coarse-meat of the roebuck, Or of blue-moose they have eaten. 432 Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children not be chanting Of the biscuits of Wainola, Of the bread of Kalew-waters? Even Sing the lads of Lapland In their straw-shoes filled with joyance, Drinking but a cup of water, Eating but the bitter tan-bark. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children not be chanting Of the beer of Kalevala, Brewed from barley in perfection, Dressed in quaint and homely costume, As they sit beside their hearth-stones. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children too be chanting Underneath these painted rafters, In these halls renowned and ancient? This the place for men to linger, This the court-room for the maidens, Near the foaming beer of barley, Honey-brewed in great abundance, Very near, the salmon-waters, Near, the nets for trout and whiting, Here where food is never wanting, Where the beer is ever brewing. Here Wainola's sons assemble, Here Wainola's daughters gather, Here they never eat in trouble, Here they live without regretting, In the life-time of the landlord, While the hostess lives and prospers. 'Who shall first be sung and lauded? Shall it be the bride or bridegroom? Let us praise the bridegroom's father, Let the hero-host be chanted, Him whose home is in the forest, Him who built upon the mountains, Him who brought the trunks of lindens, With their tops and slender branches, Brought them to the best of places, Joined them skilfully together, 433 For the mansion of the nation, For this famous hero-dwelling, Walls procured upon the lowlands, Rafters from the pine and fir-tree, From the woodlands beams of oak-wood, From the berry-plains the studding, Bark was furnished by the aspen, And the mosses from the fenlands. Trimly builded is this mansion, In a haven warmly sheltered; Here a hundred men have labored, On the roof have stood a thousand, As this spacious house was building, As this roof was tightly jointed. Here the ancient mansion-builder, When these rafters were erected, Lost in storms his locks of sable, Scattered by the winds of heaven. Often has the hero-landlord On the rocks his gloves forgotten, Left his hat upon the willows, Lost his mittens in the marshes; Oftentimes the mansion-builder, In the early hours of morning, Ere his workmen had awakened, Unperceived by all the village, Has arisen from his slumber, Left his cabin the snow-fields, Combed his locks among the branches, Bathed his eyes in dews of morning. 'Thus obtained the pleasant landlord Friends to fill his spacious dwelling, Fill his benches with magicians, Fill his windows with enchanters, Fill his halls with wizard-singers, Fill his floors with ancient speakers, Fill his ancient court with strangers, Fill his hurdles with the needy; Thus the Kalew-host is lauded. 'Now I praise the genial hostess, Who prepares the toothsome dinner, Fills with plenty all her tables, 434 Bakes the honeyed loaves of barley, Kneads the dough with magic fingers, With her arms of strength and beauty, Bakes her bread in copper ovens, Feeds her guests and bids them welcome, Feeds them on the toothsome bacon, On the trout, and pike, and whiting, On the rarest fish in ocean, On the dainties of Wainola. 'Often has the faithful hostess Risen from her couch in silence, Ere the crowing of the watcher, To prepare the wedding-banquet, Make her tables look attractive. Brew the honey-beer of wedlock. Excellently has the housewife, Has the hostess filled with wisdom, Brewed the beer from hops and barley, From the corn of Kalevala, From the wheat-malt honey-seasoned, Stirred the beer with graceful fingers, At the oven in the penthouse, In the chamber swept and polished. Neither did the prudent hostess, Beautiful, and full of wisdom, Let the barley sprout too freely, Lest the beer should taste of black-earth, Be too bitter in the brewing, Often went she to the garners, Went alone at hour of midnight, Was not frightened by the black-wolf, Did not fear the beasts of woodlands. 'Now the hostess I have lauded, Let me praise the favored suitor, Now the honored hero-bridegroom, Best of all the village-masters. Clothed in purple is the hero, Raiment brought from distant nations, Tightly fitting to his body; Snugly sets his coat of ermine, To the floor it hangs in beauty, Trailing from his neck and shoulders, 435 Little of his vest appearing, Peeping through his outer raiment, Woven by the Moon's fair daughters, And his vestment silver-tinselled. Dressed in neatness is the suitor, Round his waist a belt of copper, Hammered by the Sun's sweet maidens, Ere the early fires were lighted, Ere the fire had been discovered. Dressed in richness is the bridegroom, On his feet are silken stockings, Silken ribbons on his ankles, Gold and silver interwoven. Dressed in beauty is the bridegroom, On his feet are shoes of deer-skin, Like the swans upon the water, Like the blue-duck on the sea-waves, Like the thrush among the willows, Like the water-birds of Northland. Well adorned the hero-suitor, With his locks of golden color, With his gold-beard finely braided, Hero-hat upon his forehead, Piercing through the forest branches, Reaching to the clouds of heaven, Bought with countless gold and silver, Priceless is the suitor's head-gear. 'Now the bridegroom has been lauded, I will praise the young bride's playmate, Day-companion in her childhood, In the maiden's magic mansion. Whence was brought the merry maiden, From the village of Tanikka? Thence was never brought the playmate, Playmate of the bride in childhood. Has she come from distant nations, From the waters of the Dwina, O'er the ocean far-outstretching? Not from Dwina came the maiden, Did not sail across the waters; Grew as berry in the mountains, As a strawberry of sweetness, 436 On the fields the child of beauty, In the glens the golden flower. Thence has come the young bride's playmate, Thence arose her fair companion. Tiny are her feet and fingers, Small her lips of scarlet color, Like the maiden's loom of Suomi; Eyes that shine in kindly beauty Like the twinkling stars of heaven; Beam the playmate's throbbing temples Like the moonlight on the waters. Trinkets has the bride's companion, On her neck a golden necklace, In her tresses, silken ribbons, On her arms are golden bracelets, Golden rings upon her fingers, Pearls are set in golden ear-rings, Loops of gold upon her temples, And with pearls her brow is studded. Northland thought the Moon was shining When her jeweled ear-ringsglistened; Thought the Sun had left his station When her girdle shone in beauty; Thought a ship was homeward sailing When her colored head-gear fluttered. Thus is praised the bride's companion, Playmate of the Rainbow-maiden. 'Now I praise the friends assembled, All appear in graceful manners; If the old are wise and silent, All the youth are free and merry, All the guests are fair and worthy. Never was there in Wainola, Never will there be in Northland, Such a company assembled; All the children speak in joyance, All the aged move sedately; Dressed in white are all the maidens, Like the hoar-frost of the morning, Like the welcome dawn of spring-time, Like the rising of the daylight. Silver then was more abundant, 437 Gold among the guests in plenty, On the hills were money, pockets, Money-bags along the valleys, For the friends that were invited, For the guests in joy assembled. All the friends have now been lauded, Each has gained his meed of honor.' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Song-deliverer of Northland, Swung himself upon the fur-bench Or his magic sledge of copper, Straightway hastened to his hamlet, Singing as he journeyed onward, Singing charms and incantations, Singing one day, then a second, All the third day chanting legends. On the rocks the runners rattled, Hung the sledge upon a birch-stump, Broke it into many pieces, With the magic of his singing; Double were the runners bended, All the parts were torn asunder, And his magic sledge was ruined. Then the good, old Wainamoinen Spake these words in meditation: 'Is there one among this number, In this rising generation, Or perchance among the aged, In the passing generation, That will go to Mana's kingdom, To the empire of Tuoni, There to get the magic auger From the master of Manala, That I may repair my snow-sledge, Or a second sledge may fashion?' What the younger people answered Was the answer of the aged: 'Not among the youth of Northland, Nor among the aged heroes, Is there one of ample courage, That has bravery sufficient, To attempt the reckless journey 438 To the kingdom of Tuoni, To Manala's fields and castles, Thence to bring Tuoni's auger, Wherewithal to mend thy snow-sledge, Build anew thy sledge of magic.' Thereupon old Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, Went again to Mana's empire, To the kingdom of Tuoni, Crossed the sable stream of Deathland, To the castles of Manala, Found the auger of Tuoni, Brought the instrument in safety. Straightway sings old Wainamoinen, Sings to life a purple forest, In the forest, slender birches, And beside them, mighty oak-trees, Shapes them into shafts and runners, Moulds them by his will and power, Makes anew his sledge of magic. On his steed he lays the harness, Binds him to his sledge securely, Seats himself upon the cross-bench, And the racer gallops homeward, To the manger filled and waiting, To the stable of his master; Brings the ancient Wainamoinen, Famous bard and wise enchanter, To the threshold of his dwelling, To his home in Kalevala. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

247:The Kalevala - Rune Xviii THE RIVAL SUITORS Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Long considered, long debated, How to woo and win the daughter Of the hostess of Pohyola, How to lead the Bride of Beauty, Fairy maiden of the rainbow, To the meadows of Wainola, 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: Now erects the masts of pine-wood, On each mast the sails of linen, Sails of blue, and white, and scarlet, Woven into finest fabric. Wainamoinen, 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 Pohyola: 'Come aboard my ship, O 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 out-stretching waters. 'Rock, O 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 Pohyola, O'er this mighty waste of waters.' 317 Ilmarinen's beauteous sister, Fair and goodly maid, Annikki, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, Who awakes each morning early, Rises long before the daylight, Stood one morning on the sea-shore, Washing in the foam her dresses, Rinsing out her silken ribbons, On the bridge of scarlet color, On the border of the highway, On a headland jutting seaward, On the forest-covered island. Here Annikki, 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, Glimmering along the billows, Looks with eyes of distant vision Toward the sunrise on the waters, Toward the winding streams of Suomi, Where the Wina-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? 'Tis 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.' 318 Wainamoinen, sailing northward, Steers his wondrous ship of magic Toward the headland jutting seaward, Toward the island forest-covered. Now Annikki, goodly maiden, Sees it 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 harbor, To thy refuge in Wainola. 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 sail-boat from the distance, 'Twas the ship of Wainamoinen, 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 maid, Annikki, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, To the sailor of the vessel: 'Whither sailest, Wainamoinen, Whither bound, thou friend of waters, Pride and joy of Kalevala?' From the vessel Wainamomen Gives this answer to the maiden: 'I have come to catch some sea-trout, Catch the young and toothsome whiting, Hiding in tbese-reeds and rushes.' This the answer of Annikki: 'Do not speak to me in falsehood, Know I well the times of fishing; Long ago my honored father Was a fisherman in Northland, Came to catch the trout and whiting, Fished within these seas and rivers. 319 Very well do I remember How the fisherman disposes, How he rigs his fishing vessel, Lines, and gaffs, and poles, and fish-nets; Hast not come a-fishing hither. Whither goest, Wainamoinen, Whither sailest, friend of waters? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'I have come to catch some wild-geese, Catch the hissing birds of Suomi, In these far-extending borders, In the Sachsensund dominions.' Good Annikki gives this answer: 'Know I well a truthful speaker, Easily detect a falsehood; 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 sea-shore, Setters seeking in the marshes, Tell the truth now Wainamoinen, Whither is thy vessel sailing?' Spake the hero of the Northland: 'To the wars my ship is sailing, To the bloody fields of battle, Where the streams run scarlet-colored, Where the paths are paved with bodies!' These the words of fair Annikki: 'Know I well the paths to battle. Formerly my aged father Often sounded war's alarum, Often led the hosts to conquest; In each ship a hundred rowers, And in arms a thousand heroes, Oil the prow a thousand cross-bows, Swords, and spears, and battle-axes; Know I well the ship of battle. 320 Speak Do longer fruitless falsehoods, Whither sailest, Wainamoinen, Whither steerest, friend of waters? These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Come, O maiden, to my vessel, In my magic ship be seated, Then I'll give thee truthful answer.' Thus Annikki, silver-tinselled, Answers ancient Wainamoinen: '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 Whither sails thy magic vessel.' These the words of Wainamoinen: '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 Walnola.' Then Aunikki, 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 unrinsed her silks and ribbons On the highway by the sea-shore, On the bridge of scarlet color On her arm she threw her long-robes, Hastened off with speed of roebuck To the shops of Ilmarinen, To the iron-forger's furnace, 321 To the blacksmith's home and smithy, Here she found the hero-artist, Forging out a bench of iron, And adorning it with silver. Soot lay thick upon his forehead, Soot and coal upon his shoulders. On the threshold speaks Annikki, 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 ear-rings, 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: 'If thou'lt tell the tale sincerely, I will forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge thee gold and silver ear-rings, 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 beauteous jewels, Break thine ornaments in pieces, Hurl them to the fire and furnace, Never forge thee other trinkets.' This the answer of Annikki: 'Ancient blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Dost thou ever think to marry Her already thine affianced, Beauteous 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, 322 Hammering the days and nights through; Forge the summer hoofs for horses, Forge them iron hoofs for winter, In the long nights forge the snow-sledge, Gaily trim it in the daytime, Haste thou then upon thy journey To thy wooing in the Northland, To the dismal Sariola; Thither journeys one more clever, Sails another now before thee, There to woo thy bride affianced, Thence to lead thy chosen virgin, Woo and win the Maid of Beauty; Three long years thou hast been wooing. Wainamoinen now is sailing On the blue back of the waters, Sitting at his helm of copper; On the prow are golden carvings, Beautiful his boat of magic, Sailing fleetly o'er the billows, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola.' Ilmarinen 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 Annikki, worthy sister, I shall forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge thee gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom; Go and heat for me the bath-room, Fill with heat the honey-chambers, Lay the faggots on the fire-place, Lay the smaller woods around them, Pour some water through the ashes, Make a soap of magic virtue, Thus to cleanse my blackened visage, 323 Thus to cleanse the blacksmith's body, Thus remove the soot and ashes.' Then Annikki, kindly sister, Quickly warmed her brother's bath-room, 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 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, Thus to cleanse the iron-artist, Thus to beautify the suitor, Thus to make the hero worthy. Ilmarinen, ancient blacksmith, The eternal metal-worker, Forged the wishes of his sister, Ornaments for fair Annikki, Rings, and bracelets, pins and ear-drops, Forged for her six golden girdles, Forged a weaving loom of silver, While the maid prepared the bath-room, 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 bath-room, Have thy toilet-things in order, Everything as thou desirest; Go prepare thyself for wooing, Lave thy bead to flaxen whiteness, Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, Lave thyself in Love's aroma, That thy wooing prove successful.' Ilmarinen, magic artist, Quick repairing to his bath-room, Bathed his head to flaxen whiteness, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy, 324 Laved his eyes until they sparkled Like the moonlight on the waters; Wondrous were his form and features, And his cheeks like ruddy berries. These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Fair Annikki, lovely sister, Bring me now my silken raiment, Bring my best and richest vesture, Bring me now my softest linen, That my wooing prove successful.' Straightway did the helpful sister Bring the finest of his raiment, Bring the softest of his linen, Raiment fashioned by his mother; Brought to him his silken stockings, Brought him shoes of marten-leather, Brought a vest of sky-blue color, Brought him scarlet-colored 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, Fastened with a thousand bottons, And adorned with countless jewels; Brought for him his magic girdle, Fastened well with golden buckles, That his artist-mother fashioned; Brought him gloves with golden wristlets, That the Laplanders 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 Pohya, To the dismal Sariola.' Spake the servant thus in answer: 325 '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 coursers, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitch him to my sledge of magic; Place six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven bluebirds 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 bear-skin, Fold it warm about the cross-bench; Bring me then my marten fur-robes, As a cover and protection.' Straightway then the trusty servant Of the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitched the racer to the snow-sledge, Placed six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven bluebirds on the cross-bars, On the front to sing and twitter; Then he brought the largest bear-skin, Folded it upon the cross-bench; Brought the finest robes of marten, Warm protection for the master. Ilmarinen, forger-artist, The eternal metal-worker, Earnestly entreated Ukko: 'Send thy snow-flakes, 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 O'er the hills to Sariola!' Ukko sent the snow from heaven, Gently dropped the crystal snow-flakes, Lending thus his kind assistance To the hero, Ilmarinen, On his journey to the Northland. Reins in hand, the ancient artist 326 Seats him in his metal snow-sledge, And beseeches thus his Master: 'Good luck to my reins and traces, 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 courser, To the gray steed gives this order, And the charger plunges northward: 'Haste away, my flaxen stallion, Haste thee onward, noble white-face, To the never-pleasant Pohya, To the dreary Sariola!' Fast and faster flies the fleet-foot, On the curving snow-capped sea-coast, On the borders of the lowlands, O'er the alder-hills and mountains. Merrily the steed flies onward, Bluebirds singing, cuckoos calling, On the sea-shore looking northward, Through the sand and falling snow-flakes Blinding winds, and snow, and sea-foam, Cloud the hero, Ilmarinen, As he glides upon his journey, Looking seaward for the vessel Of the ancient Wainamoinen; Travels one day, then a second, Travels all the next day northward, Till the third day Ilmarinen Overtakes old Wainamoinen, Rails him in his magic vessel, And addresses thus the minstrel: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Fairest daughter or the Northland, Sitting on the bow of heaven, Let each labor long to win her, Let her wed the one she chooses, Him selecting, let her follow.' 327 Wainamoinen 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 Harbor neither wrath nor envy For the hero that she follows.' Thus agreeing, on they 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. Wainamoinen 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 Pohyola. 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 Louhi; 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 Pohyola: 'Go and learn, my worthy daughter, Why the watch-dogs 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, 328 Grind to flour the grains of barley, Run the grindings through the sifter, Only have I time for grinding.' Lowly growls the faithful watch-dog, Seldom does he growl so strangely. Spake the master of Pohyola: '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, Knead the dough till it is ready, Only have I strength for kneading.' Spake the master of Pohyola: '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, 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 fire-wood, Only have I strength for chopping.' Still the watch-dog growls in anger, Growl the whelps within the mansion, Growl the dogs chained in the kennel, Growls the black-dog on the hill-top, Setting Northland in an uproar. Spake the master of Pohyola: '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.' 329 Then the master of Pohyola Went himself to learn the reason For the barking of the watch-dogs; Strode he through the spacious court-yard, 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 hill-top, 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 sea-shore, O'er the snow-fields of Pohyola. Then the master of the Northland Hastened straightway to his dwelling, Hastened forward to his court-room, 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 Louhi.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: How shall we obtain a token Why these strangers journey hither? My beloved, faithful daughter, Lay a branch upon the fire-place, 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, 330 Lays a sorb-branch on the fire-place, 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 Suowakko, This the language of the wizard: 'If the wand is dripping honey, Then the strangers that are coming Are but 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 court-yard; Looked about in all directions, Turned their eyes upon the waters, Saw a magic-colored vessel Rocking slowly in the harbor, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Triple sails, and masts, and rigging, Sable was the nether portion, And the upper, scarlet-colored, 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 Louhi; Saw and heard six golden cuckoos Sitting on the break-board, calling, Seven bluebirds richly colored Singing from the yoke and cross-bar; In the sledge a magic hero, Young, and strong, and proud, and handsome, Holding reins upon the courser. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Dearest daughter, winsome maiden, Dost thou wish a noble suitor? Should these heroes come to woo thee, Wouldst thou leave thy home and country, Be the bride of him that pleases, Be his faithful life-companion? 331 'He that comes upon the waters, Sailing in a magic vessel, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Is the good, old Wainamoinen; In his ship are countless treasures, Richest presents from Wainola. 'He that rides here in his snow-sledge In his sledge of magic beauty, With the cuckoos and the bluebirds, Is the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Cometh 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 Wainamoinen, Him that brings thee 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 behavior, Him that forged the wondrous Sampo, Hammered thee the lid in colors.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: '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, 332 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 Wainamoinen With his gold and priceless jewels; Never will I be a helpmate To a hero in his dotage, Little thanks my compensation.' Wainamoinen, safely landing In advance of Ilmarinen, Pulls his gaily-covered vessel From the waves upon the sea-beach, On the cylinders of birch-wood, On the rollers copper-banded, Straightway hastens to the guest-room Of the hostess of Pohyola, 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 honored 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?' Wainamoinen 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, 333 Through Pohyola'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 old Wainamoinen.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

248:I. In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the air, A faery city 'neath the potent rule Of Emperor Elfinan; fam'd ev'rywhere For love of mortal women, maidens fair, Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare, To tamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid: He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade. II. This was a crime forbidden by the law; And all the priesthood of his city wept, For ruin and dismay they well foresaw, If impious prince no bound or limit kept, And faery Zendervester overstept; They wept, he sin'd, and still he would sin on, They dreamt of sin, and he sin'd while they slept; In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne, Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon. III. Which seeing, his high court of parliament Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet, Praying his royal senses to content Themselves with what in faery land was sweet, Befitting best that shade with shade should meet: Whereat, to calm their fears, he promis'd soon From mortal tempters all to make retreat,-- Aye, even on the first of the new moon, An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon. IV. Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign, To half beg, and half demand, respectfully, The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine; An audience had, and speeching done, they gain Their point, and bring the weeping bride away; Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain Upon their wings, they bore in bright array, While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric fay. V. As in old pictures tender cherubim A child's soul thro' the sapphir'd canvas bear, So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim With the sweet princess on her plumag'd lair, Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair; And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake, Save when, for healthful exercise and air, She chose to "promener l'aile," or take A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake. VI. "Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud," Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant, "Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud, Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant? He hears a whisper plainer than a rant: Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue; He's Elfinan's great state-spy militant, His running, lying, flying foot-man too,-- Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you! VII. "Show him a mouse's tail, and he will guess, With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse; Show him a garden, and with speed no less, He'll surmise sagely of a dwelling house, And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse The owner out of it; show him a" --- "Peace! Peace! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to rouse!" Return'd the Princess, "my tongue shall not cease Till from this hated match I get a free release. VIII. "Ah, beauteous mortal!" "Hush!" quoth Coralline, "Really you must not talk of him, indeed." "You hush!" reply'd the mistress, with a shinee Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread: 'Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch, But of its threat she took the utmost heed; Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch, Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch. IX. So she was silenc'd, and fair Bellanaine, Writhing her little body with ennui, Continued to lament and to complain, That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be Ravish'd away far from her dear countree; That all her feelings should be set at nought, In trumping up this match so hastily, With lowland blood; and lowland blood she thought Poison, as every staunch true-born Imaian ought. X. Sorely she griev'd, and wetted three or four White Provence rose-leaves with her faery tears, But not for this cause; -- alas! she had more Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears In the fam'd memoirs of a thousand years, Written by Crafticant, and published By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly compeers Who rak'd up ev'ry fact against the dead,) In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head. XI. Where, after a long hypercritic howl Against the vicious manners of the age, He goes on to expose, with heart and soul, What vice in this or that year was the rage, Backbiting all the world in every page; With special strictures on the horrid crime, (Section'd and subsection'd with learning sage,) Of faeries stooping on their wings sublime To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in their prime. XII. Turn to the copious index, you will find Somewhere in the column, headed letter B, The name of Bellanaine, if you're not blind; Then pray refer to the text, and you will see An article made up of calumny Against this highland princess, rating her For giving way, so over fashionably, To this new-fangled vice, which seems a burr Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er could stir. XIII. There he says plainly that she lov'd a man! That she around him flutter'd, flirted, toy'd, Before her marriage with great Elfinan; That after marriage too, she never joy'd In husband's company, but still employ'd Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land; Where liv'd the youth, who worried and annoy'd Her tender heart, and its warm ardours fann'd To such a dreadful blaze, her side would scorch her hand. XIV. But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle To waiting-maids, and bed-room coteries, Nor till fit time against her fame wage battle. Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease, Let us resume his subject if you please: For it may comfort and console him much, To rhyme and syllable his miseries; Poor Elfinan! whose cruel fate was such, He sat and curs'd a bride he knew he could not touch. XV. Soon as (according to his promises) The bridal embassy had taken wing, And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb trees, The Emperor, empierc'd with the sharp sting Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring Like any drone shut from the fair bee-queen, Into his cabinet, and there did fling His limbs upon a sofa, full of spleen, And damn'd his House of Commons, in complete chagrin. XVI. "I'll trounce some of the members," cry'd the Prince, "I'll put a mark against some rebel names, I'll make the Opposition-benches wince, I'll show them very soon, to all their shames, What 'tis to smother up a Prince's flames; That ministers should join in it, I own, Surprises me! -- they too at these high games! Am I an Emperor? Do I wear a crown? Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown! XVII. "I'll trounce 'em! -- there's the square-cut chancellor, His son shall never touch that bishopric; And for the nephew of old Palfior, I'll show him that his speeches made me sick, And give the colonelcy to Phalaric; The tiptoe marquis, mortal and gallant, Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick; And for the Speaker's second cousin's aunt, She sha'n't be maid of honour,-- by heaven that she sha'n't! XVIII. "I'll shirk the Duke of A.; I'll cut his brother; I'll give no garter to his eldest son; I won't speak to his sister or his mother! The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and-run; But how in the world can I contrive to stun That fellow's voice, which plagues me worse than any, That stubborn fool, that impudent state-dun, Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a zany,-- That vulgar commoner, Esquire Biancopany? XIX. "Monstrous affair! Pshaw! pah! what ugly minx Will they fetch from Imaus for my bride? Alas! my wearied heart within me sinks, To think that I must be so near ally'd To a cold dullard fay,--ah, woe betide! Ah, fairest of all human loveliness! Sweet Bertha! what crime can it be to glide About the fragrant plaintings of thy dress, Or kiss thine eyes, or count thy locks, tress after tress?" XX. So said, one minute's while his eyes remaind' Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent; But, in a wink, their splendour they regain'd, Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent. Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent: He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell, And order'd some death-warrants to be sent For signature: -- somewhere the tempest fell, As many a poor fellow does not live to tell. XXI. "At the same time, Eban," -- (this was his page, A fay of colour, slave from top to toe, Sent as a present, while yet under age, From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, -- wise, slow, His speech, his only words were "yes" and "no," But swift of look, and foot, and wing was he,--) "At the same time, Eban, this instant go To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I see Among the fresh arrivals in our empery. XXII. "Bring Hum to me! But stay -- here, take my ring, The pledge of favour, that he not suspect Any foul play, or awkward murdering, Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect; Throw in a hint, that if he should neglect One hour, the next shall see him in my grasp, And the next after that shall see him neck'd, Or swallow'd by my hunger-starved asp,-- And mention ('tis as well) the torture of the wasp." XXIII. These orders given, the Prince, in half a pet, Let o'er the silk his propping elbow slide, Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret, Fell on the sofa on his royal side. The slave retreated backwards, humble-ey'd, And with a slave-like silence clos'd the door, And to old Hun thro' street and alley hied; He "knew the city," as we say, of yore, And for short cuts and turns, was nobody knew more. XXIV. It was the time when wholesale dealers close Their shutters with a moody sense of wealth, But retail dealers, diligent, let loose The gas (objected to on score of health), Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by stealth, And make it flare in many a brilliant form, That all the powers of darkness it repell'th, Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith and harm, And superseded quite the use of the glow-worm. XXV. Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, (Of pastry he got store within the palace,) With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks, Incognito upon his errand sallies, His smelling-bottle ready for the allies; He pass'd the Hurdy-gurdies with disdain, Vowing he'd have them sent on board the gallies; Just as he made his vow; it 'gan to rain, Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain. XXVI. "I'll pull the string," said he, and further said, "Polluted Jarvey! Ah, thou filthy hack! Whose springs of life are all dry'd up and dead, Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all slack, Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack; And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter; Whose glass once up can never be got back, Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter, That 'tis of modern use to travel in a litter. XXVII. "Thou inconvenience! thou hungry crop For all corn! thou snail-creeper to and fro, Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop, And fiddle-faddle standest while you go; I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe, Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest, And in the evening tak'st a double row Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest, Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west. XXVIII. "By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien, An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge; Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge, School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge, A dull-ey'd Argus watching for a fare; Quiet and plodding, thou dost bear no grudge To whisking Tilburies, or Phaetons rare, Curricles, or Mail-coaches, swift beyond compare." XXIX. Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check, And bade the Coachman wheel to such a street, Who, turning much his body, more his neck, Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet: "Certes, Monsieur were best take to his feet, Seeing his servant can no further drive For press of coaches, that to-night here meet, Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive, When first for April honey into faint flowers they dive." XXX. Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went To Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass With head inclin'd, each dusky lineament Show'd in the pearl-pav'd street, as in a glass; His purple vest, that ever peeping was Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak, His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance took Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he might look. XXXI. He smil'd at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth, And seeing his white teeth, he smil'd the more; Lifted his eye-brows, spurn'd the path beneath, Show'd teeth again, and smil'd as heretofore, Until he knock'd at the magician's door; Where, till the porter answer'd, might be seen, In the clear panel more he could adore,-- His turban wreath'd of gold, and white, and green, Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen. XXXII. "Does not your master give a rout to-night?" Quoth the dark page. "Oh, no!" return'd the Swiss, "Next door but one to us, upon the right, The Magazin des Modes now open is Against the Emperor's wedding;--and, sir, this My master finds a monstrous horrid bore; As he retir'd, an hour ago I wis, With his best beard and brimstone, to explore And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. XXXIII. "Gad! he's oblig'd to stick to business! For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price; And as for aqua vitae -- there's a mess! The dentes sapientiae of mice, Our barber tells me too, are on the rise,-- Tinder's a lighter article, -- nitre pure Goes off like lightning, -- grains of Paradise At an enormous figure! -- stars not sure! -- Zodiac will not move without a slight douceur! XXXIV. "Venus won't stir a peg without a fee, And master is too partial, entre nous, To" -- "Hush -- hush!" cried Eban, "sure that is he Coming down stairs, -- by St. Bartholomew! As backwards as he can, -- is't something new? Or is't his custom, in the name of fun?" "He always comes down backward, with one shoe"-- Return'd the porter -- "off, and one shoe on, Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my man John!" XXXV. It was indeed the great Magician, Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair, And retrograding careful as he can, Backwards and downwards from his own two pair: "Salpietro!" exclaim'd Hum, "is the dog there? He's always in my way upon the mat!" "He's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows where,"-- Reply'd the Swiss, -- "the nasty, yelping brat!" "Don't beat him!" return'd Hum, and on the floor came pat. XXXVI. Then facing right about, he saw the Page, And said: "Don't tell me what you want, Eban; The Emperor is now in a huge rage,-- 'Tis nine to one he'll give you the rattan! Let us away!" Away together ran The plain-dress'd sage and spangled blackamoor, Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan, And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's chamber door, When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore. XXXVII. "I thought you guess'd, foretold, or prophesy'd, That's Majesty was in a raving fit?" "He dreams," said Hum, "or I have ever lied, That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit." "He's not asleep, and you have little wit," Reply'd the page; "that little buzzing noise, Whate'er your palmistry may make of it, Comes from a play-thing of the Emperor's choice, From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys." XXXVIII. Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer: Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'ertheless, Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear, Crept silently, and waited in distress, Knowing the Emperor's moody bitterness; Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan Tremble and quake to death,-- he feared less A dose of senna-tea or nightmare Gorgon Than the Emperor when he play'd on his Man-Tiger-Organ. XXXIX. They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet face Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green, Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace A silver tissue, scantly to be seen, As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in green; Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand Of majesty, by dint of passion keen, Doubled into a common fist, went grand, And knock'd down three cut glasses, and his best ink-stand. XL. Then turning round, he saw those trembling two: "Eban," said he, "as slaves should taste the fruits Of diligence, I shall remember you To-morrow, or next day, as time suits, In a finger conversation with my mutes,-- Begone! -- for you, Chaldean! here remain! Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you drain? Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd champagne?" XLI. "Commander of the faithful!" answer'd Hum, "In preference to these, I'll merely taste A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum." "A simple boon!" said Elfinan; "thou may'st Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee's lac'd." "I'll have a glass of Nantz, then," -- said the Seer,-- "Made racy -- (sure my boldness is misplac'd!)-- With the third part -- (yet that is drinking dear!)-- Of the least drop of crme de citron, crystal clear." XLII. "I pledge you, Hum! and pledge my dearest love, My Bertha!" "Bertha! Bertha!" cry'd the sage, "I know a many Berthas!" "Mine's above All Berthas!" sighed the Emperor. "I engage," Said Hum, "in duty, and in vassalage, To mention all the Berthas in the earth;-- There's Bertha Watson, -- and Miss Bertha Page,-- This fam'd for languid eyes, and that for mirth,-- There's Bertha Blount of York, -- and Bertha Knox of Perth." XLIII. "You seem to know" -- "I do know," answer'd Hum, "Your Majesty's in love with some fine girl Named Bertha; but her surname will not come, Without a little conjuring." "'Tis Pearl, 'Tis Bertha Pearl! What makes my brain so whirl? And she is softer, fairer than her name!" "Where does she live?" ask'd Hum. "Her fair locks curl So brightly, they put all our fays to shame!-- Live? -- O! at Canterbury, with her old grand-dame." XLIV. "Good! good!" cried Hum, "I've known her from a child! She is a changeling of my management; She was born at midnight in an Indian wild; Her mother's screams with the striped tiger's blent, While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent Into the jungles; and her palanquin, Rested amid the desert's dreariment, Shook with her agony, till fair were seen The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars serene." XLV. "I can't say," said the monarch; "that may be Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam! Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me, Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I am; And if your science is not all a sham. Tell me some means to get the lady here." "Upon my honour!" said the son of Cham, "She is my dainty changeling, near and dear, Although her story sounds at first a little queer." XLVI. "Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown, My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe, I'll knock you" -- "Does your majesty mean -- down? No, no, you never could my feelings probe To such a depth!" The Emperor took his robe, And wept upon its purple palatine, While Hum continued, shamming half a sob,-- "In Canterbury doth your lady shine? But let me cool your brandy with a little wine." XLVII. Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took, That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt, Admir'd it with a connoisseuring look, And with the ripest claret crowned it, And, ere the lively bead could burst and flit, He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside down, His mouth being held conveniently fit To catch the treasure: "Best in all the town!" He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown. XLVIII. "Ah! good my Prince, weep not!" And then again He filled a bumper. "Great Sire, do not weep! Your pulse is shocking, but I'll ease your pain." "Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep Your voice low," said the Emperor; "and steep Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine; And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do peep For the rose-water vase, magician mine! And sponge my forehead, -- so my love doth make me pine. XLIX. "Ah, cursed Bellanaine!" "Don't think of her," Rejoin'd the Mago, "but on Bertha muse; For, by my choicest best barometer, You shall not throttled be in marriage noose; I've said it, Sire; you only have to choose Bertha or Bellanaine." So saying, he drew From the left pocket of his threadbare hose, A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new, Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view. L. "Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy-work, Her name, see here, Midsummer, ninety-one." Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk, And wept as if he never would have done, Honouring with royal tears the poor homespun; Whereon were broider'd tigers with black eyes, And long-tail'd pheasants, and a rising sun, Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies Bigger than stags,-- a moon,-- with other mysteries. LI. The monarch handled o'er and o'er again Those day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh; Somewhat in sadness, but pleas'd in the main, Till this oracular couplet met his eye Astounded -- Cupid, I do thee defy! It was too much. He shrunk back in his chair, Grew pale as death, and fainted -- very nigh! "Pho! nonsense!" exclaim'd Hum, "now don't despair; She does not mean it really. Cheer up, hearty -- there! LII. "And listen to my words. You say you won't, On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine; It goes against your conscience -- good! Well, don't. You say you love a mortal. I would fain Persuade your honour's highness to refrain From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say, What good would that do? And, to be more plain, You would do me a mischief some odd day, Cut off my ears and limbs, or head too, by my fay! LIII. "Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince Who should indulge his genius, if he has any, Not, like a subject, foolish matters mince. Now I think on't, perhaps I could convince Your Majesty there is no crime at all In loving pretty little Bertha, since She's very delicate,-- not over tall, -- A fairy's hand, and in the waist why -- very small." LIV. "Ring the repeater, gentle Hum!" "'Tis five," Said the gentle Hum; "the nights draw in apace; The little birds I hear are all alive; I see the dawning touch'd upon your face; Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace?" "Do put them out, and, without more ado, Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace,-- How you can bring her to me." "That's for you, Great Emperor! to adventure, like a lover true." LV. "I fetch her!" -- "Yes, an't like your Majesty; And as she would be frighten'd wide awake To travel such a distance through the sky, Use of some soft manoeuvre you must make, For your convenience, and her dear nerves' sake; Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon, Anon, I'll tell what course were best to take; You must away this morning." "Hum! so soon?" "Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o'clock at noon." LVI. At this great Caesar started on his feet, Lifted his wings, and stood attentive-wise. "Those wings to Canterbury you must beat, If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize. Look in the Almanack -- Moore never lies -- April the twenty- fourth, -- this coming day, Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies, Will end in St. Mark's Eve; -- you must away, For on that eve alone can you the maid convey." LVII. Then the magician solemnly 'gan to frown, So that his frost-white eyebrows, beetling low, Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow: Forth from his hood that hung his neck below, He lifted a bright casket of pure gold, Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow, Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold. LVIII. "Take this same book,-- it will not bite you, Sire; There, put it underneath your royal arm; Though it's a pretty weight it will not tire, But rather on your journey keep you warm: This is the magic, this the potent charm, That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit! When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm, But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit Back to your palace. * * * * * * * * * * LIX. "What shall I do with that same book?" "Why merely Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside Her work-box, and 'twill help your purpose dearly; I say no more." "Or good or ill betide, Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!" Exclaim'd the Emperor. "When I return, Ask what you will, -- I'll give you my new bride! And take some more wine, Hum; -- O Heavens! I burn To be upon the wing! Now, now, that minx I spurn!" LX. "Leave her to me," rejoin'd the magian: "But how shall I account, illustrious fay! For thine imperial absence? Pho! I can Say you are very sick, and bar the way To your so loving courtiers for one day; If either of their two archbishops' graces Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases, Which never should be used but in alarming cases." LXI. "Open the window, Hum; I'm ready now!" Zooks!" exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash he drew. "Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow Of yonder hill, what crowds of people!" "Whew! The monster's always after something new," Return'd his Highness, "they are piping hot To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum! do Tighten my belt a little, -- so, so, -- not Too tight, -- the book! -- my wand! -- so, nothing is forgot." LXII. "Wounds! how they shout!" said Hum, "and there, -- see, see! Th' ambassador's return'd from Pigmio! The morning's very fine, -- uncommonly! See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go, Tinging it with soft crimsons! Now below The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow Along the forest side! Now amber lines Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines." LXIII. "Why, Hum, you're getting quite poetical! Those 'nows' you managed in a special style." "If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall See scraps of mine will make it worth your while, Tid-bits for Phoebus! -- yes, you well may smile. Hark! hark! the bells!" "A little further yet, Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil." Then the great Emperor full graceful set His elbow for a prop, and snuff'd his mignonnette. LXIV. The morn is full of holiday; loud bells With rival clamours ring from every spire; Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells In echoing places; when the winds respire, Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire; A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm, Comes from the northern suburbs; rich attire Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm; While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm. LXV. And now the fairy escort was seen clear, Like the old pageant of Aurora's train, Above a pearl-built minister, hovering near; First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain, Balanc'd upon his grey-grown pinions twain, His slender wand officially reveal'd; Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain; Then pages three and three; and next, slave-held, The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, -- one mouse in argent field. LXVI. Gentlemen pensioners next; and after them, A troop of winged Janizaries flew; Then slaves, as presents bearing many a gem; Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two; And next a chaplain in a cassock new; Then Lords in waiting; then (what head not reels For pleasure?) -- the fair Princess in full view, Borne upon wings, -- and very pleas'd she feels To have such splendour dance attendance at her heels. LXVII. For there was more magnificence behind: She wav'd her handkerchief. "Ah, very grand!" Cry'd Elfinan, and clos'd the window-blind; "And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally stand,-- Adieu! adieu! I'm off for Angle-land! I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing About you, -- feel your pockets, I command,-- I want, this instant, an invisible ring,-- Thank you, old mummy! -- now securely I take wing." LXVIII. Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor, And lighted graceful on the window-sill; Under one arm the magic book he bore, The other he could wave about at will; Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill; He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said -- "Poor Bell! Farewell! farewell! and if for ever! still For ever fare thee well!" -- and then he fell A laughing! -- snapp'd his fingers! -- shame it is to tell! LXIX. "By'r Lady! he is gone!" cries Hum, "and I -- (I own it) -- have made too free with his wine; Old Crafticant will smoke me. By-the-bye! This room is full of jewels as a mine,-- Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine! Sometime to-day I must contrive a minute, If Mercury propitiously incline, To examine his scutoire, and see what's in i, For of superfluous diamonds I as well may thin it. LXX. "The Emperor's horrid bad; yes, that's my cue!" Some histories say that this was Hum's last speech; That, being fuddled, he went reeling through The corridor, and scarce upright could reach The stair-head; that being glutted as a leech, And us'd, as we ourselves have just now said, To manage stairs reversely, like a peach Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his head With liquor and the staircase: verdict -- found stone dead. LXXI. This as a falsehood Crafticanto treats; And as his style is of strange elegance, Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits, (Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a glance At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance His woven periods into careless rhyme; O, little faery Pegasus! rear -- prance -- Trot round the quarto -- ordinary time! March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime! LXXII. Well, let us see, -- tenth book and chapter nine,-- Thus Crafticant pursues his diary:-- "'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the weather fine, Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry A flight of starlings making rapidly Towards Thibet. Mem.: -- birds fly in the night; From twelve to half-past -- wings not fit to fly For a thick fog -- the Princess sulky quite; Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite. LXXIII. "Five minutes before one -- brought down a moth With my new double-barrel -- stew'd the thighs And made a very tolerable broth -- Princess turn'd dainty, to our great surprise, Alter'd her mind, and thought it very nice; Seeing her pleasant, try'd her with a pun, She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us flies About this time, -- a sad old figure of fun; Bad omen -- this new match can't be a happy one. LXXIV. "From two to half-past, dusky way we made, Above the plains of Gobi, -- desert, bleak; Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade Of darkness, a great mountain (strange to speak), Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken peak, A fan-shap'd burst of blood-red, arrowy fire, Turban'd with smoke, which still away did reek, Solid and black from that eternal pyre, Upon the laden winds that scantly could respire. LXXV. "Just upon three o'clock a falling star Created an alarm among our troop, Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a jar, A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop, Then passing by the princess, singed her hoop: Could not conceive what Coralline was at, She clapp'd her hands three times and cry'd out 'Whoop!' Some strange Imaian custom. A large bat Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd against my hat. LXXVI. "Five minutes thirteen seconds after three, Far in the west a mighty fire broke out, Conjectur'd, on the instant, it might be, The city of Balk -- 'twas Balk beyond all doubt: A griffin, wheeling here and there about, Kept reconnoitring us -- doubled our guard -- Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout, Till he sheer'd off -- the Princess very scar'd -- And many on their marrow-bones for death prepar'd. LXXVII. "At half-past three arose the cheerful moon-- Bivouack'd for four minutes on a cloud -- Where from the earth we heard a lively tune Of tambourines and pipes, serene and loud, While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd Cinque-parted danc'd, some half asleep reposed Beneath the green-fan'd cedars, some did shroud In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance dozed, Or on the opera turf their soothed eyelids closed. LXXVIII. "Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettledrum-- It went for apoplexy -- foolish folks! -- Left it to pay the piper -- a good sum -- (I've got a conscience, maugre people's jokes,) To scrape a little favour; 'gan to coax Her Highness' pug-dog -- got a sharp rebuff -- She wish'd a game at whist -- made three revokes -- Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff; His majesty will know her temper time enough. LXXIX. "She cry'd for chess -- I play'd a game with her -- Castled her king with such a vixen look, It bodes ill to his Majesty -- (refer To the second chapter of my fortieth book, And see what hoity-toity airs she took). At half-past four the morn essay'd to beam -- Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook -- The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream, Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem. LXXX. "About this time, -- making delightful way,-- Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing -- Wish'd, trusted, hop'd 'twas no sign of decay -- Thank heaven, I'm hearty yet! -- 'twas no such thing:-- At five the golden light began to spring, With fiery shudder through the bloomed east; At six we heard Panthea's churches ring -- The city wall his unhiv'd swarms had cast, To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass'd. LXXXI. "As flowers turn their faces to the sun, So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze, And, as we shap'd our course, this, that way run, With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze; Sweet in the air a mild-ton'd music plays, And progresses through its own labyrinth; Buds gather'd from the green spring's middle-days, They scatter'd, -- daisy, primrose, hyacinth,-- Or round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth. LXXXII. "Onward we floated o'er the panting streets, That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved; Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets Legions of holiday; bright standards waved, And fluttering ensigns emulously craved Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar, From square to square, among the buildings raved, As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore. LXXXIII. "And 'Bellanaine for ever!' shouted they, While that fair Princess, from her winged chair, Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair, Still emptied at meet distance, here and there, A plenty horn of jewels. And here I (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare Against that ugly piece of calumny, Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly. LXXXIV. "Still 'Bellanaine!' they shouted, while we glide 'Slant to a light Ionic portico, The city's delicacy, and the pride Of our Imperial Basilic; a row Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show Submissive of knee-bent obeisance, All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo! The strangest sight -- the most unlook'd for chance -- All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance. LXXXV. "'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes, Conges and scrape-graces of every sort, And all the smooth routine of gallantries, Was seen, to our immoderate surprise, A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall, Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl. LXXXVI. "Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds, The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads; Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; Toe crush'd with heel ill-natur'd fighting breeds, Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother. LXXXVII. "A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, And close into her face, with rhyming clack, Began a Prothalamion; -- she reels, She falls, she faints! while laughter peels Over her woman's weakness. 'Where!' cry'd I, 'Where is his Majesty?' No person feels Inclin'd to answer; wherefore instantly I plung'd into the crowd to find him or die. LXXXVIII. "Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran To the first landing, where, incredible! I met, far gone in liquor, that old man, That vile impostor Hum. ----" So far so well,-- For we have prov'd the Mago never fell Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence; And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, Plain in our own original mood and tense, The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis immense! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 'Lord Houghton first gave this composition in the Life, Letters &c. (1848), and in Volume II, page 51, refers to it as "the last of Keats's literary labours." The poet says in a letter to Brown, written after the first attack of blood-spitting, "I shall soon begin upon 'Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.' I do not begin composition yet, being willing, in case of a relapse, to have nothing to reproach myself with." I presume, therefore, that the composition may be assigned to the Spring or Summer of 1820. In August of that year, Leigh Hunt seems to have had the manuscript in his hands, for, in the first part of his article on Coaches, which fills The Indicator for the 23rd of August 1820, he quotes four stanzas and four lines from the poem, as by "a very good poetess, of the name of Lucy V---- L----, who has favoured us with a sight of a manuscript poem," &c. The stanzas quoted are XXV to XXIX. Lord Houghton gives, in the Aldine Edition of 1876, the following note by Brown: -- "This Poem was written subject to future amendments and omissions: it was begun without a plan, and without any prescribed laws for the supernatural machinery." His Lordship adds an interesting passage from a letter written to him by Lord Jeffrey: -- "There are beautiful passages and lines of ineffable sweetness in these minor pieces, and strange outbursts of individual fancy and felicitous expressions in the 'Cap and Bells,' though the general extravagance of the poetry is more suited to an Italian than to an English taste." The late Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote to me of this poem as "the only unworthy stuff Keats ever wrote except an early trifle or two," and again as "the to me hateful Cap and Bells." I confess that it seems to me entirely unworthy of Keats, though certainly a proof, if proof were needed, of his versatility. It has the character of a mere intellectual and mechanical exercise, performed at a time when those higher forces constituting the mainspring of poetry were exhausted; but even so I find it difficult to figure Keats as doing anything so aimless as this appears when regarded solely as an effort of the fancy. He probably had a satirical under-current of meaning; and it needs no great stretch of the imagination to see the illicit passion of Emperor Elfinan, and his detestation for his authorized bride-elect, an oblique glance at the martial relations of George IV. It is not difficult to suggest prototypes for many of the faery-land statesmen against whom Elfinan vows vengeance; and there are many particulars in which earthly incidents are too thickly strewn to leave one in the settled belief that the poet's programme was wholly unearthly.--- H. B. F.' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, The Cap And Bells; Or, The Jealousies - A Faery Tale .. Unfinished ,