Rune VI-a

'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, 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, 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?