Rune XXId

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, 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! 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.