Rune XLIb

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, 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, 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.