Rune XLIV-c

"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, 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, 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.