您可以在百度里搜索“National Epics 艾草文学(www.321553.xyz)”查找最新章节！

　　THE BIRTH OF THE HARP.

　　Wainamoinen, Ilmarinen, and the wizard Lemminkainen started to the Northland to win back the Sampo forged for Louhi by Ilmarinen. On the way their boat stuck on the shoulders of a great pike, which was killed by Wainamoinen. The three then landed, ordered the pike to be cooked by the maidens, and feasted until nothing remained of the fish but a heap of bones.

　　Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,

　　Looked upon the pile of fragments,

　　On the fish-bones looked and pondered,

　　Spake these words in meditation:

　　"Wondrous things might be constructed

　　From the relics of this monster,

　　Were they in the blacksmith's furnace,

　　In the hands of the magician,

　　In the hands of Ilmarinen."

　　Spake the blacksmith of Wainola:

　　"Nothing fine can be constructed

　　From the bones and teeth of fishes

　　By the skilful forger-artist,

　　By the hands of the magician."

　　These the words of Wainamoinen:

　　"Something wondrous might be builded

　　From these jaws, and teeth, and fish-bones;

　　Might a magic harp be fashioned,

　　Could an artist be discovered

　　That could shape them to my wishes."

　　But he found no fish-bone artist

　　That could shape the harp of joyance

　　From the relics of their feasting,

　　From the jaw-bones of the monster,

　　To the will of the magician.

　　Thereupon wise Wainamoinen

　　Set himself at work designing;

　　Quick became a fish-bone artist,

　　Made a harp of wondrous beauty,

　　Lasting joy and pride of Suomi.

　　Whence the harp's enchanting arches?

　　From the jaw-bones of the monster.

　　Whence the necessary harp-pins?

　　From the pike-teeth, firmly fastened.

　　Whence the sweetly singing harp-strings?

　　From the tail of Lempo's stallion.

　　Thus was born the harp of magic

　　From the mighty pike of Northland,

　　From the relics from the feasting

　　Of the heroes of Wainola.

　　All the young men came to view it,

　　All the aged with their children,

　　Mothers with their beauteous daughters,

　　Maidens with their golden tresses;

　　All the people on the islands

　　Came to view the harp of joyance,

　　Pride and beauty of the Northland.

　　Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,

　　Let the aged try the harp-strings,

　　Gave it to the young magicians,

　　To the dames and to their daughters,

　　To the maidens, silver-tinselled,

　　To the singers of Wainola.

　　When the young men touched the harp-strings,

　　Then arose the notes of discord;

　　When the aged played upon it,

　　Dissonance their only music.

　　Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen:

　　"O ye witless, worthless children,

　　O ye senseless, useless maidens,

　　O ye wisdom-lacking heroes,

　　Cannot play this harp of magic,

　　Cannot touch the notes of concord!

　　Give to me this thing of beauty,

　　Hither bring the harp of fish-bones,

　　Let me try my skillful fingers."

　　Lemminkainen touched the harp-strings,

　　Carefully the strings adjusted,

　　Turned the harp in all directions,

　　Fingered all the strings in sequence,

　　Played the instrument of wonder,

　　But it did not speak in concord,

　　Did not sing the notes of joyance.

　　Spake the ancient Wainamoinen:

　　"There is none among these maidens,

　　None among these youthful heroes,

　　None among the old magicians,

　　That can play the harp of magic,

　　Touch the notes of joy and pleasure.

　　Let us take the harp to Pohya,

　　There to find a skillful player

　　That can touch the strings in concord."

　　Then they sailed to Sariola,

　　To Pohyola took the wonder,

　　There to find the harp a master.

　　All the heroes of Pohyola,

　　All the boys and all the maidens,

　　Ancient dames and bearded minstrels,

　　Vainly touched the harp of beauty.

　　Louhi, hostess of the Northland,

　　Took the harp-strings in her fingers;

　　All the youth of Sariola,

　　Youth of every tribe and station,

　　Vainly touched the harp of fish-bone;

　　Could not find the notes of joyance,

　　Dissonance their only pleasure;

　　Shrieked the harp-strings like the whirlwinds,

　　All the tones were harsh and frightful.

　　Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,

　　The eternal wisdom-singer,

　　Laves his hands to snowy whiteness,

　　Sits upon the rock of joyance,

　　On the stone of song he settles,

　　On the mount of song he 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 marvellous 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,

　　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,

　　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 hear 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 outcircled,

　　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 to 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,

　　At the music of his playing,

　　At the songs of the magician.

　　Crawford's Translation, Runes XL.-XLI. National Epics