compiled by Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald (1857–1862)

The Kalevipoeg — the Son of Kalev — is the Estonian national epic, compiled and largely composed by Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald (1803–1882) over two decades of work, published in serial installments between 1857 and 1861 as a bilingual Estonian-German academic edition of the Learned Estonian Society in Tartu. The first popular Estonian-language edition appeared in 1862, printed in Kuopio, Finland, to evade the censors of the Russian imperial government that then ruled Estonia. Its 19,023 verses make it one of the longest national epics in northern Europe. The Kalevipoeg stands alongside the Finnish Kalevala as one of the two defining monuments of the Finno-Baltic literary heritage — but where the Kalevala celebrates cosmic wisdom, the Kalevipoeg celebrates heroic endurance, the grief of a people, and the undying promise that their hero will return.

The poem is composed in the ancient regilaul meter — the same trochaic tetrameter that underlies the Finnish runolault tradition, the Kalevala, and the Estonian folk-song heritage stretching back into prehistory. Each line holds eight syllables organized in falling rhythm; pairs of lines are frequently bound by alliteration and parallelism — the art of saying the same thing twice, differently, a technique that is the structural heartbeat of the whole tradition. Kreutzwald's achievement was twofold: he gathered hundreds of fragments from living folk singers across Estonia and Livonia, and he supplied the connective tissue — poetic invention in the old style — that gave the fragments coherence as a continuous epic. The result is neither pure folkore nor pure literary invention, but something in between: a national myth assembled from its own living remnants.

The Kalevipoeg has three introductory sections before the twenty numbered cantos begin: the Soovituseks (Recommendation/Preface), the Sissejuhatuseks (Introduction), and the opening of the First Canto. The Soovituseks is Kreutzwald's personal lyric, written in his own voice — not a hero's invocation but a middle-aged country doctor's quiet meditation on the task of carrying an ancient heritage forward when most of those who held it in memory are already gone. He addresses Vanemuine, the Estonian deity of music and song — cognate to the Finnish Väinämöinen — and speaks of gathering scattered fragments like seeds plucked from wind and field, like eggs hatched in an eagle's nest on a cliff. The final stanzas, in which the poet sings alone like a mournful cuckoo while his springtime companions have crumbled into the earth, carry unmistakable personal grief: Kreutzwald outlived most of his generation. The Canto I invocation that follows shifts register entirely; the poet disappears and the old story begins.

This translation renders the Soovituseks and Sissejuhatuseks in full, and translates all twenty cantos of the epic — the first complete freely available English translation. Source text for the Soovituseks was verified from the archive.org digitization of Kreutzwald's 1862 text as preserved within the 1950 Estonian prose retelling by E. Laugaste (archive.org identifier: kalevipoeg). The original verses were embedded verbatim in Laugaste's retelling. The remaining cantos draw on the complete Estonian Wikisource text (et.wikisource.org/wiki/Kalevipoeg). W. F. Kirby's 1895 English verse translation (The Hero of Esthonia) was not consulted at any stage; this English is independently derived from the Estonian.

Soovituseks — The Poet's Preface

Lend me your kantele, Vanemuine!
A fair tale stirs within me—
From the heritage of the ancient age
I long to bring a song to light.

Wake now, grey and ancient voices!
Row toward us your secret tidings,
The telling of the better days,
The beauty of the dearer times!

Come, daughter of the wise singer!
Come forth from the Lake of Endla!
Long enough in the silver mirror
Have you been smoothing your silken hair.

Take the power of truth, old shadows!
Show to us the vanished faces,
Of the brave men and the sorcerers,
Show the walkings of the Kalevs!

Let us fly in joy toward the south,
A few steps turning to the north,
Where young seedlings grow in the heather,
Where the shoot blooms in the far field!

What I have gathered from my home meadow,
What I have plowed in far and foreign fields,
What the wind has brought to me in gusting,
What the waves have joyfully rolled forward;

What I have long held close in my embrace,
What I have kept hidden within my breast,
What I have been tenderly hatching
In the eagle's nest upon the cliff, these long years:

All this I now trill out as a song
Into the ear of strangers who will listen;
My dearest companions of the spring
Have crumbled down into the earth,

Where my joyful trilling does not reach,
My sorrowing, my lamenting,
The yearnings of my longing heart
Do not carry into the hearing of the dead.

Alone I call now, little bird,
I call alone, the mournful cuckoo,
Alone I voice these yearnings,
Until I wither in the meadow.

Sissejuhatuseks — Introduction

Arise, you memories of ancient times,
proclamations of the Kalevides —
rise from the burial mounds,
swell from the morning mist,
wake from the twilight haze,
grow from the heather-ground,
breathe up from the bog-moss!

Where shadows rest in quiet,
where long sorrows lie in hiding,
where the weary ones sleep
cradled in the breast of dust,
lulled in Uku's embrace,
sleeping in Maarja's lap —
sun shines no longer on them,
the golden cuckoo calls no more,
no nesting-bird deceives them
beneath the tuft of grass.

But the moon glimmers from on high;
stars' eyes from the rim of heaven
shed light on the shadow-guardian,
brightness for the weaver of shapes —
who wraps them in peace-mantles,
veils them in shadow-cloth,
covers the house of the dead,
buries the sleeping ones.

A rushing gust of wind comes,
the roar of waves from afar:
let it bring in its coming greetings,
let it proclaim the dearer things —
the lulled things of forgetting,
the memories gone from the mind,
which perhaps flash in the evening-light,
glimmer in the twilight's violin,
whirl in the light of the dew,
leap in the mist's lap:
where spirit-twilights have
stirred into the dusk,
joined into the darkness —
in the flock at evening's glow,
flower-colored in the night's violin,
play the memories,
spin the golden fame.

Watch the dance, little brother,
see the turning, little maiden,
seek the strokes, little friend —
word-strokes for the bard!

What, like hurrying at dawn,
pierced at the sun's rim,
the eager dream fades;
the lark is trilling,
the field-bird fluttering,
the golden cuckoo calling —
carries night and fortune to the forest.

Swiftly our days pass,
life's hours four at a time
rush toward the mounds of the dead,
fly into the peace-grove,
into the yellowing death-bed.
The disappearing one has no home,
the wanderer no rest-stone
to inherit from the dust-age.

The wind-gust whirled a whistle
to sing in the forest-tops,
to blow along the trunks,
to moan through the woodlands;
it drove the summer's rowing ones —
the little leaves to wave,
bade the birches to rustle,
the aspen leaves, timidly,
to tremble in the robber's claws,
to quiver at the plunderer's alarm.

At evening, tender sounds
set the horsefly buzzing,
the gnat whirring,
the blood-brother whimpering,
the beetle chirping.
The butterfly alone, that joyful bird,
treads the wind in secret.

In all of this, the wise ear hears,
the gentle mind understands:
the pleasure-story, the grief-cry,
the temptation's shriek —
hears in all the ancient speech,
reads the ancient riddles,
the tying of secret words.

Joy and grief — twin brothers,
twin children of nature's house —
they walk hand in hand,
they journey step by step;
one father begot them both,
one mother nursed them both,
one cradle rocked them.

The beautiful cheeks of evening-red —
cloud-banks border them,
border them in gold-color,
stroke them with silken fringe.
Son! Do you know in the cloud's breast
the hidden, concealed contents?
Lightning-flashes, thunders,
beating hailstones,
thick scatterings of snow,
the storm's threatenings —
slept in the cloud's lap,
hidden in the deceitful breast.

Do you know the eyebrow-dew
falling as forehead-water?
The beauty of joy's moment,
misery's evening chill —
giving birth to a teardrop,
refreshed by eyebrow-dew.
The heart rises higher,
sorrow breaks the mind's shell:
swiftly the eye-water rolls,
quickly the eyebrow-dew falls
to mark the rising and the falling.

The bard, creating stories,
rolling his verses:
takes a handful from the lying-village,
a piece from the true-farmstead,
a third from the rumor-village,
borrows more from the mind's chest,
from the thought-estate's granary;
shows the face of golden nature,
speech beautiful in truth's color,
truth-colored, wisely counted —
then is the bard a skilled creator,
a blameless word-arranger.

I heard Mardus crying out,
weeping in the forest's corner,
lamenting in the forest's embrace.
What drove his cry,
woke his weeping-voice,
grew his lament,
stirred his sighing?
Mardus mourns fallen blood,
fallen blood and bitter hardship,
the tears of torment,
the quenching of exhaustion —
what has frozen in the sky,
bordered the clouds at the crevice.

Evening-cover covers from afar,
the grief-mantle buries in black,
hides in cloud-darkness
the grain of the singer's day.
Spirit-shadows in the mist-cloud,
lifted on the dew-skirt,
stepping in timid tread —
show: bloody fighting,
the sword-dance of the tumult,
the executioner's axe-dances,
the smoke of war-time death,
the withering of the famine-age,
the plague's exhaustion-tracks —
they bring sorrowful tidings,
the sighing of evening-days,
the teardrops of torments.

Holding the beauty of the fatherland,
fighting against the foreigners —
the brave provinces crumbled,
the parishes yellowed
under the soil of the ancient age;
their pain's constrictions,
their labor's weariness,
the precious memories of the ancient age —
let them ring to us undying.

In heaven, in the elder's house,
in the wise gathering of the Taara-folk,
sat valiant men —
heroes abroad, victors in distant lands —
telling tales by firelight
of ancient apparitions;
Kalevipoeg, the hero,
a man of renowned kingly bearing,
sat in their midst,
listened cheek-on-hand
to the bards' stories,
to the harp-player's praises —
of his own deeds,
magnificent happenings,
wonders that appeared in the world,
mighty accomplishments,
what he did in his lifetime,
what he completed before death —
following the tracks left behind,
on the road of the remnants remaining,
told in firelight,
proclaimed in golden-tongue.

Well shall I set words in order,
spin the golden thread,
lay out the silver shimmer,
roll the copper spindles —
when I begin weaving what I heard,
showing the images,
attesting the deeds,
unraveling the stories.

Look! In the forest hidden among trees,
in the shadow of the bushes,
under the alder's grief-skirt,
under the covering of the sorrow-birch —
stand seven burial mounds,
seven moss-grown beds,
seven mounds with crumbled edges —
none has a caretaker growing there,
a friendly arranger,
watching eyes to watch over them,
tender loving defenders.

One mound holds hardship-peril,
the second holds slave-bonds,
the third holds war-exhaustion,
the fourth holds famine-pain,
the fifth holds wretchedness-age,
the sixth holds plague-death,
the seventh — Tautsi's slaughter-bed.

These are the ancient ages of Estonia
before the Russian rule's
sheltering wing of mercy.

Led by fortune's guidance,
encouraged by the grey-haired ones,
enticed by Mardus' call —
to the seven mounds you come,
to the moss-grown beds:

Plant, child! for the father's joy,
a little bush for the father's beauty,
a luck-flower for the mother's joy,
a slave-rod for the sister's beauty,
a cherry-wood for the brother's beauty,
a bird-cherry for a familiar's luck;
set the plants with skillful hand,
press the roots into the earth's breast,
press them well and deep,
so that they grow beautifully,
bloom at the right time —
for the mound's joy,
for the sleeping-beds' beauty,
for the strengthening of the turf,
for the memory of the sleepers.

What slumbers in the turf's lap,
what rests in the quiet breast of dust?
Into turf's lap, earth's breast,
buried in dust's bosom —
our memories were buried,
the inheritances of the ancient age,
the flowers of ancient joy,
the births of ancient speech,
the ransoms of ancient song.

In the motherly embrace of time
the forgetting-mantle covers,
the cunning coat conceals,
the robe of the blind ones!
What plagues have destroyed there,
what pain-hands have squeezed,
what raging sword has put to sleep,
lulled into the death-bed,
soothed in the mist-lap —

Once, when I was still young,
still young and standing in weakness,
walked light-footed at herding,
rolled the hoop on the meadow,
swung on the village-swing —
I fell asleep in sleep's bonds,
in the firelight of night-creatures,
to rest in the shadow of the bushes,
near Jaan's-town.

Look! What strange beauties,
unlooked-for golden forms
awoke as dream-visions
before the drowsing eyes,
at the spirit's view-gateway.
Brave men, ancient wise ones,
joyful song-creators,
golden-harp strikers,
beautiful curly-headed maidens
leaped at midnight's festival —
springing from the burial mounds —
to dance in the mist-shadow;
they stepped with timid step,
timid step and light heel,
sliding nearer,
marked with secret signs,
blinked with a glance:
Put us to sleep in sleeping!
Sleep, you forgotten creatures,
rest, yellowed forms!
Sleep the golden sleep,
until on a better day,
at the dawning of a finer morning,
Taara in his house awakens you anew.

Young men, manly sons,
shoots of Virumaa and Järvamaa,
dearest sisters of Harjumaa,
better maidens of Pärnumaa,
nearer kinswomen of Läänemaa —
listen, oh listen to my speech!

The images of further days,
the shadows of earlier ages,
the former joy and beauty,
the ancient sorrow and grief,
the ancient golden speech,
the ancient singer's story —
stirring thoughts in my mind,
swelling my visage.

Hear the magnificent stories,
the proclamations of the Kalevides,
the revelations of the Alevides,
the announcements of the Olevides,
the births of the Sulevides!

What has been scattered to me from the rowan,
come from another's bird-cherry,
from the trunk of Taara's oak,
from anciently-knotted word,
from anciently-rooted story,
from Vanemuine's girdle,
from Juta's tress-fringe.

What scraps I raked from there,
gathered from the traces —
I spun into song-thread,
unrolled into cloth,
wove into Kalev's fabric.

Esimene Lugu — Canto I: The Birth of Salme and Linda

Row, O singer, with clear voice,
row the little singing-boat,
the tale-carrier's small vessel —
row them toward that shore
where eagles have scattered golden words,
where ravens strewed their silver proclamations,
where swans have dropped their copper redemptions
from ancient times,
from days of old.

Know these things, O wise birds,
whistle, waves of the water,
reveal them, dear winds:
where is the Kalevides' cradle,
the home of the valiant men,
the shadow-realm of the Vikerlased?

Sing, O bard, why don't you sing,
why not, golden one, proclaim!
What do I coo, a sorrowful bird,
what do I sing, with withered beak?
Youth withered in the heather,
yellowed in the heather-ground,
in the leaves of the mourning-birch.

Before, when I rejoiced in joy,
I played the flute in the sun's brightness,
I wove the silver song-threads
into golden cloth —
I saw many a pleasant thing,
many a secret apparition,
many a wondrous revelation.

Flow faster, O rivers,
come, hills, to witness,
forests, give your signs,
groves, speak in secret!
Clearly the beauty of song rises
like the sun from behind cloud,
drives the mind to waken,
the thoughts to stir in joy.

From afar I see the house growing,
the rocky citadel of the Kalevides,
with oaks for pillars on the walls,
boulders for the walls' covering,
bird-cherries behind the dwelling.
My ears catch the roar
of the falling sea's wave,
of the steadfast cliff-mound,
which remained storm-unbroken,
wind-rush-unswept,
rain-water-unrolled.

Let us row along the word-track
on the paths of ancient tales,
on the roads of the iron age!

Long ago, in Kalevala,
the seeds of valiant men were found
growing in many villages,
rising in many farmsteads —
like plants of the Taara-folk,
shoots of the victory-people,
born from the lap of mortal mothers
into this world.

The famous sons of the grandfather,
movers of wise counsel,
doers of wise deeds,
had to make their friendship
with mortal maidens,
until the maidens' frail laps
swelled as son-carriers.
From there rose the famous lineage,
the valiant band of Kalevides,
men as strong as oaks.

At the northern border stood a household,
a strong farmstead on the rocks
at the edge of Taara's oak-forest,
half still hidden in the forest,
the other half out in the open.
In the household grew three sons,
shoots of the Taara-folk.
One of them rolled toward Russia,
the second swept toward Turja-land,
the third sat on an eagle's back,
on the wing of the northern eagle.

He who rolled toward Russia
grew into a handsome merchant,
a plaiter of shop-goods;
he who swept toward Turja-land
grew straight as a brave warrior,
rose as the bearer of the battle-axe.
He who rode on the eagle's back,
on the wing of the northern eagle,
flew much, glided much,
flew some distance southward,
another stretch eastward,
sailed over the Finnish sea,
glided over the Western sea,
rolled over the Viru sea —
until by fortune's arrangement,
by divine guidance,
the eagle onto the high cliff
cast the man on the Viru shore.

The man who came to our land
right away established a realm,
founded a wide province,
built a fine house,
from which his mighty hand
governs a wide province.

Nothing else on our meadows,
on our wide water-meadows,
in the tracks of ancient tales
has been told of the Kalev-grandfather,
a sign given of his coming.
How Kalev went courting,
seeking a young bride —
of this, secret tidings
we inherited from the Pskov border,
and in song we sing it,
proclaim it in golden-tongue.

In the west lived a young widow,
a woman alone in her farmstead,
who was like a room without a beam,
like building-walls without a roof.
She went to tend the herd
on a Sunday morning,
in the time of the working-day.
What did she find on the herd-path,
on the trampled ground of the track,
on the meadow under the village swing?
She found a hen on the herd-path,
a black-grouse egg on the trampled ground,
a crow's fledgling on the meadow.

The widow took the hen to her breast,
pressed the black-grouse egg in her bosom —
took them as solace for grief,
as the quenching of sorrow,
to grow as children of the home;
she threw the crow's fledgling
into the edge of her apron's lap;
carried them home all three,
bore them to the secret chamber,
to the cellar made of stone.

She took in hand the wool-basket,
put the pair to hatching —
egg below and hen above —
to grow under the cover.
She set the growing-basket
on the edge of the shelf to stand;
then threw the crow's fledgling
into the cat-corner behind the chest.

The hen grew, hatched the egg;
the hen grew under the cover,
the black-grouse egg beneath her wing,
grew a month, swelled two months,
grew into the third month,
a week or four months,
then a pair of days more.

The widow went to the storehouse to see,
to look upon the fostered children —
what had grown beneath the cover?
From the hen grew a fair maiden,
from the black-grouse egg a second daughter;
from the hen came Salme, a tender maiden,
from the black-grouse egg, Linda, a gentle maiden.
What became of the crow's fledgling
in the cat-corner behind the chest?
From the crow came a poor child,
a dusk-day slave-girl,
pricked by the fire-stick,
hooked by the yoke on the neck.

Suitors came to Salme,
five, six drinking-cups' worth,
seven secret listeners,
eight watchers from afar;
high suitors came:
one was the moon, the second the sun,
the third the little star-boy.

The moon-boy came,
the pale-cheeked bridegroom,
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
wanting to win Salme as his bride,
to betroth the maiden.
Salme understood and answered at once,
called from the storehouse,
spoke from the stone-chamber:
"I will not, dear one, go to the moon,
silver one, not to the night's light!
The moon has three jobs
and six more it does for itself;
sometimes it rises at dawn,
sometimes at the sun's sinking,
sometimes at the sun's rising;
sometimes it tires early,
sometimes before the light fades,
sometimes keeps watch even in daylight,
lurks wide in the noontime."
The moon went home sorrowfully,
shone going with a gloomy face.

The sun-boy came,
the burning-eyed bridegroom,
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
wanting to win Salme as his bride,
to betroth the maiden.
Salme understood, cried back:
"I have not gone to the moon, dear one —
and the silver crown disdains the sun!
The sun has many ways,
changes in many manners;
the sun shines hotly,
casts light brilliantly.
When it is the bright hay-time,
then it rattles with rain;
when it is the precious oat-sowing,
then it thunders with drought,
destroys the oat-sowing,
burns the barley in the field,
flattens the flax in the sand-meadow,
peas between the furrows,
buckwheat behind the house,
lentils twisted around the stumps;
when it is the russet rye-harvest,
then it rustles without dew,
scatters with drizzle-rain."
The sun went home resting,
shone going with a drought-face,
with the wickedness of scorching.

Then came the third suitor,
the little star-boy,
the eldest son of the North Star,
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
wanting to win Salme as his bride,
to betroth the maiden.
Salme called from the storehouse,
spoke from the parlor-chamber:
"Take the star's horse to the stable,
the star's steed to the trough,
the star's gelding to the fodder,
before the polished wall,
behind the hewn wall!
Cast hay before him,
bring oats before him,
feed from the hand before him,
porridge in plenty before him,
the white foam before him!
Lay fine linen,
cover with broad cloth,
shade with silk-blanket —
the eyes to sleep in velvet,
the hooves to lie in oats!
To the star I too will go,
to the star, dear one, I give my hand,
I go to be his golden companion.
The star has steady eyes,
mind-thoughts unwavering;
the star does not ruin the harvest,
nor spoil the rye-harvest."

The star was called inside,
invited to the eating-table.
The old woman spoke from the corner,
the foster-mother from the chamber:
"Eat, O star, drink, O star,
live, O star, in joy
on the long festival days."
The star jangled his sword,
made his golden belt ring,
rattled his spur-clinking,
clashed his iron heels:
"I do not wish to eat, old woman,
I do not wish to drink, old woman,
nor to live in joy;
bring my own one inside,
send Salme to the floor!"

Salme heard the bridegroom's call,
the star-boy's wish,
Salme called from the storehouse,
over the yard from the building:
"Bridegroom, little boy,
guest who came from afar —
give time for growing,
give Salme time for growing,
give time for adorning,
for putting on the wedding-garments!
Run, Linda, quick of foot,
fly, little sister, to the chamber,
spring to the treasure-chest of adornments!
Bring me the robes of fine cloth,
the shirts of misty silk,
the sleeves with golden writing,
the stockings of striped wool,
the headdresses with borders,
the patterned neck-scarves!"

The old woman called from the corner,
the foster-mother from the chamber:
"Eat, O star, drink, O star,
live, O star, in joy
on the long festival days."
The star heard and answered back,
the star spoke wisely:
"I do not wish to eat, I do not wish to drink,
I do not wish to live in joy
on the long festival days,
before I can see my own."
The widow understood, answered back:
"Perhaps you wish, dear one, to sleep,
to rest a longer time?"
The star answered quickly,
the star spoke wisely:
"I do not wish, dear one, to sleep,
nor to rest a longer time:
the star-eye knows no slumber,
no covering of the brow,
no falling of the eyelids.
Bring my own inside,
send Salme to the floor,
the hen's-raised one to the others!"
Then the maiden was brought inside,
Salme was sent to the floor.
The widow-woman did not know her daughter,
the foster-mother did not know her fosterling,
whom in the secret chamber
the meadow-woman had adorned,
the forest-maidens prepared.
The widow asked in wonder:
"Is this the moon, or is this the sun,
or is this the young daughter of evening?"

The wedding-party was assembled,
the wedding-guests invited
to hold a joyful feast —
for the oak from Tartu's border
and the alder from the town-street
had run together at the roots,
fallen together at the crowns.
The cross-dance was danced,
the Viru-dance was rolled,
the fine sand was trodden,
the turf-ground was tormented!
The star-groom and Salme-maiden
celebrated the wedding-joy!

The moon came a second time
to the wedding's music-celebration,
back to the western farmstead,
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders —
wanting the black-grouse-egg daughter,
to take Linda for his own.
The brothers wanted to give her to the moon,
the sister to the lord of the nights;
Linda did not wish to go to the moon,
Linda called from the bathhouse,
Linda spoke from the pillow,
threw her word from the fleece:
"I will not, dear one, go to the moon,
silver one, not to the lord of the nights!
The moon has six jobs
and five it does for itself,
a dozen other duties;
sometimes it rises early,
sometimes rises at the grey light,
sometimes drowns in the mist,
covers its face with the dew-fringe,
sometimes hides into clouds,
sometimes rises at dawn,
sometimes in the middle of dawn,
sometimes disappears altogether,
leaves the realm unguarded."
The moon goes home in a dark mood,
vexation showing in its face,
anger in the eye's brow.

The cross-dance was danced,
the Viru-dance was rolled,
the Harju-dance was begun,
the fine sand was trodden,
the turf-ground was tormented.
The star-groom and Salme-maiden
celebrated the wedding-joy!

Then came another suitor
to the wedding's music-celebration,
trying his luck a second time:
the sun came for a garland
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
came himself on a stallion —
wanting to take Linda for his own,
to win the black-grouse-egg daughter.
The brothers wanted to give her to the sun,
the sister to the sun's leader;
Linda did not wish the sun-groom,
Linda called from the bathhouse,
Linda spoke from the pillow,
threw her word from the fleece:
"I will not, dear one, go to the sun,
silver one, not to the sun's leader!
The sun does much evil:
it lays the flax flat in the sand-meadow,
destroys the oat-seed without seed,
burns the barley in the field,
withers the wheat on the farmland,
the rye between the furrows;
it shines a long time in summer,
in winter it does not come inside at all."
The sun goes away on the threshold with heat,
scorches with drought-burning.

The cross-dance was danced,
the Viru-dance was rolled,
the Harju-dance was begun,
the Lääne-dance was broken,
the fine sand was trodden,
the turf-ground was tormented.
The star-groom and Salme-maiden
celebrated the wedding-joy!

Then came a third suitor
to the wedding's music-celebration,
the water came rolling
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
came himself on a water-grey horse —
wanting to take Linda for his own,
to win the black-grouse-egg daughter.
The brothers wanted to give her to the waters,
the sister to the lord of the floods;
Linda did not wish to go to the waters,
Linda called from the bathhouse,
Linda spoke from the pillow,
threw her word from the fleece:
"I will not, dear one, go to the waters,
silver one, not to the lord of the floods!
The currents are evil in their rolling,
the waves bad in their falling,
the springs evil in their branching,
the rivers wretched in their running."
The water rolled away weeping,
the wave went home lamenting,
flowed away sorrowfully from the gateway.

The cross-dance was danced,
the Viru-dance was rolled,
the Harju-dance was begun,
the Lääne-dance was broken,
the Järva-dance was struggled with,
the fine sand was trodden,
the turf-ground was tormented.
The star-groom and Salme-maiden
celebrated the wedding-joy!

Then came a fourth suitor
to the wedding's music-celebration,
the wind came gusting
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
came himself on a wind-black stallion —
wanting to take Linda for his own,
to win the black-grouse-egg daughter.
The brothers wanted to give her to the wind,
the sister wished for the air;
Linda did not wish to go to the wind,
nor to the lord of the air.
Linda called from the bathhouse,
Linda spoke from the pillow,
threw her word from the fleece:
"I will not, dear one, go to the wind,
silver one, not to the lord of the air!
The winds are evil in their gusting,
the storms mad in their raging,
the airs too delicate a groom."
The wind goes gusting home,
does not hold a long grudge,
nor sorrow for an hour.

The cross-dance was danced,
the Viru-dance was rolled,
the Harju-dance was begun,
the Lääne-dance was broken,
the Järva-dance was trod down,
the Tartu-dance was struggled with,
the fine sand was trodden,
the turf-ground was tormented!
The star-groom and Salme-maiden
celebrated the wedding-joy!

Then came a fifth suitor
to the wedding's music-celebration,
to the threshold of the western farmstead,
came the son of the Kungla king
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
came himself on a golden stallion —
wanting to take Linda for his own,
to win the black-grouse-egg daughter.
The brothers wanted the Kungla groom,
the sister for the king's son;
Linda did not wish for the Kungla groom,
Linda called from the bathhouse,
Linda spoke from the pillow,
threw her word from the fleece:
"I will not, dear one, go to the king,
silver one, not to the Kungla boy —
the king has wicked daughters
who would hate me, the stranger."
The Kungla groom goes off in a dark mood,
cursing out from the gateway.

The cross-dance was danced,
the Viru-dance was rolled,
the Harju-dance was begun,
the Lääne-dance was broken,
the Järva-dance was struggled with,
the Tartu-dance was trod down,
the home-dance was taught,
the fine sand was trodden,
the turf-ground was tormented!
The star-groom and Salme-maiden
celebrated the wedding-joy!

Then came a sixth suitor
to the wedding's music-celebration,
came Kalev, the valiant man,
with fifty horses,
sixty outriders,
came himself on a splendid stallion —
wanting to take Linda for his own,
to win the black-grouse-egg daughter.
The brothers did not want to give her to Kalev,
the widow-woman forbade the taking of the great one.
But Linda wished to go to Kalev,
Linda called from the bathhouse,
Linda spoke from the pillow,
threw her word from the fleece:
"This is the man who pleases my heart —
to him we make the betrothal."

Kalev was called inside,
seated at the table —
before the polished table,
behind the hewn wall,
cloth for the wall's covering;
before him the silver cup,
the precious golden goblet,
inside it sweet mead,
wort below, foam above,
in the middle red ale.
The widow bade him take bread,
Salme bade him dip his lips:
"Eat, O Kalev, drink, O Kalev,
taste our sweet things,
wet your throat from the wedding-cup,
from the patterned wine-pitcher!
Live, O Kalev, in joy
on the long festival days!"
Kalev jangled his sword,
made his golden belt ring,
rattled his spur-clinking,
clashed his moneybag,
spoke in a wise tongue:
"I do not wish to eat, old woman,
I do not wish to drink, young woman,
not to taste your sweet things,
not to try your bitter things,
nor to live in joy;
bring my own one inside,
let Linda come to the floor,
the black-grouse-egg daughter among the others!"

Linda understood, answered back:
"Bridegroom, little boy!
Give time for the growing,
for the maiden's long budding,
for the currant-eyed one's growing straight:
give time for adorning,
for putting on the wedding-garments!
Long she adorns herself without a father,
long she adorns herself without a mother,
long has the poor one gone without a girdle,
long she folds and ties her sleeves;
there is no mother to adorn her,
no parents to prepare her,
no kinswomen to wish her well,
no sisters to give their blessing.
The village-women will adorn her,
the old women will prepare her,
the village gives cold counsel,
the people give iron hearts."

Kalev did not take the wet cup,
nor food for strength,
nor taste the wedding-joy.
Linda called from the storehouse,
with pleading lips from the stone-cellar:
"Come, crow, poor child,
despised little slave-girl,
girl grown in the cat-corner —
fly like a butterfly
quickly to the treasure-chests!
Bring me a new misty-shirt
over this beautiful body,
bring me a bark-decorated shirt
over this fairer body;
bring me a rye-embroidered blouse
over the misty shirt;
bring me another starred one
over the bark-decorated underdress;
bring a maple-patterned girdle
around the young waist,
around the swan-white hollows;
bring me the patterned sleeves
for the maiden's high breast-covering;
bring me a headcloth the color of a sprat,
over the patterned sleeves,
a covering for the white neck;
bring me a coat with golden thread,
a crown of parlor-cloth upon the head!"

The old woman called from the corner,
the foster-mother from the chamber:
"Eat, O Kalev, drink, O Kalev,
live, O Kalev, in joy
on the long festival days;
the star-groom and Salme-maiden
are holding their long wedding-joy!"
Kalev heard and answered back,
the great man spoke wisely:
"I do not wish to eat, I do not wish to drink,
I do not wish to live in joy
on the long festival days.
Bring inside my own one,
let Linda come to the floor,
the black-grouse-egg daughter among the others!"

Then the maiden was brought inside,
Linda was sent to the floor,
the black-grouse-egg daughter among the others.
The widow-woman did not know her daughter,
the foster-mother did not know her fosterling,
whom in the secret chamber
the meadow-woman had adorned,
the forest-maidens prepared.
The widow asked in wonder:
"Is this the moon, or is this the sun,
or is this the young daughter of evening?"

Linda understood, answered back:
"This is not the moon, not the sun,
nor the young daughter of evening;
this is a child grown here at home,
the daughter risen from the black-grouse egg."

Kalev courted the golden maiden,
took Linda as his home-hen,
took her for his precious embrace,
as his time-passing beloved.

The wedding-party was assembled,
the wedding-guests invited
to hold a joyful feast —
for the oak from Tartu's border
and the alder from the town-street
had run together at the roots,
fallen together at the crowns.

Let us cross-dance,
let us roll the Viru-dance,
let us step the Harju-dance,
let us fly the Lääne-dance,
let us keep the Järva-dance,
let us hold the home-dance —
until the crane rises from the bog,
the crane from the bog, from the wet land,
the swamp-bird from between the toes,
the ring-plover from the middle of the meadow!

Kalev-groom and Linda-maiden
celebrated the wedding-joy!

Teine lugu — Canto II

When I begin the telling now,
loosing the song-stream flowing,
rolling the ancient story out —
no reins have power to hold me,
no reins to hold, no ropes to bind,
no long clouds to constrain me,
no wide heaven to govern me.
The villages will stop to listen,
the manors pause to take it in,
the gentry stand in gathered ranks,
the towns peer watching from afar.

Life was in the young man's noon-time,
in the whirl of the midday bright —
Kalev's wife in those good years
had borne a rich brood of begetting.
Linda with a singing mouth,
swinging, rocking as she worked,
raised up strong sons for him,
carriers of the father's image;
was at her gift-rich breast,
at the mother's mercy-wellspring,
nurtured neck-carriers to strength,
suckled them to human fullness,
in the moonlight at the father's chest
hardened them to heroes,
made them thoughtful through her tales —
until they grew to men of business,
became the shorteners of the road.

Of his sons, at father's life-evening,
only two still stayed home-grown,
two like peas inside a pod.
The others, guided by the wind,
by the signs of the Milky Way,
had taken roads to foreign lands,
on long walkings in the distance;
had gone out to seek their fortune,
to find themselves a nest-place.
For our narrow corner here,
our land of thin and meager milking,
could not raise them all to fullness,
nor bring each one his nourishment,
nor make each one a roof of shade,
nor warm each one a body-cover.

Old Kalev-father had commanded,
had confirmed it with firm words:
our land, undivided, unmarked,
should be left as one son's heritage,
as the domain of one rule.
Though the sons as a household
had straightened to the father's greatness,
each in part had taken
a share of the father's power —
still, visibly blooming,
the father's spirit, mind, and perception
was flowering more richly
in the last-born little shoot
than in all the others:
he, the dearer nest-egg,
the late lamb of the marriage,
long after the father's death
would roll out into the light of day.

Even now the last son's traces,
the marks of his memory,
are found in many a broad place.
In some places it is spoken
with "Sohn" in the people's mouths
for the name of this final shoot;
though the greater Estonian people
today about him
know no other name to give him,
no personal name to reveal,
than that in every proclamation
they name Kalevipoeg.
To the footsteps of this son
the rivers shall go running,
the waves shall glitter on the sea,
the clouds shall swirl on the winds,
the flowers shall press from their buds,
the birds shall sing in the treetops,
the cuckoos shall call in gold!

This younger son,
Estonia's ancient ruler,
the singers' story praises him,
the old tale-word lifts him up:
Is there anywhere in the villages,
in the lone little cottages,
an Estonian boy growing up,
a daughter rising —
who has not heard from their parents' mouths
the memories of the ancient age
of Kalevipoeg?
Go, son, to Pärnumaa,
step down to Järvamaa,
walk the borders of Harjumaa,
ride the meadows of Läänemaa,
roll to the edge of Viru shore,
go to the borders of Pskov,
past the oak-grove of Taara,
drive to the grey Alutaguse,
beside the edge of Finland:
in every place is sprouting
news of Kalevipoeg.

Rising with the dew from the heather,
from the tightness of the mist-coat,
the witness of Kalev breaks through
the lane between the oak-groves,
over the copper gateway,
out from the heart of the firm cliff,
through the walls of iron,
through the towers of steel.
In Tartumaa alone have frozen
the memories of the ancient age.

When the blessed evening came,
the quiet twilight of life,
then Kalev in a secret word,
in the manner of prophecy,
revealed things to his dear wife,
declared the matter so:
"Linda, dear little flower,
golden little buttercup,
you who in the spring-time walking,
in the rowing of the summer-day,
have borne me strong sons,
swollen them on the milk of love,
rocked them on your arm:
yet in autumn you shall grow
from a flower a seed-pod,
from an acorn bring an oak.

Linda, dear little wife,
flower grown in the west,
daughter risen from a grouse-egg,
going now again on long days
with the heavy foot of waiting-time,
changing your pair of shoes
every morning on your foot,
so that the Empty One finds no road —
in a short time's shelter
you will bear a son,
carry a strong child into the world;
you shall nurse him in your lap,
strengthen him at the breast-wellspring,
kiss him at the lips,
rock him on your arm.
That son, that nest-egg,
that late little lamb,
will bring the begetting to its end.
By the eternal gods'
long-held reckoning,
soon my eyes will not see him
in his growing age —
yet the last little shoot,
the egg that ends the clutch,
the plant grown at winter's border,
must rise in all things
as my measure —
in deeds and in being.
The mouth of future generations
will carry the memory of his name,
the praise of his mighty works.
When the son has grown to manhood
and taken the power of governance,
then there will be a flowering time of luck,
an age of peace among the people
germinating within Estonia's borders.
I do not want to diminish
the full power of the kingdom,
to split it flapping into pieces:
the realm must remain undivided
under one son's power,
as the domain of the strongest protector."

Speaking at greater length,
old Kalev, the aged one, said:
"If the realm remains undivided
for one son's heritage,
then there is strength in the whole,
stability in the great stone.
The divided parts, the weaker ones,
would devour each other to the end.
When the youngest grows to manhood,
let him cast lots with his brothers —
who among them shall arise
as the people's protector,
as the ruler of the kingdom.
The guidance of the gods,
the omens of the Taara-folk,
will arrange the matter
better than our own reckoning.
Let the other brothers roll away
to foreign lands' meadows,
to distant rocky shores —
let them build homes on the wind,
lives at the world's edge,
houses on berry-stalks,
courts on alder-leaves,
saunas on the cloud's edge,
birching-benches in the rain.
The lands are many-colored,
the sky wide and many-hued;
the strong one finds on the wind's wing,
finds through the thick of cloud,
the eagle finds from the cliff a nest-place.
A mighty man is not bound by ropes,
not held fast by iron chains."

Who was lying in the cold chamber,
frozen in the room,
stretched at length upon the floor?
Old Kalev-father, the aged one,
already cold in the chamber,
frozen in the room,
stretched at length upon the floor.
After the long speaking,
when he had proclaimed the matter
concerning the kingdom's inheritance,
the old Kalevide father
fell down on his long sick-bed,
rocking on the pain-couch,
and could not rise to lean upon it,
nor bend his feet beneath him.

The old woman sent the brooch rowing,
sent the ladybug flying:
"Row, brooch, come, brooch,
fly, little ladybug!
Go to seek a healer,
to manage the wind-sorcerer,
to request the word-sorcerer."

The brooch rowed seven days,
the little ladybug flew
over land and over sea,
through three kingdoms,
many a land to the north still.
Who came to meet it?
It saw the moon rising,
climbing in the star's wake.
"Greetings, moon, well of health,
dear fountain of strength,
source-river of powers!
Can the old father be made well,
freed from the old man's bed-prison?"
The moon heard with a sad face
but gave no answer to the asker.

The brooch rowed seven more days,
the little ladybug flew
over land and over sea,
through three kingdoms,
many a land to the north still;
flew through the forests,
a golden-mountain's breadth.
What came to meet it?
It saw a star rising,
the evening-star climbing.
"Greetings, star, sharp-eyed one,
marten-eyed young one!
Tell us, son of heaven:
can the old father be healed,
freed from the old man's bed-prison?"
The star heard with sharp eyes,
gave no answer to the asker,
the star faded to the sky's edge.

The brooch rowed seven more days,
the little ladybug flew
over land and over sea,
through three kingdoms,
many a land still to the south,
flew through the wild-forests,
seven versts of blue-forest,
a golden-mountain's breadth.
What came to meet it?
It saw the sun rising,
the light-candle climbing.
"Greetings, sun, dear bridegroom!
Tell me, golden-eyed one,
son of heaven:
can the old father be healed,
freed from the old man's bed-prison?"
The sun heard with burning face
but gave no answer to the asker.

The old woman sent the brooch rowing again,
sent the ladybug flying:
"Row, brooch, come, brooch,
fly, little ladybug!
Go to seek a healer,
to manage the wind-sorcerer,
to request the word-sorcerer,
to entice the underworld-sorcerer!"
The brooch rowed seven days,
the little ladybug flew
over land and over sea,
through three kingdoms,
many a land to the north still;
flew through the wild-forests,
seven versts of blue-forest,
a golden-mountain's breadth.
Who came to meet them?
There came a wind-sorcerer,
an old word-sorcerer from Finland,
an underworld-sorcerer from Kullamägi.
"Greetings, world-wise ones!
Tell the questioner,
give answer to the asker:
Can the father be made well,
freed from the old man's bed-prison?
I already asked of the moon,
inquired from the sun,
sought an answer from the star-son —
all three gave no word."
The wise ones understood, answered back,
spoke in three tongues:
"What drought has burned,
what heat has withered on the field,
what moonlight has yellowed,
what star-eye has killed —
from that no plant-shoot rises,
no beautiful bud blooms."

Before the brooch had rowed back home,
before the ladybug had flown back
to bring the tidings —
old Kalevide father
had already yellowed in death.

Linda, the sad widow-woman,
with sad spirit, with mourning-tongue,
wept the mourning-yearnings,
cried for her withered husband,
shed her mourning-teardrops
on the yellowed husband's couch.
She mourned the death of her dear husband
seven nights without sleep,
seven days without eating,
seven dawns in sorrow,
seven evenings in mourning-pain —
so that not a skin came to her eyes,
nor did the tear cease from her lids,
the cry-water from her cheeks,
the burden of pain from her soul.

Linda, the sad widow-woman,
washed the cold corpse,
washed him with tears,
washed him with sea-water,
swished him with rain-water,
rinsed him with spring-water,
stroked his hair with loving fingers,
stroked him with silver combs,
combed him with golden combs —
with the very combs
that the water-maiden had used
to comb her own head.
Then she put on him a silk shirt,
a velvet burial-robe
over the gold-trimmed coat,
a silver belt over the vest,
put fine linens underneath,
covered with fine linens above.

Linda, the sad widow-woman,
dug a beautiful grave,
a bed beneath the green turf,
ten fathoms in depth;
laid him in the cool bed,
in the prepared couch,
to rest, her dear husband.
Filled the grave with sand
to the level of the ground,
to the border of the green turf.
The turf grew over the earth,
meadow-grass on the grave,
dew-grass on the neck,
red flowers on the cheeks,
blue flowers on the eyes,
buttercups on the brows.

Linda, the sad widow-woman,
mourned the departed beloved,
wept for the withered husband;
mourned a month, mourned two,
lamented a part of the third month,
a few days of the fourth —
appeasing her grief with weeping,
her sorrow with teardrops,
the rolling water of her eyes.

Linda, the sad widow-woman,
began carrying stones
to pile upon the grave;
she wanted to make a memorial sign
for future-time sons,
for future-age daughters:
where is Kalev's grave,
the old father's couch.
Whoever went to Tallinn
and could direct their eyes,
surely they saw the burial mound —
where later generations
built proud buildings,
made a beautiful church.
The place is now called
Tallinn's Toompea.
There old Kalev rests,
sleeping his eternal sleep.

Linda, the sad widow-woman,
as a memorial for her husband's grave,
gathering stones together —
on one day struggling
with a heavy iron boulder,
carrying it from far away toward the grave.
The stone's weight pressed on her body;
with the widow's strength at its end,
her power already failing,
there was still a good stretch of road,
a stretch of road, a mark of land,
before she could reach the grave.
Stumbling against a hillside,
her weary foot slipped sideways;
the stone began to slide.
It bounced from the hair-ribbons,
from the knot-bound loops —
crash! down at her feet.
The weary widow's strength could not,
with grief's burden at its end,
in the heavy days of waiting —
lift the stone from the ground,
heave it a second time to her embrace.
The widow sat down on the stone
to rest her weariness;
began weeping pitifully,
to quench her mourning-grief:
"Oh, what a wretched poor widow,
what an abandoned little berry,
who, like a house without support,
like house-walls without a roof,
like a field without shade,
at every wind's rocking,
at the rolling of the water's waves,
must live alone in the world,
must bear her sorrow alone!
The alder's leaves are going,
the bird-cherry scatters in the wind,
the apple-blossoms,
the birch catkins are lost,
retreating from the aspens,
receding from the oaks,
falling from the maples,
cones dropping from the spruces,
rowan clusters fade and go!
My feast does not improve,
my life does not rise up,
the days of little trouble do not lessen,
the tear-rich days of pain!"

Linda wept, the poor widow,
the tears of mourning-days,
the eye-water of wretchedness —
wept a long time on the stone,
lamenting on the rock-mass.
The water of her eyelids
flowed into a broad pool in the open;
from the pool rose a little pond,
from the pond rose a little lake.
Linda's tear-pool,
the widow's mourning-wept lake —
you can see it today:
what as Ülemiste Lake
rolls its water-flow on Laagna Hill.
The stone stands on the lake's shore
where the widow wept her mourning,
shed her tears.
Thus it was in ancient times
that from widow Linda's eye-water,
from the tears of mourning-pain,
Ülemiste Lake appeared.

If you should happen, little brother,
going on the road past the lake
sliding your way toward the town,
rolling past beside the lake —
rest your horse by the lake-shore,
dip your whispering tongue to drink,
spend some time beside the stone,
think of the ancient stories,
the walkings of the Kalev-age!
Look at the memorial mark
that here in her widow-mourning,
quenching her sad heart,
she opened broad to the open field
to shine in the day's light!

Already the long day had come
to the evening of waiting;
Linda felt the moment arriving,
the agonizing time coming near,
the bitter urgency,
the painful rolling.
She ordered the sauna heated,
the bedding arranged,
the sick-bed prepared,
the rest-bench placed,
the sigh-chair set up.
The village crones heated the sauna,
the servants carried water from the well,
the others were arranging the bed,
the household placed the bench.

Corner-woman, weak one,
a thousand times you go between the rooms,
a hundred times to the sauna,
ten times on the well-road,
drawing refreshment from the well!
You walk, poor one, in pain-steps,
without belt, belt in hand,
without head-cloth, head-cloth in fist,
sighing toward Uku,
prayers toward Rõugutaja:
"Wind-god, step into the room,
to birch-whisk the afflicted,
to heal the ailing,
to support the troubled!"

Four corners of the room —
all four corners fell weeping;
four walls of the chamber —
all four walls stood still;
the stove-edges ached,
the seats felt longing,
the floor was kneeled to in prayer.
Sighing toward Uku,
prayers toward Rõugutaja:
"Wind-god! step into the room,
to birch-whisk the afflicted,
to heal the ailing,
to support the troubled!
Come to see the poor one,
to free the mother of a son!"
The household wept under the bench,
the children wept under the table,
the village-women in the chamber.
The husband slept in the cold bed
where he could not hear the wife's weeping.

Corner-woman, weak one,
went through four forests,
five places of wretchedness;
one was the bird-cherry forest,
the second the maple forest,
the third the dog-rose forest,
the fourth the rowan-tree forest,
the fifth the wild-cherry forest.
The troubles were left in the bird-cherry,
the pains in the maple,
the bitternesses on the dog-rose bush,
the long torments in the rowans,
the heavy hardships in the wild-cherries.
The troubles came back,
the troubles came at the mother's onset,
the pains on the poor widow,
came for the troubles to the room,
for the groaning before the stove,
for the rest on the rafters.
She sighs toward Uku,
prayers toward Rõugutaja:
"Wind-god! step into the room,
to birch-whisk the afflicted,
to heal the ailing,
to support the troubled!
Come to see the poor one,
to free the mother of a son!"
The household wept under the bench,
the children wept under the table,
the village-women in the chamber.
The husband slept in the cold bed
where he could not hear the wife's weeping.

Corner-woman, weak one,
burden-bearer, little weak one!
One foot already in the grave,
the other at the grave's edge —
you waited to fall into the grave,
to topple into the cold bed!
Sigh toward Uku,
amply toward Rõugutaja,
send prayer-messengers
to the gods above!

The hour came into the room,
for a moment before the stove,
quickly beside the spinning-frame.
The woman swayed, the weak one,
swayed weeping, trouble-bearer,
trembling, pain-bearer;
sighing toward Uku,
prayers toward Rõugutaja:
"Wind-god! step into the room,
to birch-whisk the afflicted,
to heal the ailing,
to support the troubled!
Come to see the poor one,
to free the mother of a son!"

Uku heard from the chamber,
Rõugutaja from under the threshing-floor,
the help-bringers through the wall,
the lift-bringers through the roof.
Then came Uku into the room,
Rõugutaja into the chamber,
they stepped before the stove,
they stepped to the bed's edge.
Uku had straw upon his shoulder,
Rõugutaja had pillows in his arms;
they carried the woman to the bed,
the death-ailing to the sick-bed,
the pain-bearer to the pillows;
placed her in fine linens,
between a woolen blanket.
Two received heads to the head-board,
four thighs to the bed,
four feet to the foot-board,
four hands to the middle.

Uku called out over the doorway,
Rõugutaja in a joyful voice:
"Shut the door of the grave,
shut the wide lid of the tomb!
The woman has been brought to bed,
placed in fine linens —
two received heads to the head-board,
four thighs to the bed,
four feet to the foot-board,
four hands to the middle."

Thanks to the old Father,
thank-you to the gods,
thanks to the help-bringers:
Uku was an hour in the room,
Rõugutaja in the chamber,
with secret helpers at the beds.
Corner-woman, weak one!
Raise up two hands,
two hands, ten fingers:
that you were freed from the agonizing hour!

As comfort for the widow's grief,
as a wiper of tears,
as a lifter of sorrow,
a precious little son grew.
The son sucked the loving milk
lavishly at his mother's breast,
sucked from the mercy-spring
the strength-water that stretches,
the growth-dew that invigorates.
Understand, understand, young men,
consider, open-hearted boys,
know, wise women —
who is sleeping in the cradle,
who wrapped in swaddling-cloth
is crying lustily through his lips!
This is the widow's grief-son,
the fatherless growing shoot,
whom the winds support,
whom the rain-streams stretch,
whom the dew-steams invigorate,
whom the mist-clouds swell.

The mother rocked the cradle-foot,
rocked the cradle swaying,
hummed a song to the small one
as a wish for sleep.
The son blew a crying-pipe,
cut a scream for pleasure's sake.
He cried a month, cried two,
wept from evening to morning,
so that the fire did not cease from the room,
the spark did not cease from the hearth-post.
The mother went seeking help,
sought the child's word-speakers,
the young one's cry-takers,
the son's mouth-closers,
the scream-stoppers.
When the crying-month came to an end,
the weeks of weeping:
the son burst the swaddling linens,
tore apart the swaddling-cord,
broke the cradle-boards apart,
got out of the cradle to the floor
to walk on all-fours,
to crawl-wander;
crawled a month, crawled two,
on the third was already walking,
growing the strength of feet.
The son sucked the loving milk
lavishly at his mother's breast,
grew to be the comfort of grief,
the extinguisher of sorrow,
the wiper of tears.
The mother had nursed the son
three years in her loving arms
before she weaned him from the breast.

The son stretched into a boy,
grew into Kalevide's son,
showing the promises,
showing the missing father's signs
in everything;
sought strength every day,
to nurture the body's hardness.

Kalevipoeg, Linda's grief-comforter,
grew to be a herd-boy,
ripened to a plowman,
rose to the strength of an oak,
showing promise in everything,
seeking strength every day,
nurturing the body's hardness.
He played with millstones in the meadow,
threw wheels in the open field;
stacked the millstones in two piles
out in the courtyard,
threw them off the courtyard
with sticks to swinging,
sent them rowing away,
rolling over the field,
flying through the paddock!
The millstones flew far,
scattered scatter-scatter
through forests, over hills,
across broad open stretches —
some fell into the waves.
Millstones in many places
are visible today:
smooth and round,
oval rock-masses —
under the name Neitsikivi (Maiden-stone):
those are Kalevipoeg's millstones.

The younger son of Kalevides
shot stones from a sling-loop to flying;
he skimmed flat-stones on the sea's surface,
gathered shore-stones, flat ones,
from rocky rubble —
about a foot wide,
three feet long,
a pair of inches thick.
The flat-stones flew on the wave-surface
playfully, more than a verst away.
While the stone was still skipping,
Kalevipoeg was growing
toward the tall oak on the high bank.

The younger son of Kalevides
played under his mother's courtyard,
pulled up young spruces,
straight-growing birches,
roots and all from the earth:
from these he made nobleman's sleighs,
fancy little cat-basket-sleighs.

The years' steps walked rapidly
on time's roads,
quickly to the farther reaches.
The years rowed on his mother's grace
the small boat of the boy
to the sea of young manhood.
The younger growth of Kalevide
grew to a man's height,
stretched to be his brothers' equal,
straightened to his father's stature.
Thus grew in his mother's courtyard,
in Linda's widow-days,
with the beauty of the buttercup flower,
with the strength of Taara's oak,
the last shoot of the Kalevides —
grew to be a rock of stability,
rose to be wiser than his brothers:
showing promise,
showing the missing father's signs
in everything.

Let us send the song-waves
rolling toward the sun,
swaying toward the east,
rocking toward the dawn —
let us go with time's swift flight
a stretch of the way back.
What was happening there
in the widow's courtyard,
early before daybreak,
going two by two,
riding in secret?
Suitors had been coming,
secret-listeners riding,
ten times before the dawn,
fifty before the bright sky,
a hundred times in the mist-hour,
after the father's death-day —
to harass the sad widow,
to pursue the shrewd woman.
When the father had yellowed,
the love grown cold,
the father's blood frozen:
then the shrewd widow
had many suitors come,
five jugs of wine, six cruets,
a hundred secret well-wishers,
two hundred deal-arrangers.
All these, for the widow's wealth,
for the rich widow's enjoyment,
tried to trap her in a net,
to fish with the happiness-trade.
But the mother understood, answered back:
"I will not go to a husband,
the hen will not go to another mate,
the little grouse will not take another,
the swallow will not take a strange bridegroom,
the swan-widow will not take a companion,
the dove will not go to another house.
The love-hours froze,
the beauty-hours congealed cold
under the grave-mound."

So the young men weren't cowed,
so the suitors weren't saddened;
cold has taken the courtship-thoughts,
lightning has struck the pleasure-spirits,
the boys can't get weddings,
the girls can't get dances.

When the other suitors' visits
gradually waned,
when hope was ending for the men,
there began to harass the widow
with suitor's engagement-gifts,
to try to overcome with wine-sacks,
a Finnish warlock, a wind-sorcerer.
He was a distant relative
of the late Kalev-father.
But the sad widow did not hear
the suitor's proclaimed prayers,
nor turned toward the suitor,
nor did her spirit go
toward the young man's love.
The warlock swore, the wind-sorcerer vowed
to repay the insult:
"I'll repay you, little old woman,
for the second time's taunt,
for your own-time's contempt —
I'll pay the price of the laugh."
The widow Linda laughed
at the wind-sorcerer's threats:
"What do I, warlock, wind-sorcerer,
have to fear from empty threats!
In the nest are still three eagle-sons,
hook-noses growing,
iron-claws rising!
These will surely guard the mother,
shelter the old woman."

The years rowed, the years came,
rowed and came in speed;
there the suitor-rides fell silent,
the courtship-visits disappeared;
there the horses got their rest,
rest for the suitor's steeds.
Whoever had once tested his luck,
gone courting to Kalev's farm,
he sang to his friends,
rolled to his brothers:

"Dear ones, brothers,
do not go to take a widow,
do not court from Kalev's farm!
She has great brooch-breasts,
money-neck heavy breasts,
silver beads, iron teeth,
fiery words on tongue-bonds.
Do not go to take a widow,
do not court from Kalev's farm!
Whoever lusts after the rich widow
will bring home the fireplace-hook!
Build, men, other ships,
better courtship-boats,
put on silk sails,
silk sails, braid-ropes;
set the ship to sailing,
send the old ones rowing!
Row, old ones, come, weak ones,
row the ship to Finland,
the proud boat to the North-land!
There on the high rocky shore
in a row there are many maidens:
in the front row, bead-necks,
in the back row, thaler-breasts,
at the edge, ring-bearers,
the long-plait holders,
in the middle row, poor children,
in the center row, curl-necks.
Trample down the brooch-breasts,
cast down the bead-necks,
tread down the thaler-breasts,
ride down the ring-bearers,
scatter the plait-holders;
take from the middle the poor child,
from the center row the curl-neck:
from her will come a clever wife,
a golden little spouse!
Do not go to take a widow,
do not court from Kalev's farm!
A widow cannot be a young wife.
Children have sucked the widow's breasts:
the brooch is the cover of an empty well,
the silver bridge on a dried-up spring.
The widow mourns her lost husband,
the widow's young man mourns a young wife —
do not go to take a widow!"

Kolmas lugu — Canto III

In the glare of a sun-parched day
sat by the edge of the sea
Kalev's youngest son,
watching the merry play of waves,
the rolling of the water-beds
in the light wind's twisting.

With sudden threat
he flung from the dark cloud's breast
a wind-gust sweeping,
set the waves to swelling,
rising up with a roar.

Thunder rode the iron bridge
in the copper-wheeled wagon,
hurled fire as it came,
sparks as it rode along;
old Father Lightning crashing,
sending thunder-crack on his way,
cast his bolts with swift aim.

Evil spirits, stricken with terror,
heard the punisher's voice,
fled from Lightning's grasp
into the wide sea's waves;
crying: "Thunder, you stinker!
Lightning, shove your nose up your—!"

They leapt from the high bank
head over heels to the sea floor,
into the foaming water-bed.

Kalev's son sprang
after them into the waves,
fell with an eagle's speed
upon the wretches' necks;
caught them like crayfish from a hole,
a fine neckpouch full.

Rising to the sea's surface,
the hero's son swam
a stretch closer to the shore,
flung the evil ones from his pouch
with a mighty cast onto the bank,
under Lightning's iron rod,
where they were beaten to bits,
destroyed as wolf-meat.

Kalev's brothers, the three of them,
had gone from home together,
merrily to the woods to ramble.
Mother had stayed alone
to guard the chests at home,
to watch over the treasure-chamber,
to keep the thaler-house standing.

Mother set the pot on the fire,
cooked food for her sons,
tended the fire properly,
guarded the fire-sparks,
lest flame escape to the rafters,
lest fire fly to the rooftop.
Such is the brooch-breasted one's custom,
the fire-queen's duty.

Kalev's young sons
had gone to the woods to ramble,
to follow the tracks of birds,
to seek the tracks of bears,
to hunt the tracks of elk,
to look for the forest bull,
to challenge the forest beast.

The bear had been in the oat-field,
the honey-paws had visited the hives,
an elk was seen at the meadow's edge,
wolves roaming on the pasture,
foxes thick on the fallow,
and hares in plenty on the frozen ground.

They had three hounds:
one was Irmi, the second Armi,
the third was Mustukene the killer.

The sons in the dense forest
had tracked the bear by the dogs,
the honey-paw in the pinewoods.
Irmi tore, Armi clawed,
Mustukene brought it down;
the dogs got the bear in hand.

The youngest brother, the lad,
bound the bear over his shoulder,
hung it by its legs;
he meant to carry it home —
the meat for food, the hide for covering.

The sons went onto the field,
went from the forest into the open;
there they met the antlered one,
old friend the elk.
Dogs to tear at the elk,
to slay the antlered one;
Irmi tore, Armi clawed,
Mustukene brought it down;
the dogs got the elk in hand.

The youngest brother, the lad,
flung the elk over his hip
to hang beside the bear;
he meant to carry it home —
the meat for food, the hide for covering.

The sons went into the spruce wood
to hunt the forest bull;
in the wilds they had found the bull,
the men tracked it by the dogs.
Irmi tore, Armi clawed,
Mustukene brought it down;
the dogs got the bull in hand.

The youngest brother, the lad,
bound the bull by its horns
to hang over his shoulder;
he meant to take it home —
the meat for food, the hide for covering.

Kalev's strong sons
went merrily toward the forest,
into the thickest of the brush;
there they met a pack of wolves,
a drove of woodland curs.
Dogs to tear at the wolves,
to slay the wild ones.
Irmi tore, Armi clawed,
Mustukene brought them down;
they killed them by the dozen.

The youngest brother, the lad,
began skinning the wolves,
skinned four dozen,
was starting on the fifth:
the brothers were eager for home.
The youngest brother took the hides,
flung the bundle over his back
onto the bear's back for a cover;
he meant to carry it home.

The sons walked a forest road,
a league on the heath road;
there they met a company,
a fine drove of foxes.
Dogs to tear the foxes.
Irmi tore, Armi clawed,
Mustukene brought them down;
they killed them by the dozen,
slew them by the hundred.

The youngest brother, the lad,
set to skinning the foxes;
skinned four dozen,
was starting on the fifth:
the brothers kept urging homeward.
The youngest took the hides,
flung the bundle over his back
onto the elk's back for a pack.

Kalev's strong sons
walked on the forest road,
a league on the heath road;
a herd of hares happened
upon them at the meadow's edge.
Dogs to tear the hares,
to kill the aspen-ladies.
Irmi tore, Armi clawed,
Mustukene brought them down;
they killed them by the dozen,
slew them by the hundred.

The youngest brother, the lad,
set to skinning the hares;
skinned four dozen,
was starting on the fifth:
the brothers urged homeward.
The youngest took the hides,
flung the bundle over his back
onto the bull's back for a saddle.

Then the brothers, three together,
set off walking homeward.

Oh you cunning suitor,
treacherous bridegroom!
How did you know to come here?
How did you find your way over the cliffs,
over the wide waves,
know the way over the valleys,
mark the road over the mountains
to the thaler-house,
to the penny-household?

You cunning suitor,
treacherous bridegroom —
this is why you knew to come here,
leaping over cliffs,
flying over waves!
This is why you found the way,
knew the route over the valleys,
marked the road over the mountains
to the home of Kalev,
to the penny-household,
to the old thaler-farm:
a silver clasp was on the gate,
two were on the treasure-chamber,
three were on the storehouse roof,
five were on the meadow gate,
six were on the cattle-fold.

This is why the suitor found the way,
this is why the trickster came
to Kalev's widow's home,
when the eagle-sons were not at home,
the hook-beaks not in the nest,
no one to guard the mother.

Finnish sorcerer, wind-wise one!
Long in your scheming,
in the holding of your trick-designs,
you burdened your head heavily:
how to torment the widow?

You watched from the shadowed
rock-shelter on the bank:
how things were managed
in the household of Kalev.

You cunning suitor,
treacherous bridegroom,
waited for the better hour,
the more fitting moment
to abuse fair Kalev's widow,
to lure the helpless woman by force.
The boat was lying in wait,
the skiff hidden in the cliff's shade.
You, the trickster, in the boat,
watching early, watching late.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
sat in the boat and waited
until the sons had left home,
merrily to the woods to ramble.
The wind-wise one, sensing
how the mother unguarded,
without the strong arm's shelter,
had stayed home alone,
where no help could be expected,
no support hoped from the children.

From home had gone the eagle-sons,
far had flown the ravens,
and could not hear the mother's screams,
the crying out for help in peril,
the shrieking under tearing claws —
could not hear them at all.

The sorcerer thought, the wind-wise one:
"Now is the time for the thief's will!
The house is left unguarded,
the roof-walls without shelter,
at every wind's blowing,
at the water-beds' rolling.
The hook-beaks have flown from the nest,
the hook-beaks, the iron-claws —
now the power is in the thief's hand,
the strength in the seizer's grip."

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
pushed the boat from behind the cliff,
the skiff out into the open;
set the oars to rowing,
the paddles driving the boat,
the waves to be broken,
set the sails to swelling,
to pull in the wind's blowing.

The skiff swayed on the wave-crests,
in the water's rocking lull,
swayed rocking toward the shore,
toward the household of Kalev.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
drove the boat to the bank's edge,
under Kalev's paddock,
hid the boat in a sheltered place
near the grave of Kalev,
then sprang with a light step
onto the rocky bank,
where by the tracks of the thief's road,
on the paths of the robber's trail,
he crept beneath the grass,
crouched behind a stone,
like a cat hunting a bird,
and slid closer to the house.

Secretly crept the Finnish sorcerer
to Kalev's farmyard gate,
leapt nimbly on his heel,
spryly onto his toes,
strode boldly across the yard,
stepped into the entryway;
glanced once over the hinge
before he stormed into the room.

The widow sat at the hearth-mouth,
stirring the broth-pot with a ladle;
the startled mother
had no time to resist.
The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
took the widow by force
into the thief's embrace and fetters,
drove his plundering hawk-claws
painfully into the mother's waist,
meant to take the widow to the boat,
to carry his thief's prize to the skiff.

Though Linda, that strong widow,
fought back fiercely,
showed fists to the robber,
showed claws to the tormenter,
sought help from her teeth:
still the poor one's power waned,
the widow's withered strength gave way
to the thief's force,
to the bindings of the sorcerer's words,
which drained her strength,
which fettered her firmness,
which took the widow's power captive.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
was rich in the knots of spell-words,
skilled in the weaving of words:
he knew a hundred secret words,
a second hundred wise words,
a third hundred — the strongest —
for firmness to be nourished,
for strength to be increased,
for power to be made mighty.

He knew a thousand other words,
secret words to drain strength,
to weary power,
to blunt resistance:
words that put strength in fetters,
that bound power in shackles.

Linda, the poor little widow,
her screaming, her shrieking,
her crying out for help in peril,
blew on the wings of the wind,
fell into the waves,
broke apart in the thicket,
faded in the forest shadows,
were swallowed by the cliffs —
but the cry for help
never reached the sons' ears.

Linda pleaded with words of anguish,
begged the sorcerer for release,
begged help from the wild beasts,
help from any human soul,
begged help from strangers,
from sheltering spirits,
begged help from her husband's shade,
help from the good gods,
sighed toward Uku,
toward the old grandfather's shelter!

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
rich in the knots of spell-words,
stuffed shut his ear-canals,
lest the widow's tender pleas,
the shrieks of her distress,
begin to sway his mind.

The mercy of the gods' watchfulness,
the mighty will of the strongest,
the guardianship of the mightiest hands,
heard Linda's calling,
the widow's sighing in sorrow,
her pleas in words of anguish.

By the Old Father's command
help must come from the cloud,
salvation come from the wind.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
had stretched his thieving steps
with his prize to Iru Hill.
He meant to take the road from the hill
straight toward the sea,
where his boat lay waiting.

Thunder strode with sudden
threat onto the robber's path,
Lightning crashed from the cloud!
With heavy step on the iron bridge
rode the Old Father's wagon,
hurling fire mightily.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
fell into a swoon,
captive under the shadow of death.
Lightning had taken his body's power,
had stunned all feeling utterly:
and so he fell like a dead man
onto the hill, down on the grass.

The host of the guardian spirits,
the firm support of heaven's dwellers,
freed Kalev's widow,
the little bird from the hawk's claws.

With flying speed they shaped
Kalev's strong widow
into a high cliff-stone,
a stone pillar on Iru Hill.
The threads of life came loose
from their long pain of sorrow,
from the wide grief's birch-grove,
from sadness's spruce wood.

And the sorcerer never soiled the widow's bed.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
woke some time later
from the heavy swoon's bindings,
from the shadow-death's captivity.
Rubbing his eyes,
widening his lids,
he looked all around him:
perhaps somewhere a trail to see,
where the widow Linda had gone,
where the house-hen had vanished.

But the widow could not be found,
the grouse-daughter not discovered.

The cliff-changed house-hen,
Linda, Kalev's widow,
you can witness today,
see clearly with your own eyes.
On Iru Hill sits the widow,
the grouse-egg-hatched daughter,
sits Linda by the high road,
as those who walk to town well know,
though children of this age,
in today's dullness,
have let Linda's name slip from mind.

The people call the stone-block
mostly the Iru Grandmother.
First-time visitors to the town
must by the old custom
greet the Grandmother of Iru,
and boys in honor of the grandmother
must set their caps upon her head.

Though in the stone-block
no life is visibly found,
nor any movement from the spot,
still by the old folk's word,
by the knowledge of the wise,
many things have been sown,
many a tiding spread:
how in the stone-block's bosom
a secret power keeps growing,
a wonder-strength keeps sprouting.
Whoever rolls the grandmother
from the hillside into the valley at evening
will find her the next morning
standing again in her old place,
standing where she always stood.

Therefore, young lad,
go and honor the grandmother,
go and greet the grouse-daughter!
Set your cap on the grandmother's head,
take the old woman's neck in your arms:
from this no blame will rise against you,
no spreading reproach!

Kalev's sons, the three of them,
walked in merry paths,
along joyful trackways,
walked across the open land,
along the heath's undulations,
along the bog's treading-paths;
and there they met four forests,
four slender groves.

One was a golden spruce forest,
the second a wise oak forest,
the third a fair birch forest,
the fourth a widowed alder forest.

That which was the golden spruce forest,
that was the forest of kings;
that which was the wise oak forest,
that was Taara's own forest;
that which was the fair birch forest,
that was the forest of curly-heads;
that which was the widowed alder forest,
that was the mourners' forest,
the shelter of sorrowful children.

The eldest brother
sat down in the spruce wood,
in the kingly beauty-forest,
beneath the golden spruce's canopy;
let his song go flying,
let the stronger notes arise:

He sang leaves onto the leafy trees
to glimmer and gleam,
called needles onto the evergreens
to shine with silken beauty,
sang cones into the spruces
to redden in the sun's glow,
acorns into the oaks,
fine catkins into the birches,
called blossom-buds
onto the flowering trees for beauty,
to swell in the sun's glow,
to grow in the moonlight.

He sang until the forests roared,
the meadows rang,
the wilds echoed back:
the daughters of the King of Kungla
wept for the young man.

The second brother
sat down in the birch wood,
beneath the mourning birch's arm;
let his song go flying,
let the stronger notes arise,
the mightier ones roll forth:

He sang the blossoms into bloom,
the flower-petals gleaming,
sang grain upon the field,
called apples into the apple trees,
nuts into the hazel bushes,
sang berries into the cherry trees,
strawberries into the low grass,
bilberries into the mossy bog,
cranberries along the heath's edges,
cloudberries upon the tussocks,
clusters into the rowan trees.

He sang until the forests roared,
the meadows rang,
the thickets crackled,
the wilds echoed back.
Water-maidens, young virgins,
wept for the young man.

The third brother
sat down in the oak wood,
in the old grandfather's beauty-forest,
beneath the wise oak's arm;
let his song go flying,
let the stronger notes arise,
the mightier ones roll forth,
the fiercer ones go sweeping!

He sang birds into the alder-grove,
song-hens into the birch-wood,
song-cocks into the spruce wood,
thinking-birds into the pine wood,
wise birds into the oak wood,
called into the treetops
cuckoos to sing,
doves to coo;
sang partridges into the thicket,
nesting birds into the bushes,
larks onto the open fields,
swallows into the sunshine.

He sang swans into the waves,
ducks to the raft's edge,
geese to the spring;
called the fair nightingale
to sing for the beauty of the nights,
to whistle in the twilight,
to voice its song before the dawn.

He sang until the seas roared,
the cliffs cried back,
the treetops bowed,
the hilltops swayed,
the clouds broke open,
and heaven itself, the wise one, listened.

The only daughter of the forest-spirit,
the forest-maidens, the slender ones,
the golden-haired water-nymphs,
wept for the young man:
"If only he were a man for us,
would grow to be our companion!"

The sun standing on the treetops,
a softer wind's breath
rolling in the evening cool,
announced the day's ending,
the close of the merriment;
reminded the men's minds
to set out homeward.

The youngest brother
carried the forest-hunt's burden,
which did not crush his shoulders,
nor trouble his chest.

The men hurried, three together,
across the wide open land,
with quick steps homeward;
set their eyes to searching,
to find the smoke-sign:
whether perhaps from the hearth a cooking-steam,
the pot's vapor, would billow forth;
but no smoke rose to the eye.

The men hurried, three together,
across the wide sand-plain,
quickly closer to home;
set their eyes to searching,
to look for smoke from the brew-house,
to watch for steam from the hearth,
but no smoke rose to the eye,
nor from the broth-pot appeared
the faintest wisp of steam.

The men reached the yard,
rolled up to the gate,
went flying across the grass,
hurried to the door,
went quickly to the threshold.

From the dead fire-embers,
from the ash-pit of the hearth,
the men perceived:
how the fire-queen,
the watchful flame-guardian,
had vanished from home.

The youngest son spoke:

"The river runs crooked,
the roads lead into the forest,
things are not right.
The yard-gate stands wide open,
the house-doors left ajar,
strange footprints on the grass
announce a bitter tale,
an unlucky happening."

The sons blew up their voices,
sent shouts rising into the wind,
sent on the still evening breeze
their calling far away:

"Answer us, dear mother!
Call back, dear golden one,
sing back, dear bird,
raise your voice, dear grouse!"

But mother made no sound,
sent back not a single word;
the forest with its slanting eye called back,
the wide wilderness answered,
the woodlands sang in reply,
Hiiumaa island called back,
Kuressaare echoed.

The sons blew up their voices,
sent shouts rising a second time,
sent on the still evening cool
their calling far away:

"Answer us, dear mother!
Cuckoo back, dear bird,
sing back, dear swan,
raise your voice, grouse-daughter!"

But mother answered not,
the grouse-daughter made no sound.
The sea-cliffs called back,
the rock-walls echoed,
the sea-waves sang in reply,
the wind-gust answered.

The sons blew up their voices,
their calling a third time,
sent on the still evening cool
their calling far away:

"Answer us, dear mother!
Cluck for us, dear house-hen,
sing back, lost widow,
answer our calling,
answer the children's gentle song!"

But mother answered not,
the grouse-daughter made no sound,
the house-hen did not cluck,
nor did the swan sing back.

Where the voices traveled,
there the cliffs broke apart;
where the calling echoed,
there the forests were shattered;
where the sound flew,
there the waves fell;
the clouds burst open wide.

No mother could be found,
no hen's clucking heard,
no grouse's cooing heard,
no cuckoo's call —
not from any grassy moor,
not from any great mossy bog,
not from the wide sea's waves,
not from the dense thickets,
nor from the deep wilderness.

The air fell silent, the winds to sleep,
all the world drifted into drowsing.
The brothers went from the gate,
went together down the yard,
three of them into the paddock:
to search for the mother's tracks,
to look for the thief's trail.

One of them rolled onto the meadow,
the second walked into the paddock,
the third to the sea-shore.

The eldest brother,
who had rolled onto the meadow,
found no trace of the mother,
nor any sign.

The second brother,
who had walked into the paddock,
found no trace of the mother,
no robber's pathways,
no sign to tell
where the hen had vanished,
where the little bird had flown.

The third brother,
who had gone to the sea-shore:
he found clear signs,
true telling-marks,
where the dear mother,
the house-hen, had vanished.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wise one,
had fled upon the waves in his boat,
the block-wretch escaping;
had finished his watchful vigil
in the rolling of the waves,
where for many a long day,
many a dark night,
through twilight's lingering,
he had kept watch over his thief's prize.

The men grew fearful with worry,
many thoughts about their mother:
perhaps the cunning suitor,
the treacherous bridegroom,
had set upon the mother,
lured her with a thief's claws.

The eldest brother spoke,
set his words adrift:
"Let us go take our bread,
seek our evening meal,
refresh our weary bodies.
Let us then lie down to rest —
perhaps a dream in sleep
will show us the mother's trail;
tomorrow let us go searching."

The second brother spoke,
set his words adrift:
"In the lap of sleep,
perhaps the heavenly wisdom,
Uku in a dream, may reveal
how by the track in the dew,
in the mist-cloud's lining,
we may find our lost mother again,
how we may free the dear house-hen,
the little bird that flew away,
from the hawk's claws."

After the holding of counsel,
the careful weighing of wisdom,
two brothers stretched out
their weary bodies to rest.

The youngest brother,
Kalev's dearest son,
the widow's grief's easer,
the quencher of sadness:
had sent his thoughts
along a different road,
his pondering on its own path,
flying forth.

The dear strong man's son
turned these thoughts over:
"Today's work —
do not hang it on tomorrow's peg;
each day has its own burdens,
each hour its own tasks,
its crushing weight of care,
its own tides of desire.
If you would gain from the hour,
would catch a little luck,
then do not lose the time,
do not linger any longer.
Fortune walks with a quick step;
the dallier earns five-fold misery,
the hesitator six-fold burden,
seven secret entanglements."

The loss of the dear mother
saddened the man's heart,
the burden of grief gnawed at him.
Now while the two brothers
stretched their bodies in bed,
the youngest son hurried
over the threshold past the door,
sprang lightly across the grass,
rolled swiftly onto the meadow.

There, halting his step,
he turned toward his father's grave.

Kalev's dearest son
steps onto his father's mound,
sits on the grave-hill,
to lighten his sorrowful heart.

The father asks from the grave:
"Who moves upon the sand,
who steps upon the mound?
Gravel falls into my eyes,
grit falls upon my brows."

The son understands, and answers:
"The youngest son, the lad,
he is the one who moves upon the sand,
he is the one who steps upon the mound,
who sits in sorrow's crushing weight
on his lost father's grave-hill.

Rise up, dear father!
Wake up, dear father!
Come show me the way —
where has mother vanished!"

The father answers from the turf,
the old man speaks from the grave,
raises his voice from the earth:

"I cannot rise, dear son,
cannot rise, cannot wake!
Rock presses upon my chest,
stone heavy upon my body;
globeflowers cover my brow,
bluebells cover my eyes,
red flowers cover my cheeks.

Let the winds guide your way,
let the gentle breezes teach you,
let the stars of heaven grant you wisdom!"

The son hurried with a quick step,
flying stride toward the sea,
to the high cliff-bank:
to search for the mother's tracks,
to find the lost hen.

The place where the boat had stood,
where the skiff had lain in wait:
stood empty, swept clean.

Kalev's dearest son
looked from the high cliffs
in the gloaming over the sea,
let his eyes down to the waves;
looked as far as sight could reach,
as far as the wings of seeing stretched:
perhaps somewhere on the sea's surface,
in the wide waves' rolling,
the thief's trail remained!
Perhaps somewhere a sign,
perhaps some token
that might show the robber's plundering:
had the lost mother's heel,
or a toe, left any mark,
or blazed any trail!

Wave rolled after wave,
in the water-beds' rolling,
rocking against the bank's cliff,
breaking in foam against the shore,
blowing water-dust!
But no other sign there was,
no tidings anyone brought:
who today on the wave-crests,
on the water's surface rolling,
had gone sailing on a secret road.

The stars shone from the sky
with kindly eyes upon the waves,
but nowhere was there a tongue,
nor a word in anyone's mouth.

Thus the falling play of waves,
the water-surface's rolling,
rocks forever in one beauty
and never asks who
has found death today
in its damp embrace,
in its wet arms!

The rocking play of waves,
the water's fair rolling,
the star-eyes watching from the sky:
they do not ask after our joy,
do not ask after our sorrows!

Wave rolls after wave,
in the water-beds' rolling,
rocking against the bank's cliff,
breaking in foam against the shore,
blowing water-dust,
wet mist upon the banks;
but it brings no tidings,
no answer ever to the asker.
Wave rolls after wave,
in the water-beds' rolling,
rocking against the bank's cliff,
breaking in foam against the shore!

Our life's little waves
roll in the evening cool,
rocking beneath the grave-hill,
beneath the turf-mound's blanket.
Star-eyes watch from the sky,
the moon looks from the heights,
the sun shines with a joy-face
on those departing, on those sleeping.

But the grave has no tongue,
nor ever a word in the star's mouth;
the moon does not know how to speak,
nor the sun how to utter,
nor give an answer to the asker.

Neljas lugu — Canto IV — The Island Maiden

Cuckoo, cuckoo, golden bird,
Sing softly, silver-beak,
Roll out your song, copper-tongue!
Cuckoo us your tidings,
Sing softly your revelations,
Roll out your store of song,
Spin the thread of your tale!
If the cuckoo will not sing, I shall sing myself,
I shall tell the tale, little duck,
I, the swan, shall release the songs,
Seven-threaded tidings
Rolling from the ancient age.
One tale is from the seal's mouth,
A second from the daughters of the waves,
A third from the cliffs of the shore,
A fourth from the water-maidens,
A fifth from the lady of the waters,
A sixth from the weaver of the months,
A seventh from the mouth of the island grandfather,
From the island grandmother's memories.

The cliff-walls listened,
The wide waves lurked,
The star-eyes witnessed:
How the son of Kalev
Boldly followed his mother's footsteps,
The lost grouse's vanished paths,
Went without a horse to seek her,
Went without a stallion to track her,
Went wandering without a mount.
Many a man would sit and ponder,
Many a woman sit and weep,
Many a maiden shed her tears,
If they could spy the son of Kalev
Rowing across the great sea,
In the midst of the wide waves,
In the foaming water's bed,
All alone through the cover of night
On a secret journey.

When from the shore no eye could sight,
No eye could sight, no gaze could reach,
Nowhere had tracks been borne,
Nowhere had a path been marked:
The young man leapt from the high cliff,
From the shore's edge into the waves,
Into the wide bed of the flood,
Into the roaring water-cradle;
He drove his hands to row,
His feet behind to steer,
The hair on his head to sail!
He rowed swiftly toward Finland,
Steered toward Turja's shore,
Sailed toward the north;
He hastened to catch his mother,
To free the grouse from the snare,
To rescue Linda from the trap.
He wished to find the Finnish sorcerer,
The wind-wise wizard,
To lash him from his thieving claws,
To punish the robber,
So that no more would woman-raiding,
No more maiden-stealing trickery
Breed upon this earth.

The Old Wagon, the Swedish Bear,
The North Star, son of the stars,
With shining eyes showed
From beneath the heavens the road
To the young man on the sea-waves,
Pointed out the wet path,
The damp road to Finland,
Toward the high cliff-shore.
On the sea-road there is no interpreter
Anywhere in village or inn,
Nor is there a watchman
On the water-field anywhere,
From whom one might ask the way,
Ask direction when lost.

The strong hand split the waves,
Beat the waves on the sea's surface;
The rocking water-cradle
Rolled the eager man,
The tireless swimmer,
On the falling waves' back
Further toward the north,
To the cliff-shore's banks.

Son of Kalev, hero!
Comforter of the widow's grief!
You knew no weariness,
No exhaustion of your strength,
No ebbing of your power,
As on your faithful road
You chased your mother's footsteps,
Walked the lost grouse's trail.
Stars fell and rose
In their own fashion at heaven's edge;
The North Star held its place,
The Old Wagon unwavering.

The strong hand split the waves,
Beat the waves on the sea's surface;
The rocking water-cradle
Rolled the eager man,
The tireless swimmer,
On the falling waves' back
Further toward the north,
To the cliff-shore's banks.

The dearest son of Kalev,
Hurrying ever further,
Hastened to catch his mother,
To punish the wicked robber.
Love's wishes in his heart,
Dark thoughts of mind and purpose
Steeled the hero:
So he did not tire on the long road,
Nor weary on the water-ways.

Already the Great Bear stood at the axle,
Its shafts turning toward the dawn;
Midnight may have been at hand,
Though nowhere any herald,
Any keeper of the hour's step,
On the sea-road gave a sign
By which a man might measure time.
Here no Creator's cock crows,
No little hen clucks.
To the fish no singing throat,
No word upon the tongue is knotted.

On the rolling waves
A hillock rose up swelling,
From it a little island formed,
A fair piece of dry land.
Kalev rowed toward the island's sight,
Hurrying ever further.

The strong hand split the waves,
Beat the waves on the sea's surface;
The rocking water-cradle
Rolled the eager man,
The tireless swimmer,
On the falling waves' back
Further toward the north,
Aimed toward the island's nearness.

The dearest son of Kalev
Wished for a resting-place on the island,
A moment to draw breath,
A little time to catch his wind.

The strong hand split the waves,
Beat the waves on the sea's surface;
The rocking water-cradle
Rolled the eager man
Swiftly under the island's bank.

The tough son of Kalev
Stretched his weary back,
His water-wetted sides,
Against the cliff-ridge;
Sat himself down to rest
In the mossy stone's lap,
On the rock-bench's middle,
Let his legs hang over the edge,
His toes on the water's roll,
His soles on the waves' fall,
His spinning on the rocking bed,
A plaything for the sea.
He sought a little rest,
To let his eyelids close together,
Dozing for half an hour,
A quarter-hour spent in slumber.

But before the will to sleep,
Sweet sleep the birth-giver,
Could shadow his spirit's eye
And bury his mind's awareness,
Could take power over the man:
The silence of the night trembled,
From the darkness's shadowed bosom,
From the depths of peace's lap,
Threads of song rose upward,
Leapt into his ears;
A maiden's lovely little pipe,
A young girl's tender voice,
In a song-bird's warble,
Dropped gold as a cuckoo in the spruce-grove,
As a lark in the alder-copse.

The tough son of Kalev
Turned his ears to listen:
Does the cuckoo drop gold,
Silver from under its teeth,
Pennies from above the tongue,
Ringings from the middle of the tongue?

The maiden's song kept telling,
The young cuckoo answered thus:
"Far away is my beloved,
Beyond the water, my dear one,
Far he is, far he seems;
Much lies between us:
One great wide sea,
Five lakes between us,
Six dry heathlands,
Seven bogs for trampling,
Eight cattle-commons,
Nine rushing rivers,
Ten cold springs,
Twenty other bonds besides.
I cannot go to him,
Nor can he come to me;
A month cannot bring his voice,
A week cannot bring his face,
A year cannot bring his love,
His love's embrace and cradling,
His friend's arms' warmth.

Far away is my beloved,
Beyond the water, my dear one;
Far he is, far he seems,
Much lies between us,
Bonds of water and of land.
Let the wind carry him my greetings,
The wings of time my love,
The clouds my long yearning,
The waves my gentle life-days,
The rain-shower my messengers,
The heavens my wise remembrance.
If luck be his, then let him live;
If health be his, then let him work;
As many greetings to him
As I have thoughts of him,
As many greetings to him
As there are wishes in my heart;
As many greetings to him
As there are leaves in the alder-copse,
Catkins in the birch-grove,
Spruce-needles in the spruce-wood;
As many greetings to him
As there are waves upon the sea,
As there are stars in the heavens!"

The dearest son of Kalev
Stretched his neck-sinews,
Hearing the lovely song-words:
Could he not see the dear singer,
The song-rich little bird,
The eloquent currant-eyed
Maiden made visible?
The shadow of night's darkness,
Fog's blind little cloak
Covered the islet close.
The flicker of a firelight
From one place, all alone,
Rose up by the oak-fence,
Near the leafy oak.
In the circle of the firelight
Sat a lovely song-bird,
A golden-beaked maiden.
Curly hair covered her throat,
Curved clasps hid her high breast.
She it was who sang in bird-tongue,
In the lark's trilling;
She it was who, secretly grieving,
Revealing her longing,
Sat in the bright firelight
At her night-long vigil:
She watched her mother's linens,
Which there on the grass spread wide,
Bleaching in the sun's light,
Steaming in the night's dew —
Which she herself through the long winter
Had spun on the spindle into thread,
Which she herself in the late hours
Had woven on the loom,
Had clattered into linen.
Her hands indeed wove the cloth,
Her fingers worked the heddles,
Her feet pressed the treadles:
But her mouth was setting songs.

The dear son of Kalev
Began to call back to her,
To compose another song
Mocking the maiden's song;
He set the words to rocking,
The verses rolling thus:
"Why do you mourn for the distant one,
With watery eyes beyond the water,
Going like a widow to lament?
Why, maiden, slender one,
Do you scorn a nearer suitor?
Near he is, near he seems,
Nearer is the dearer mate,
Sweeter the cradling embrace.
Nothing lies between,
Nowhere any bond;
No wide sea between,
No binding lakes,
No dry heathlands,
Nowhere any bogs for trampling;
No cattle-commons,
No rushing rivers,
No cold springs.
Near he is, near he seems,
Nearer is the better suitor.
Here is a warmer love-embrace,
Here is a richer joy-hug.
Near he is, near he seems,
Near the better lad,
A stronger man from a famous village,
A finer boy, a son of good family.
Tall legs, wide temples
Carried him on the waves' swing,
Rolled him on the water-bed
Secretly to the island's shore,
For the island maidens' fortune,
For the island daughters' gain."

Island maiden, slender one,
Yes, you heard the cunning cuckoo,
The cunning lad's prattle;
Yes, you wished, like a ferret,
To see the singing cuckoo,
With half-closed eyes to see the boy
Who had uttered that song.
Likely, poor thing, unknowing,
You stepped with timid steps,
Lurking, closer;
One step you took, then two,
Unknowing ten steps,
Unwitting another ten,
Perhaps a hundred unguessed,
Uncounted many more;
You wished to discover the singer:
Had a kinsman come from Finland,
Or a wine-jug from Viru,
A suitor bearing pledges?

Island maiden, slender one!
Try to flee, to escape:
Before the bonds of sight
Can bind your eyes:
So you cannot leave this place,
This spot, little hen.

Island maiden, slender one,
Saw on the grass a young man,
Saw on the bank a hero,
Then came a little closer.

Lingering in the night's chill,
They began to trade words,
To unwind the story's thread,
Until love's bindings,
Friendship's ribbon-ties
Began to melt the heart,
To lead the mind astray in the forest.
Island maiden, slender one,
Sat herself beside the man,
Fell in a child's foolishness,
Unknowing, upon the bank,
Onto the mossy stone-bed.

Island maiden, currant-eye!
What befell you in your mischance?
Why do you cry out shrieking,
On the tear-pipes of complaint
Begin to call for help?
Did Kalev in his embrace,
In the cradling of his love,
Crack you at the waist,
Click your shoulder-blade,
Pinch your hip-bone —
What trouble has been done to you,
What harm has come upon you?

The father heard his daughter's cry,
The mother heard her child's shriek;
They woke from the yoke of sleep,
Escaped the bonds of slumber,
At first guessing
Whether perhaps a wicked dream
Had spoken lying words.
But the maiden's tear-pipe,
The shriek of her complaint,
Rang in their waking ears.

The island grandfather rose from bed,
Came out from his blankets,
Took his cudgel in his hand,
Rushed to hear the matter,
To see the wrong himself:
Had perhaps a cunning lad,
A wicked robber at his raiding,
Stolen the mother's treasure from the daughter
Under the cover of night?

When now the island grandfather's eyes
Saw the strong man on the bank:
The cudgel fell from his tight fist,
The word died on the tongue's cord
Under the terror of alarm,
His face grew pale with fear.

The young daughter stood drooping,
A sad duck at the flock's edge,
Nor raised her timid eye,
Her tear-heavy lids,
Her blush-swollen cheeks
Up from the grass,
Nor spoke a single word.

Son of Kalev, hero,
Sitting on the cliff-hillock,
In the mossy stone's lap,
Asked the grandfather without fear:
Whether perhaps yesterday in the late evening
A Finnish sorcerer, a wind-wise wizard,
Coming from Viru, rolling along,
Sailing homeward,
Had rowed past the island?

The island grandfather answered:
"I have not seen, young friend,
A wind-wise wizard
Before my eyes in many days,
Not in many weeks.
Tell me, brave stranger!
Where is your home, your birthplace,
Your childhood nest?
Who begot you in your line,
Brought you into the world?
Whose mother's rich embrace,
Whose swelling breast-milk
Nourished so strong a son?
For a godlike seed,
A mighty shoot of Taara's kin,
Shines from your face,
Gleams from your eyes,
Grows from your body's bearing?"

The son of Kalev understood,
And cunningly answered:
"On the ridged shores of Viru,
On the cliff-ridges of Harju,
On the sandy beaches of Lääne,
Many a path has been trodden,
Many a road has been traced,
Many a footprint pressed.
One path is my home-road,
The trampled ground more familiar,
Dearer to me those footprints
That carry me most quickly
To my father's yard,
To my mother's love-paddock,
To my brother's meadow-gate.
From there, like an oak, I rose from the root,
Like a sapling, grew from the stump,
Like a shoot, sprang from the base.
There my childhood cradle stood,
There my nest hid in the cliff;
There the memories of my play
Remained pressed into the turf.
My kin begot me,
Brought me into the world,
The father of mighty men;
A rich-bosomed mother,
A giver of swelling milk,
Grew up in the alder-grove of Lääne,
Rose from a grouse-egg.
You see a godlike seed,
A mighty shoot of Taara's kin:
Guess — could not the one and only
Tough old Kalev himself
Have scattered such a son,
Have planted such a shoot?
Or might the last fledgling,
The widow Linda's nest-egg,
Stand before your eyes?"

Island maiden, slender one,
Listened to the stranger's words trembling,
Turned pale as a corpse:
When she recognized Kalev as his father,
Linda as his mother.
The terrified darling,
Island maiden, slender one,
Slid closer to the bank,
To the sudden edge,
There stumbling in her step,
There the maiden slipping,
Fell head over heels into the sea,
Fell into the wide waves,
Into the depths of the sea-floor.
The wave covered the child,
The water buried the maiden,
Covered, buried the young one!
The wave covered, the water buried
The island mother's darling,
The island father's beloved.
The father raised a cry of anguish,
A shout for help!
Kalevipoeg leapt into the sea,
Slid under the waves' blanket
To seek the lost hen,
To save the drowned maiden,
To ransom her from the wave's embrace.

But the wide waves' lap,
The cold water's little bed,
The depths' crib
Held fast the maiden,
And would not release the dear one
From its wet embrace.

Kalevipoeg raised his head,
His throat, from the wide waves,
Called to the one waiting on the shore,
Spoke to the maiden's father:
"Farewell, island grandfather,
Farewell, grief-stricken father!
Your daughter fell into the water,
My mother into the thief's net;
Wretched we are, brothers,
Equally unfortunate!" —

So speaking, the dearest son of Kalev
Set his swift temples to swimming,
To rowing away from the island.
On the foaming waves' roll,
On the waves' swing, the wind's cradle,
The hero's son vanished
From the island grandfather's sight.

The strong hand split the waves,
Beat the waves on the sea's surface;
The rocking water-cradle
Rolled the eager man,
The tireless swimmer,
On the falling waves' back
Further toward the north,
To the cliff-shore's banks.

At the island grandfather's cry,
At his call for help,
The island grandmother rushed from bed,
Rushed to learn the calamity,
To see what had happened.

Oh my gentle grandmother!
Why did you leave your warm bed,
The shelter of your blanket's cover?
Sorrow's cold tidings,
Ice-cold revelations,
Hail-heavy disclosures
Will freeze your heart,
Congeal the blood in your veins.
In the waves is your child's bed,
In the water your darling's cot,
In the spawn your tender cradle,
In the sea your berry's chamber.
The wave will not be a nursemaid,
The water will not rock the cradle,
The spawn will not be a guardian,
The sea will not be a playmate.

Oh my gentle grandmother!
Why did you leave your bed so early,
Before dawn from the crib's embrace,
To hear the news of death?
The one you, grandmother,
Had raised with precious care,
Had lulled beside your mouth,
Had nursed with gentle milk,
Had comforted with love's embrace,
Had rocked with both your hands:
She sleeps under the cold waves,
In a wet bed on the sea-floor.

Oh my gentle grandmother!
Make a rake with a long handle,
Make the rake's teeth long,
The rake-handle of old copper,
The teeth of strong steel:
Go to rake the sea,
To sweep the waves,
To pull the darling from the muck!
Take, grandfather, new nets,
Take seines, the strongest,
Go to try your luck:
Perhaps you will find the daughter's trace,
Catch the maiden from the waves,
From the depths of the sea-floor!
They went to sweep the sea,
To rake the sea-floor,
To take the darling from the waves;
Rakes in hand on long handles,
Rake-teeth very long,
Handles of the rake of copper,
Rake-teeth of steel,
Rake-tines made of iron.

What rose from the sweepings,
What came from the rakings?
An oak rose from the sweepings,
A spruce of gold from the rakings.
They brought the oak home,
Carried the spruce to the paddock.

They went to sweep the sea,
To rake the sea-floor,
To sweep the edges;
Copper rakes in hand,
Rake-teeth of steel,
Rake-tines made of iron.
What rose from the sweepings,
What grew from the rakings?
An eagle's egg rose from the sweepings,
An iron cap from the rakings;
They put the egg in the cap,
Carried them home to the chamber.

They went to sweep the sea,
To rake the sea-floor,
To sweep the sea's edges,
To search the sea's hollows.

What rose from the sweepings,
What grew from the rakings?
A fish rose from the sweepings,
A silver bowl from the rakings.
They put the fish in the silver bowl,
Carried them home to the cellar.

They went to sweep the sea,
To rake the sea-floor,
To take the darling from the waves,
To sweep the sea's edges,
To search the sea's hollows:
Would they not find the home-hen,
The child who had fallen in the waves?

Listen, listen, grieving ears!
What sings there from the waves?
Listen, listen, grieving ears,
Hearts crushed by sorrow:
What is singing on the sea,
Singing on the falling waves,
Whistling on the water's edge?
From the midst of the roaring waves
A tale began to move,
From the depths of the sea-bed
Words came rowing thus:

"The maiden went to swing on the sea,
To sing among the waves;
She put her shoes upon the stone,
Her beads on the tarred willow,
Her silk ribbons on the sand,
Her rings on the gravel:
She began to swing on the sea,
To sing the songs of the waves.

What flashed from the sea,
What gleamed from the waves?
A golden sword flashed from the sea,
A silver spear from the waves,
A copper bow from the spawn.
I went to take the sword,
To catch the silver spear,
To hook the copper bow.
There came toward me an old man,
An old man, a copper man;
A copper cap on his head,
A copper shirt on his back,
A copper belt round his waist,
Copper gloves on his hands,
Copper boots on his feet,
Copper spurs on his boots,
Copper shields on his belt,
Copper writing on his shields,
A copper body, a copper throat,
A copper mouth and copper eyes.
The copper man asked the maiden:
'What does the bride do in the sea,
The little dear in the water's waves,
The home-hen in the spawn?'

The maiden understood, answered back,
The little duck spoke thus:
'I went to swing on the sea,
To sing among the waves;
I saw the golden sword's flash,
The silver spear-shaft's gleam,
The copper bow's glitter;
I wished to claim the sword,
To ransom the silver spear,
To buy the copper bow.'

The copper man answered,
Spoke with copper tongue:
'The golden sword is the Kalevides',
The silver spear the Olevides',
The copper bow the Sulevides' —
Treasure guarded in hiding.
The copper man is the treasure's guard,
The golden sword's guardian,
The silver spear's keeper,
The copper bow's protector.
Come be the copper one's wife,
Home-hen for the sword's guard,
Evening-play for the spear's keeper,
Dear one for the bow's protector:
Then you shall have the dear golden sword,
The silver spear of Olev,
The copper bow as a gift,
Precious pledges as betrothal.'

The maiden understood, answered back,
The little duck spoke thus,
The swan-bird warbled:
'A farmer's slender daughter,
A ploughman's little lamb,
Finds men on the dry land,
A suitor from the farmer's line,
A husband from the bread-maker's village.'

The copper man laughed;
The maiden's foot stumbled —
Stumbled without knowing,
Slipped on the slippery sand,
Fell into a hidden hollow,
Tumbled into the spawn,
Into the sea's murky recess,
Into the waves' wide chamber.
The water conquered the maiden,
The waves covered the child,
The spawn the home-hen.

The father hastened to search,
The mother hastened to search,
To listen for the lost one's trail:
Where had the dear hen gone,
The loveliest gosling of the yard?
Had a hawk, a cruel bird,
Had perhaps a crow, a thief-bird,
Had perhaps a cunning suitor
Carried the hen from her nest's shelter,
The goose from her swimming-place,
The maiden from her hidden chamber? —
They found the shoes on the stones,
The beads on the tarred willow,
Found the ribbons in the sand,
The rings on the gravel,
The jewels on the willow's boughs:
The young maiden was not found,
The dear hen was not sighted.
The young maiden, the dear daughter,
Was not seen by their eyes.
The maiden sank to the sea-floor,
The dear hen slumbered in the spawn,
Fell asleep in the waves' chamber.

They began to call the maiden,
To summon the dear hen:
'Come home, little daughter!
Hurry, hen, to the chamber,
Hasten home, dear one!'

The daughter understood, answered back,
A shadow spoke from the sea,
A grief-voice from the waves:

'I cannot come, dear father!
I cannot escape, dear mother!
The water's burden weighs upon my brow,
The waves' heaviness on my eyelids,
The deep sea on my heart.
I went to swing on the sea,
To sing among the waves,
To speak upon the water's surface;
I put my shoes upon the stone,
My beads on the tarred willow,
My silk ribbons on the sand,
My rings on the gravel,
My jewels on the willow's boughs.
I began to swing on the sea,
To sing the wave-song,
To roll the water-song.
A golden sword flashed in the sea,
A silver spear gleamed in the waves,
A copper bow shone toward me;
I went to take the sword,
To catch the silver spear,
To seize the copper bow.
There came toward me an old man,
An old man, a copper man;
A copper cap on his head,
A copper shirt on his back,
Copper gloves on his hands,
Copper boots on his feet,
Copper spurs on his boots,
A copper belt round his waist,
Copper shields on his belt,
Copper writing on his shields;
A copper throat and copper body,
A copper mouth and copper eyes.
The copper man asked the maiden:
"What does the bride do in the sea,
The little dear in the water's waves,
The home-hen in the spawn,
The goose in the sea's murky recess?"
I understood, I answered,
The little duck spoke thus,
The little hen clucked,
The silver-beaked bird:
"I went to swing on the sea,
To sing among the waves,
To whistle on the water's edge;
I saw the golden sword's flash,
The silver spear-shaft's gleam,
The copper bow's glitter:
I wished to seize the sword,
To ransom the silver spear,
To buy the copper bow."

The copper man answered,
Spoke with copper tongue:
The golden sword is the Kalevides',
The silver spear the Olevides',
The copper bow the Sulevides' —
Treasure guarded in hiding.
The copper man is the treasure's guard,
The golden sword's guardian,
The silver spear's keeper,
The copper bow's protector.

The old man, the copper man,
Wished to court me as his wife,
To lure me as his home-hen,
To raise me as his embrace-bird;
He offered the golden sword as pledge,
The silver spear as secret gift,
The copper bow as love's present:
If I would go to him,
Give myself to the old one. —
But I refused,
Boasted of my own place's suitors,
My own land's wooers
Against him.
The copper man laughed.
My foot stumbled,
Slipped on the slippery sand,
Fell into a hidden hollow,
Tumbled into the spawn,
Into the sea's murky recess.
The water conquered the maiden,
The waves covered the hen:
There, young one, I grew faint,
There, hen, I was lost,
Little bird, I was trapped,
Little one, I sank.

I went to swing on the sea,
To sing among the waves,
To whistle the water-song,
To catch the golden sword,
To seek the silver spear,
To hook the copper bow.
There my foot stumbled,
I fell into a hidden hollow,
I tumbled into the spawn,
Into the sea's murky recess.
There I, hen, was lost,
There, little bird, I slumbered,
There, young one, I grew faint,
There, little flower, I withered!

Do not weep, dear mother!
Do not grieve, dear father!
In the sea I have a home,
Under the waves my secret dwelling.

I went to swing on the sea,
To sing among the waves,
To whistle the water-song:
I fell into a hidden hollow,
I tumbled into the spawn,
Into the sea's murky recess.
There I, hen, was lost,
There I died, little bird,
There, young one, I grew faint,
There, little flower, I withered,
There, currant-eye, I slumbered.

Do not weep, dear mother!
Do not grieve, dear father!
In the sea I have a home,
Under the waves my secret dwelling,
In the spawn a little chamber.

I went to swing on the sea,
To sing among the waves,
I went to seize the sword,
To seek the silver spear,
To take the copper bow;
I scorned the copper suitor;
The copper man laughed.
I tumbled into the spawn,
Into the sea's murky recess.
There I, hen, was lost,
There I died, little bird,
There, young one, I grew faint,
There, little flower, I withered,
There, currant-eye, I slumbered,
There, maiden, I fell asleep.

Do not weep, dear mother!
Do not grieve, dear father!
In the sea I have a home,
Under the waves my secret dwelling,
In the spawn a little chamber,
In the sea-mist a little nest.

I went to catch the golden sword
From the waves,
To seek the silver spear,
To take the copper bow:
There I, hen, was lost,
There I died, little bird,
There, young one, I grew faint,
There, little flower, I withered,
There, currant-eye, I slumbered,
There, maiden, I fell asleep,
There, little dove, I froze.

Do not weep, dear mother!
Do not grieve, dear father!
In the sea I have a home,
Under the waves my secret dwelling,
In the spawn a little chamber,
In the sea-mist a little nest;
I have a cold bed,
The water's damp little crib,
A fair cradle in the waves.
The Alevs rock me,
The Kalevs swing me,
The Sulevs lull me to sleep."

Viies lugu — Canto V — The Finnish Sorcerer

Already the morning's redness,
The herald of the dawn,
Was rimming the faces of the sky;
Already the shimmering stars
Were paling on the edge of dawn;
Already the Creator's rooster sang
In the doorway of the new day,
The old man's hen crowed
At the gate of the courtyard of light.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
On the rolling of the water-bed,
On the rocking of the wide waves,
Swims toward the Finnish shore.
His strong hand clove the waves,
Beat the waves on the sea's surface;
The swaying water-cradle
Rolled the vigorous man,
The eager swimmer,
On the backs of the rocking waves
Farther toward the north,
Toward the rocky shore.

The brighter glow of dawn
Sets the sea to blushing,
Sets the sea-waves blazing.
Already from far away appears
The craggy cliff-strewn shore of Finland,
Rising ever higher
To stand within the range of sight.

His strong hand clove the waves,
Beat the waves on the sea's surface;
The swaying water-cradle
Rolled the vigorous man,
The eager swimmer,
On the backs of the rocking waves
Farther toward the shore.

And when the light born of the sun
Broke free from the fist of dawn,
When dewdrops, greeting,
Began to scatter from the sky—
Like sequins on the sea's surface,
Silk ribbons upon the waves
Adorning the water-maiden:
The son of Kalev had reached,
The nursling of heroes had reached
The shores of Finland.
The weary fellow sat
Upon a high cliff-ledge,
His limbs wrung on the water's edge
To rest a little while;
He sat upon the cliff-ledge,
His tired body to refresh
In the breath of the morning wind,
In the coolness of the water-waves;
He sat down upon the cliff
To restore his spent strength
On the cooling traces of dew,
In the sea's refreshing mist.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wizard,
Had left his boat at the shore,
His vessel with a chain
Fastened to the cliff's flank,
So that neither the play of the waves,
Nor the swaying of the tall crests,
Nor the raging of the storm-wind
Could shatter his craft.

The songbirds on their merry strings
Had risen to greet the sun.
Already the skylark, trilling,
Treads the light road of the wind;
The nightingale rings from the alder-grove,
The cuckoo calls from the spruce-wood,
Other singers from the oak-wood:
They sang songs of gratitude
In praise of the Old Father,
In honor of Taara the Elder.
No other creature on the open ground,
On the wide and rocky shore
Was anywhere stirring,
Nor any wandering of folk,
Nor tracks of human kind
Could be spied from anywhere.
Forests, hills, and meadows
Drowsed in the dawn-sleep
At the dawning of the new day.

Kalevipoeg raised his eyes,
Sent his gaze out farther:
Might there somewhere be a sign of tracks,
A sign of tracks, a token,
Of the Finnish sorcerer?
But as far as the eye could reach
Nothing could be known,
No markers could be found.

A quiet morning peace
Covered the land, covered the sea,
Covered the family of the folk
Under its sheltering wing.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Rested his weary body awhile,
Let slumber fall upon his eyelids
For an hour to take its ease.
Meanwhile the sun's shining
And the drying breeze
Dried his wet garments.
The gleam of sleep gave no time
At the dawning of the sun
To bring forth a dream.

Dearest son of Kalev!
While you lie upon your back
On the dawn-cliff in dawn-sleep,
Letting slumber hasten on your lids,
The bard with the eyes of the spirit
Watches your paths and journeys,
Your roads upon the Finnish shore.
In the light of peace the sun shines
Upon the sleeper on the cliff;
But the raging of the tempest,
The gusting of the storm-wind
Are already hastening close behind
To quench the sun of fortune!
Thunder steps forth, threatening;
Lightning hurls its bolt from the cloud,
A fire-brand upon your road.
Weapons of war are clattering,
The roar of strife rises on the wind,
Blood spills upon the grass—
Mourning-cloth in the alder-grove:
A murderer is the master of the sword.

Rest your weary body, son!
The wings of the bard fly
As the sun at the sky's rim
Rises higher in its splendor,
And pass on to other meadows.

When the island's old father,
The island's dear old mother,
Had not found their daughter in the waves,
They heard the child's singing,
The lost daughter's flickering shadow,
The vanished hen's crooning:
Then they left off searching,
Went grieving homeward,
Went to look upon the oak,
To see the spruce in the grove.
They took an oak from the meadow,
A great oak with wide branches,
Brought the oak beneath the yard,
Carried it near the swing
Where once the young daughter
Had swung in the evening's beauty;
They planted it for the daughter's grace,
In memory of the lost hen.
"Grow, oak, into a proud tree,
Spread your crown on high,
Cast your branches to the clouds!"

They took a spruce from the grove,
A great spruce with wide branches,
Carried the spruce beneath the yard,
Brought it near the swing
Where once the young daughter
Had swung in the evening's beauty;
They planted by the swing-post
A fair spruce nearby,
To rise in the daughter's beauty,
In memory of the lost hen.
"Grow, spruce, thrive, spruce,
Grow, spruce, into a proud tree,
Spread your crown on high,
Cast your branches to the clouds!"

When the oak had been planted,
The spruce set to growing,
To rise beside the swing;
On one post the lovely spruce,
On the other the sturdy oak:
Then the old man went inside,
But the old woman to the secret chamber
To look upon the eagle's egg
That had been placed in the iron cap
To be hatched.

The iron cap sat cold,
The egg cold in the cap:
The egg had no brooder to hatch it,
The nest had no one sitting upon it.

The old woman placed the egg in the sunshine
To hatch it in the sun's warmth;
At night she hatched the egg herself,
The eagle's egg in her warm embrace.

The old man went to look upon the oak,
The old woman to see the spruce.
The oak had risen, the spruce had grown—
The oak had risen a hundred fathoms,
The spruce had grown ten fathoms.

Then they went home together;
The old man to the secret cellar;
The old man went to look upon the fish
That was growing in a silver bowl.
The old man spoke in sorrow:
"I had a fair little apple,
I had a sweet little berry,
Bright from the side of the sunset,
Dusky from the side of the dawn,
Rosy from the side of the sun.
The little apple fell into the sea,
The little berry dropped into the waves.
I went to seek the apple,
To pluck the berry from the sea,
I went knee-deep into the sea,
Neck-deep into the fish-spawn.
What touched my knee?
A fish touched my knee!
What may come of this fish now?"

The fish understood, and answered,
Sang from the silver bowl:
"Let the fish into the waves,
Back into the sea to play;
I have a father, I have a mother,
Five more brothers at home,
A host of other sisters,
Golden-scaled maidens."

The old man took the fish to the shore,
Released it into the waves,
Then went to look upon the oak,
To see the fair spruce.

The oak had risen, the spruce had grown,
The oak had risen to the heavens,
The spruce had grown into the clouds,
Its crown cleaving the sky,
Its branches scattering the clouds.

From the egg an eaglet grew,
A sturdy little bird arose.
The old woman set it in the chamber to grow.
The eagle escaped from the chamber,
Flew off at once far away.

They went to look upon the oak.
The oak would rise to the heavens,
Its branches push into the clouds;
The oak would cleave the sky,
Its branches scatter the clouds.

The old man went to find a wise man,
To bargain for one strong enough
To hew the oak down,
The great oak with the wide branches.

The old woman went down to the hayfield.
The old woman went to take the swath,
To rake the leavings together,
A golden rake in her hand,
A copper handle behind it,
Silver teeth upon the rake,
Golden rings upon its side.
She took one swath, she took two,
Began upon the third;
What did she find beneath the swath?
She found the eagle beneath the swath.
That was the eagle raised at home,
The sun-hatched child of the sun,
The night-hatched child of the old mother.

The old woman brought the eagle home,
Put it on a leash in the chamber.
What was there under the eagle's wing?
A man was under the eagle's wing;
The little man's height measured
Two hand-spans short of full.
What was in the man's arms?
An axe was in the man's arms.

Kalevipoeg, dear brother,
You meant to let your eyelids
Drowse for only an hour,
You meant to rest a little
And turn in the dawn-sleep;
But the power of weariness
Had conquered your intentions,
Had fettered the hero.
You rested the whole day,
Slumbered through the long dark night,
A stretch of the second day besides.

On the second day past dawn,
When the sun had already risen
A couple of fathoms from dawn's breast,
Shining upon the sea's surface:
There the son of Kalev woke
From slumber's snare.
The man had no more leave
For longer resting.
With a defiant stride, driving on,
The son of Kalev hastened
Farther on his way.
He hurried along an unfamiliar road,
Along the shore's paths
Marching toward the mainland;
He hurried over mountains,
Over rocky ridges,
Over meadows and hollows,
Across the wide open flats,
Through thick forests, through dense ones,
Through trackless wilds.
Along the edges of ravines
Farther into the rocky land.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Quickened the pace of his stride:
Might the footprints of his mother,
The dear mother's tread,
Have sprouted upon the dewy grass?
Already the sun had climbed
Above the mid-morning mark
And flew toward the young noon.
The scorching heat struck hard,
Forcing the skin to steam.

With a defiant stride, driving on,
The son of Kalev strives
Over the high mountains,
Over the rocky ridges,
Farther into Finland;
The scorching heat struck hard,
Forcing the skin to steam.
But the sorcerer, the wind-wizard,
Still nowhere to be seen,
Nor anywhere his mother's tracks
Sprouting on the dew-whirl.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Thought thoughts in many directions:
How might he find the robber's paths,
The dear mother's footprints,
Farther on?
How might he free his mother
More easily from the thief's claws?

With a defiant stride, driving on,
The son of Kalev strives
Over meadows and hollows,
Across the wide open flats,
Farther into the rocky land.
The scorching heat struck hard,
Forcing the skin to steam.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Climbed along the high bank
Steadily upward:
Might his eyes from the ridge's crest
Carry farther?

Stretching his eyes from the hilltop,
Lengthening his gaze,
The son of Kalev saw
Beside a wide ravine
A fair valley greening;
At the edge of a forest clearing
Stood the wind-wizard's farm,
The thief's shadowy den,
The robber-claw's hiding place.

With a defiant stride, driving on,
The son of Kalev hastens
Nearer toward the valley,
Until he reaches the outer fence,
Until the gate comes into view.

The dearest son of Kalev
Looks, steadying his stride,
From the field across the gate
Into the wind-wizard's yard.
Buildings all around the yard
Showed a prosperous farm.
On the grass near the house lay sleeping,
Letting bread settle into bone,
The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wizard.
At the edge of the field a grove sheltered
A fair little stand of oaks.

Kalevipoeg steps into the grove,
Tears out the thickest oak,
Tears the oak with its roots entire
Up out of the earth for a club;
He strips the wider branches,
Shakes off all the finer ones,
Leaves the knots untrimmed,
The branch-stumps unbroken,
Leaves the thicker roots
Like knobs on the cudgel's end;
Takes the rough trunk by the crown-end
Into his stout hands for a weapon of war:
Something to thrash the thief with,
Something to flog his mother's robber!

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Steps quickly across the field,
Hastening nearer to the yard;
His heavy iron stride
Sets the green ground,
The earth trembling far away,
Hills and hollows quaking.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wizard,
Wakes from sleep's stupor,
Frees himself from slumber's snare,
Thinks Thunder is threatening,
Thunder rumbling from afar,
Thinks the Lightning in the clouds
Is riding in its iron wagon.
Stretching his eyes open,
Widening his lids,
He sees the enemy at the gate:
Who shook the yard,
Who rocked the green ground.
The little man, woken from sleep,
The sorcerer-father had no chance
To flee in escape,
To go to the shelter of his den,
Nor time on the wing of the wind,
On the whirlwind, to get free.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Steps now into the yard,
The cudgel whirring in his hand,
And looks the thief in the eye.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wizard,
In the bitterest tight spot:
He shakes a handful of feathers
From his breast into the wind to spin,
Blows the misty feathers
To fly far and wide,
To dance on the wing of the wind,
To wheel on the shoulder of the air!
He blows words of power into the wind,
Drives words of strength
To quicken the sorcerer's children.
By the compulsion of the spell,
By the wind-wizard's working,
He makes soldiers from the feathers.

In the blink of an eye, conjured,
The windborne wings
At the hurling of a hailstorm-cloud
Swept cavalry and infantry
In their hundreds surging,
In their thousands swarming,
To aid the sorcerer.

The spell-born troop of soldiers,
The creatures born in the air,
The wind-wizard's reinforcements
Rolled onto the field,
Came pressing into the yard,
Fell like a forest of saplings
Upon the neck of the son of Kalev.
Like pigs in the evening light,
Like midges at dusk,
Like swarming bees:
The wind-wizard's boys strove,
In the swelling of a thick cloud,
In the rolling of a rain-cloud,
To smother the dear son of Kalev,
The seedling of the children of Taara,
To suffocate him utterly.

The dearest son of Kalev
Was ready to receive them;
His keen mind reckoning,
His eye sharp at aiming,
His hand powerful in striking!
He takes the cudgel in his stout hand,
The oak in his firm grip,
And sets about clubbing the attackers,
Thrashing the enemies,
Combing the soldiers,
Beating the guests!
He gives fire to the comers,
Scourging to the sorcerer's friends,
A flogging to the wizard's knights,
To the company conjured by a word.
He swings the rod, proclaiming,
Hurls the cudgel, and he cries:
"I do not fear an evil herd,
The sorcerer's retainers,
The goblins fetched from the wind,
The soldiers bred by a word,
Nor the family of hell,
Nor the Old Boy's mighty ones;
I do not fear the strongest,
Nor cower before the tallest!
A scrap of my father's strength,
A drop of power from my mother's milk,
A portion of my own force,
An inheritance from my growing years!"

Where the hero Kalev
By chance lands a blow,
Strikes a heavier stroke:
There man and horse fall asleep!
Where he flings five, hurls ten blows:
There he heaps a pile of dead!
Where the oak-trunk
Chops more thickly:
There a score fall asleep.
Wherever the heavy club
He drives to dance in the wind:
There no more life stirs!

The oak dances, rushing,
The cudgel whirrs briskly,
The club on the storm-wind's play,
On the whirlwind's gusting,
The rough trunk destroys in wild manner,
Scatters them in hell's turning!
Men fall upon the grass
Like chaff upon the threshing-floor,
Like hail upon the field-paths,
Like snow on the edges of furrows.
Whoever by luck saves his life,
Tries to rescue his limbs:
He takes to his heels,
Fire-quick to his soles.

After a short while,
After a bit of sport,
The battle had been put to sleep,
The fighting had been finished,
The uproar ended.
Piles of dead covered the grass,
The yard full of the senseless groaning,
The field full of the dying gasping.
To the waist the blood-stream rose,
Grew nearly to the armpits,
Flowed from the yard to the field,
From the field down into the grove;
Blood flowed like rivers,
The river swelled into a lake.
Those who had escaped death's claws
Had fled on the flight of the wind.

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wizard,
The begetter of the spell-words,
The creator of the incantation-words,
Was caught in the snare of battle,
In the bitterest tight spot;
Seeing his soldiers dead,
His helpers come to ruin:
His last hope was spent.
With a honeyed tongue, in a honey-mood,
The sorcerer began to plead,
To offer up good words:
"Dearest son of Kalev,
Comforter of Linda's grief!
Cast mercy upon me,
Forgive one who begs!
Let us settle our quarrel,
Quench the evil that has come to pass,
Forget the wrong.
I walked an erring road once,
The day before yesterday I did evil,
I walked the robber's paths,
The thief's tiptoeing steps;
In the snare of wrongdoing
I forced my way into your homestead,
Crept into the eagle's nest
When the three sons had gone
Merrily out to fly.
I took the mother by thief's craft,
Bore the dear one in hawk's claws,
The house-hen from her chamber.
I weakened the mother's strength
By the conjuring of spell-words,
I lessened the woman's power,
Her feeble force, with sorcerer's bonds;
I meant to bring my prize to harbor,
To carry the widow to my vessel;
I meant upon the water's rolling,
On the rocking of the wide waves,
To row to the Finnish shore.
When I reached Iru Hill
I heard Thunder crash,
Lightning fiercely threatening;
The fire of the Heavenly Father
Set my eyes to blinding,
The striking of the thunderbolt
Smote me with a heavy blow
Down senseless upon the grass,
So that like one dead,
A stupor deeper than sleep's slave,
A numb and frozen lump,
I lay stiffened on the hill.
Who has measured the steps of death,
The extent of the swoon;
Who for one slumbering in the grave
Could reckon the length of time:
That one might explain
The duration of my faint.
When I broke free from slumber's bonds,
Stretching my eyes about me,
I began to look:
Where had the mother vanished?
Were there no tracks of the hen,
No path of the grouse to see:
Where had the bird flown,
The duck escaped from the snare?
Heaven knows whether on the wing of the wind,
On the hems of the air,
On the secret messengers' conveyance,
The widow Linda flew?
Or whether the meadow-mother
Had buried her beneath the grass?
The tracks remained unseen,
The tokens unrecognized.
Fear drove me along the shore,
Dread drove me down from Iru Hill;
I feared the eagle's sons
Searching for their mother's trail.
Fleeing toward the sea
I gave fire to my heels,
Pain to my toes,
Ran flying to my vessel,
Which waited for me at the sea-shore.
Fright sat beside the rower,
Fear at the tiller as a steersman:
How they drove me upon the water's rolling,
On the rocking of the waves!
At the turning of the faint dawn
I reached my homeland's shore."

The dearest son of Kalev
Heard the wind-wizard's speech,
The sorcerer's denials,
With an angry mind, with half an ear;
Then he set his fury loose
To sail forth in speech:
"Woman-thief, liar,
Braggart, rascal's son,
You who went to defile
The widow's bed of grief,
The good mother's resting place—
Do you hope with your blathering,
With your prattle, to appease me,
With your lies to calm me?
Do you think to escape so easily,
To slip lightly from your trouble?
Your stride's measure shall be filled;
Take, robber, the robber's wages,
Taste, thief, the thief's rod!"

With the oak-cudgel in its dancing turn,
His strong hand striking down,
He let a single swing fall
Upon the sorcerer's brow,
Between the two eyes!

The Finnish sorcerer, the wind-wizard,
Fell down like a sack,
Breathed his soul without a groan,
Fell without uttering a word,
Sank into death's cold embrace,
So that no stirring in the mouth,
Nor motion in the eyelids.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Hurried inside to search,
To track his mother's steps;
He rummages the sorcerer's farm
Lengthwise and crosswise,
Every corner on its own,
Searches through the robber's dens,
Sniffs through the thief's nooks,
Treads from room to chamber,
From chamber again to cellar,
Goes to the loft to spy,
Smashes the locked doors,
The sturdiest door-latches,
Smashes doors, scatters posts
To splinters with his fists!
The banging and the crashing,
The thundering of the rampage
People hear in terror
Ten miles away.
The din carries over the heath,
Flies over the flatlands,
Over the grass into the forests,
Leaps onto the high cliffs,
From the cliffs in fright into the sea,
Falls into the wide waves.
The forest birds take flight,
The four-legged creatures flee,
The fish dart in terror to the depths,
To the sea's secret deep,
To the water-maiden's dens.
The people, hearing, say:
Has war come on iron stride,
Battle on bloody wagons
To crush our land?
Yet still the mother's tracks,
The grouse-daughter's pathways
Remain hidden from the son's eyes,
A veil of mist upon the seeker.

The strong son of Kalev
Begins to hate his fury,
To rue his angry mood,
For having dealt the sorcerer
Death that sealed his mouth,
Bound the bonds of his tongue,
Before he had confessed:
Where is the mother's shadowy den,
The dear mother's hiding place?
Wretched, sudden anger—
Mindless manager of affairs,
Wisdom-weak director:
You give the reins to evil's hand,
The horse bolts straight into the forest.

The dearest son of Kalev
Paced back and forth in his reckoning,
Like a headless hen:
From house to yard, from yard to house,
Chamber, loft, cellar—
He hurried through the barns,
Broke through the cattle-sheds,
Searched a dozen times,
Flew through every place,
Until the sheltering hem of evening
Ended the searching,
Put a halt to his wanderings.

The dearest son of Kalev
Lamented the lost old mother,
The mother gone into the forest,
Whose tracks he had lost.
Sorrow found no quenching,
Nor grief any soothing.

At last the shackle of weariness
Bound the strong man
In slumber's bonds to rest.
A comforting dream on its wings
Came to quench the sorrow,
To soothe the grieving.

His mother bloomed in youthful beauty,
Bloomed like a bride in her chamber,
A young wife at the table,
At the feasting of the wedding day.
Linda bloomed, little bird,
In the loveliness of springtime,
As once upon the village swing,
In the coolness of the western alder-grove,
She had bloomed in her mother's yard,
In the foster-mother's grove.
As they lifted the grouse-daughter
The swing flew high!
High and far!

Linda sang, little bird,
The house-hen's crooning:
"Swing-builders, dear brothers,
Let the swing go higher!
So that I may see much land,
See much and pay much!
So that I shine upon the sun,
Gleam upon the sea-waves,
My garland shines to the clouds,
My garland-ribbons to the rains,
My coat shines to Kungla-land,
My bodice-patterns to the Lightning,
My skirt-patterns to the stars!
So that a lad comes, a son of the sun,
A suitor, a son of the moons,
A better groom, a son of the stars,
A dearer groom from Kalevalla."

The dream-revealed
Shadow of the dear old mother,
In the beauty of youth in the heather,
The maiden on the swing—
That one had not come from this world's
Withering meadows;
The image came from farther away:
The mother sat in Uku's yard
In the shining of the day of bliss.

The dearest son of Kalev
Woke in the morning,
Early before the light,
And began to think through the night's dream,
To think the story through;
He thought an hour, thought a second,
Then spoke thus:
"There has the old mother gone.
There into the forest my mother,
There has the little bird flown,
There the little hen vanished,
Gone from home to the berry-field,
Gone to the moor for bilberries;
A hawk came, an evil bird,
A crow came, a thief-bird:
They would seize the hen,
Snatch the little bird.
There the little hen was lost,
There the little bird died,
Died where no word came,
Withered unseen in death."

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Knew now that his mother was gone,
Had sunk into death's bed.

Kuues lugu — Canto VI — The Sword of the Finnish Smith

Kalevipoeg, the mighty man,
Stood a day in sorrow's bonds,
Two days bound in grief's chains,
Mourning the widowed mother;
On the third, before the dawn,
Early before the light,
He set out for home,
Wandering toward the shore.
There came on the wind, gusting,
Pleasanter little thoughts,
There woke from the air
Keener considerations.

In Finland lived a famous smith,
A maker of war-weapons,
A forger of battle-gear,
A master of the finest swords.
Kalevipoeg spoke:
"Before going home
I should procure a sword,
Fit a war-blade
Against the enemy host."
In an instant his steps
Turned onto another road —
He went across the open heath,
He went across the heather,
He strode through the mossy bog,
He wandered a stretch of marshland.
There came before him a great forest,
A vast and trackless woodland.

The mighty son of Kalev
Lost his way through the pine-wood,
Lost a day, lost two,
Lost the third day
Searching for the right path.
Night came long and dark,
The sky starless and black;
The man groped by luck,
Felt the road by hand.

The dearest son of Kalev
Fell beneath a broad spruce
At length upon the moss,
Speaking in a bitter mood:
"All the golden ones go home now,
The silver ones to their houses,
The rest to familiar farms;
My home is the wild forest,
My chamber the midst of the spruce-wood,
The wide woodland my room,
In the wind is my hearth,
In the rain my bathing-place,
In the fog my sleeping-place.
Father left the world before
I came into the daylight,
Mother fell upon her deathbed
With secret sorcerers' escort,
Without my eyes seeing it,
Left me orphaned behind;
Brothers far away in Viru,
Others on the roads of Turkey.
I was left like a goose on the waves,
A duckling at the raft's edge,
An eagle on the high cliff,
Alone in the world to live."

At the rising of the second day
Kalevipoeg set out walking,
At good fortune's instruction
To seek the road anew.
A thrush called from the thicket,
A cuckoo sang from the spruce-top,
A little bird from the alder-grove:
"Turn toward the day's descent,
Lean toward the dusk!"
— "Be well, you wise beaks,
Feathered advisors!"
Spoke the son of Kalev.
He set his steps to the west,
Flying at the west-wind's turning,
Treading on the evening breeze.

Hurrying at speed
He broke from the forest's thickness,
Came out upon the wide open ground.
Over hilly country,
Along the rocky road
Kalev walked on farther.
There came toward him an old woman,
Came hobbling toward him
Walking with the help of a crutch.
The old woman began to speak,
Rocking her words thus:
"Where are you going at such a pace,
Dear son of Kalev?"
The dearest son of Kalev
Understood at once, answered back:
"A pleasant thought came to my mind,
A good notion into my head:
I wished to visit the famous soot-eye,
To befriend the Finnish smith,
I wished to bargain for a sword,
To purchase a precious one.
Direct me, little mother,
Tell me, dear old woman,
Where I may find the smith's road,
The iron-hand's pathways?"

The old woman understood at once,
Understood at once, answered back:
"Easily you can, dear fellow,
Find the tracks without a guide.
Go through the broad woodland,
Through the middle of the fine spruce-grove,
Hasten to the riverbank;
Walk a day, walk two,
Walk perhaps a third day still;
Then turn toward the west,
You will find a hill on the open ground,
A high mound beside the road;
Go along the hill's edge,
Turn left at the mound —
Then a river will meet you
On the right side of the road.
Walk along the riverbank,
Where three waterfalls tumble;
Past the cascades,
At once you will see a fair valley.
In the middle of the fair valley,
In the hidden shade of trees,
At the edge of a high hill,
In a cave of the rocky gorge
Stands the famous Finnish smith's forge."

The mighty son of Kalev,
Hastening along the road
At the old woman's direction,
Passed through the broad woodland,
Through the middle of the fine spruce-grove,
Hastened to the riverbank;
Walked a day, walked two,
Walked a stretch of the third day,
Turned straight toward the west,
Found the hill on the open ground,
The high mound beside the road,
Marched along the hill's edge,
Turned left at the mound,
Hastening to the riverbank;
Walked along the riverbank
Where three waterfalls tumbled.
The leagues dwindled
Under his long stride.
At last the fair valley
Rolled into his sighting eyes.

Hurrying farther,
The blowing of the bellows,
The heavy tremor of the hammers
Clanging on the anvil
Reached Kalev's ears from far away.
At the ear's guidance
The son of Kalev stepped
With quicker strides
To befriend the Finnish smith.

In the middle of the fair valley,
In the hidden shade of trees,
At the edge of a high hill
Stood the famous Finnish smith's forge.
Smoke gave its secret sign,
Sparks their clear token,
The bellows' blowing spoke further,
The iron's roaring spoke plainer still,
That here smithwork was being done,
Hammerwork being fashioned.

The old famous Finnish smith,
A soot-black little father,
Labored with his three sons' company
To fashion the smithwork,
To forge the secret thing.
The smith's sons, the journeymen,
Soot-black as the old father,
Laid blows upon the iron
Swinging their hammers.
A bright-red sword-blade —
Foretelling the blood to come —
Groaned on the face of the anvil
Under the hammers' pain,
Under the heavy hand's pressing,
Under the gripping vise's torment.
Therefore fire was thrust in,
Forced into the bellows' mouth,
Softened, strained,
Softened in the fire's blaze,
Strained ever finer,
Hammered ever stronger,
Tempered ever harder,
Tested between quenchings,
Bent between the pincers —
Would it make a good sword,
A useful blade-weapon?

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Stepped beneath the smith's threshold,
Called from the yard across the door,
Across the threshold's clatter:
"Greetings, smith! Taara's aid
In the working of wise craft,
In the forging of the secret thing!"
— "God's greeting to you, brother!"
Answered the Finnish iron-hand,
Lifting his cap from his brow.
Then he tried with his gaze
To recognize the visitor,
With the mind's measure to judge the man,
To read his lineage.
He stared at the stranger from under his brows,
Slit-eyed and searching,
Stared from head to toe,
From the nape down to the heels,
Measured in his mind the man's stature,
The fellow's shank-length,
Estimated the width of the shoulder-blades;
Then spoke the iron-hand:
"To one who greets in Taara's name,
Who speaks the word of aid,
A place is given in every house,
A resting-place in every home.
From far have you come, young eagle,
Flown here on strong wings?
Surely you grew in a famous village,
Swelled in a fine nest,
A seedling of a wise household,
A fosterling of the house of Kalev?"

The son of Kalev understood,
Answered back craftily:
"The kin does not wander from the stock,
The shoot does not roll from the stump;
Every bird has its own song,
Its plumage after its kind:
The woodpecker pied, the raven black,
The young grouse red-crested,
The young rooster spurred,
Even the fish has scales after its kind,
The crayfish a dark mud-coat.
Listen, smith, iron-hand,
Soot-black little father!
Have you a good sword to sell,
A stronger blade-weapon,
One that will not break in a man's hand?
Give me the goods to test,
That I may measure the sword's firmness,
Feel its sharpness!"
The Finnish smith answered back:
"The buyer has leave to demand the finish,
Leave to test the goods.
A pig-deal is not made in a sack,
Nor a bride-bargain from behind the door,
From pitch-darkness's hiding —
That is the lame-horse trade,
The blind-eye exchange.
Let the eye be clear in judging,
The hand quick in testing,
Wisdom managing the matter:
Then no harm comes from the deal,
No danger ever from buying."

The Finnish smith, the iron-hand,
Commanded his journeyman at once,
Ordered the youngest son
To bring from the chamber for testing
Some of the finer swords.
The son fulfilled the father's bidding,
Hurried to bring goods from the chamber.
He brought then an armful of swords,
A lapful of blade-weapons
For Kalev's testing.

The dear son of Kalev
Began measuring the sword's length,
Testing the blade's firmness,
Feeling the hand-grip;
Tried to bend the blade —
Would it, when curved, spring
Instantly straight again?
He took the grip in his fist,
Set the blade spinning
At the wind's speed, whirling
A couple of turns,
Then struck with a crack
The sword against the cliff-block.
From the hard stone, fire flew,
Sparks sizzling;
The blade crumbled to pieces,
Shards sprang far away,
The handle stayed in his fist.
"Ho, ho! Strong hand!"
Cried the smith in wonder.

The mighty son of Kalev
Answered back sharp-toothed:
"From nothing comes no weapon,
No shield against the enemy!"
He took swiftly a second sword,
Took a third in hand,
Set the blade spinning
A couple of turns;
Then struck with a crack,
Testing the precious iron,
The sword against the cliff-block:
From the hard stone, fire flew,
Sparks sizzling,
The blade crumbled to pieces,
Shards sprang far away,
The handle stayed in his fist.

The Finnish smith, the iron-hand,
The soot-father, spoke:
"That is enough fun for this time,
Enough of testing-goods!
I do not care to waste precious iron,
Finished battle-weapons,
Spending them on trial,
Giving them as play to a strong hand.
Go, son, light-foot!
Go quickly to the chamber,
Bring us sturdier swords,
Firmer test-weapons,
From which a mighty man's hand
Will find a worthy opponent."

The second son hurried quickly
To fulfill the father's bidding;
Carried from the secret chamber
An armful of precious swords,
A lapful of war-weapons
With sturdier blades
For the son of Kalev's testing.

The dear son of Kalev
Took a mightier sword,
A sturdier blade-weapon
For the play of his mighty hand,
Set the blade spinning
A couple of turns,
Then struck with a crack
The sword against the anvil.
The blade drove hard
A thumb's width into the anvil,
The sword itself stayed unbroken,
The blade unshattered,
But the blade showed dull,
Bent twice over.

The Finnish smith began to speak,
Bantering thus:
"Wait, wait, young fellow,
Give time, dear brother!
I will find a sword from the chest,
A war-blade from the secret chamber
Worthy of your great strength,
Deserving of your mighty power,
If you have gold enough in your purse,
Silver for the ransom-price,
Riches to match the sword's worth,
Coin of gold in your wallet,
Thalers in your pocket,
Pennies in your purse.
This is a sword that costs dear,
The most precious goods,
The sword costs, among brothers:
Nine good horses,
Eight spotted mares,
Ten pair of oxen,
Twenty milch-cows,
Fifty of the finest calves,
A hundred stores of wheat,
One and a half boatloads of barley-grain,
A full shipload of rye,
A thousand old thalers,
A hundred pair of silvers,
Two hundred gold coins,
A lapful of brooches,
A third of a kingdom,
Five maidens' dowries."

Then from its own chamber it was brought,
From the finest of its own chest,
From the fastening of seven locks,
From behind nine latches —
It was brought out into the light,
Into the sunshine:
The finest king of swords,
The lord of war-blades,
The Finnish smith's torment,
The iron-hand's exhaustion,
The mightiest drain on his power,
The bitterest weariness of his hands:
What his sweat each day
For seven years had consumed.

The famous king of swords
Had been ordered some years past
By old father Kalev himself
To be made for his own use,
To be fashioned with loving care,
To be wrought with wise craft.
The old man's living days,
His mortal steps,
Had reached at Taara's will
Their evening's decline sooner —
To rest at the rocky mound,
To slumber in the cold bed —
Before the Finnish smith
Had finished the sword-work,
Forged the war-blade.

The smith had bent the sword seven years
With his sons' help,
Hammered and settled it,
Smoothed it smoother,
Sharpened it sharper,
Strained it finer,
Welded into the sword-blade
Seven kinds of iron-stuff;
He had sung every day
At the wiser work's doing
Seven kinds of words,
The most fitting power-words,
The most fluent might-words
For the famous sword-king.

The master had tempered the sword-blade
To greater hardness
By seven kinds of water's will,
In the steeping of precious liquids:
The first was water from the Sea of Viru,
Wet from the broad Finnish Sea;
The second was water from Lake Peipsi,
Wet from Pskov's roads;
The third, water from Lake Võrtsjärv,
Wet from the ancient lake's trace;
The fourth was maiden's water,
Wet from the Mother's little spring;
The fifth, water from the Gauja River,
Wet from the Latvian meadows;
The sixth, water from the Võhandu,
Wet from the holy borders;
The seventh, clear rainwater,
Wet from the cloud's swelling,
Which the thaw had begotten,
Which the dew-drops had nourished.

The blade from seven steels,
From Swedish iron-bars;
The hilt was of white silver,
The hand-grip of the finest gold,
The pommel of Kungla's stone;
The bindings of seven-colored iron,
The buckle of a thick coin,
The second of a sturdier thaler,
The strap-fastenings of seal-stone,
The finger-stone of pebble.

The dearest son of Kalev
Took the elder of swords,
The famous king of irons,
Took it in hand for testing,
Set the blade spinning
At the wind's speed, whirling
A couple of turns:
There rose a mighty roaring,
An uncanny droning woke,
A strange and wondrous rushing,
As though a storm were rising,
A rain-wind's keening,
A hail-wind's screaming,
A gale-wind's bellowing,
Heralding evil weather,
Begetting heavy rainfall,
Tossing the sea-waves,
Scattering the treetops,
Tearing off the rooftops,
Blowing up the sand-dunes,
Sifting the gravel.

The mighty son of Kalev,
The offspring of the victorious,
Swinging his strong fist,
Struck the sword with a crack
Against the heavy anvil!
The mighty hand, the victorious,
Split the iron anvil,
Split the base-block in pieces,
In two halves through the middle;
On the sword there remained no mark,
Not a scratch anywhere.

The dear son of Kalev
Spoke with a joyful face:
"This is a sword, a man's weapon,
Made as a mighty man's prop,
This is a sword worth gold,
Precious as silver,
This is born a war-weapon
For the mightier man's hand.
I promise you without protest
To pay the sword's price in full,
I vow the ransom-loan
To settle without haggling:
Nine good horses,
Eight spotted mares,
Ten pair of oxen,
Twenty milch-cows,
Fifty of the finest calves,
A hundred stores of wheat,
One and a half boatloads of barley-grain,
A full shipload of rye,
A thousand old thalers,
A hundred pair of silvers,
Two hundred gold coins,
A lapful of brooches,
A third of a kingdom,
Five maidens' dowries.
The sword is mine, the price is yours —
Come to Viru to collect it,
To Harju to claim the wages,
To Lääne to redeem the price!"

The Finnish smith, the iron-hand,
Understood at once, answered back:
"A debt is always someone else's property,
From a loan you will not get a sock-sole,
From a fraud not even a glove-thumb;
The honest man pays another's due,
Pays the debt without protest.
Let the ships of Harju carry,
The boats of Viru roll
The sword's price to our land,
The payment to our household.
The loads will bear
Grain to our barns,
Row kernels to our granaries;
Horses will be brought to the yard,
Oxen driven to the meadow,
Calves led to the pasture,
Horned ones to the paddock,
Milch-cows to the water-meadow.
Our yards are fair,
Our lanes are smooth,
Our barn-walls are bridges,
Our yard-fences of apple-wood,
Our meadow-fences of cherry-wood,
Our lanes of oak-wood,
Our hedges of maple;
In the paddock cuckoos call,
In the meadow thrushes whistle,
In the water-meadow small birds sing,
In the lane others dance.
We have bays in coin-bridles,
Dun bays in letter-harness,
Brown ones in bearskin trappings,
Black ones in silver livery,
Dapples in victory-dress,
Greys in silken saddles;
We have cows in the alder-grove,
Calves on the raspberry-hill,
Oxen in the hay-meadow:
From there the herds will find company,
The horned ones kinsmen of their kind."

A welcome-feast was made,
Long drinking-bouts, broad merriment,
Broad and lusty revelry
For the famous king of swords.
The feast lasted seven days,
Seven days the bellows rested,
The hammer rested, the base-block;
The iron tongs rested,
The smith's sons, the journeymen,
The old Finnish smith rested.

Hops, proud upon the bush-top,
Cone handsome on the stump,
Was the feast's master,
The maker of broad mirth's pleasure:
It had crept into the barrel,
Slipped into the ale-cask;
From there it leaped into the tankards,
The rascal crept into the beakers.
Ale was drunk beyond measure,
Hops the proud rose to the head,
Took the mind from the men's heads,
Half the mind from the young men's heads,
The kerchief from the wise women's heads,
The ribbon from the maidens' brows.
The ale was running riot,
The mead raging on the grass:
Women danced without kerchiefs,
Men caroused without caps,
Young men half without trousers,
Maidens topsy-turvy,
Hopping, crawling.
The ale, the rascal, running riot,
Made wisdom into a fool,
Made clear eyes confused,
Turned reason crooked,
Made men senseless.

The dearest son of Kalev
Began to boast out of spite,
To swagger with a drunken head,
To babble loosely,
How on the Finnish voyage
A funny thing had happened on the island,
How the island father's hen,
The household's slender maid,
Had shrieked in his embrace,
Had twisted a little at the hips,
Had cracked a little at the hip-bone,
The mother's tenderly guarded treasure
Unknowingly ruined.

Before he had scattered
The telling any further,
Finished the story,
The smith's eldest son leaped,
The iron-hand's wisest prop,
With blazing eyes from behind the table
At the son of Kalev.
The Finnish smith's eldest son
Spoke with burning eyes:
"Babble on, loose-mouth,
Babble whatever your heart delights;
Leave the maiden unblamed,
The young daughter unshamed!
Do not come slandering a girl,
Mocking a maiden,
Soiling her with your loose mouth:
Light-minded boasting,
Fool-minded swaggering
Ruins a maiden's fortune."

The mighty son of Kalev
Answered so the walls shook,
The base-logs cracked,
The middle-logs trembled:
"What I boasted out of spite,
I confess as plain truth.
The maiden's flowers I plucked,
Her blossoms of joy I wasted,
Her buds of fortune I snapped:
The father came at the cry,
The mother at the daughter's wail."

The men fell to brawling,
To raging with drunken heads;
Words bred worse words,
Speech drove out crueler speech;
From word-abuse grew strife,
There rose a deadly quarrel,
There rolled a blood-thirsty feud.

Sooner than was expected
Misfortune came from the quarrel,
Deeds came from the abuse:
Kalev drew with a quick hand
The sword from its sheath to rage.
With the murderer's sword-play
He dashed the head to the floor;
Blood spurted painfully,
Splashing into the brothers' eyes.

The Finnish smith, the iron-hand,
Screaming, crying out!
The mother fell in terror
Beside her son upon the floor.
The old smith began to curse,
After the curse, to speak:
"Murderer, who the precious sword
Has by innocent blood-spilling,
By guiltless slaughter,
Desecrated forever!
Shameless blood-hound,
You took the prop from old age,
The helper from the wiser craft!
Boys, take the long tongs,
Take in hand the iron hammers!
Give the murderer a beating,
Bloody payment to the enemy,
To the drainer of dear blood!"

The sons went to obey the command,
To carry out the father's will;
They took the heaviest hammers,
The longest tongs in their fists,
Heavy iron bars,
To drop upon Kalev
The murderer's bloody payment
Upon his skull.

The mighty son of Kalev
In the pride of his ale-rage
Rose to the middle of the room,
Swinging the sword in fury,
Cried in a terrible voice:
"Ha, you sooty goblins,
You blind soot-eyes!
Is your life so cheap?
Kalev has a mighty hand:
Where his blow falls,
There he begets death.
The man is not yet born,
His likeness not yet come to be,
Who could stand against me.
Come, if you want death!"

— The Finnish smith spoke:
"Leave the robber unpunished,
The blood-hound untormented!
The hand of the gods
Will catch the robber in payment,
Will measure the murderer his wages,
Bloody wages to the blood-spiller.
Murderer, who the precious sword,
The lord of war-weapons,
Has dyed with innocent blood,
Soiled with guiltless death!
The court of the gods,
The higher wisdom of Taara's people
Will compel the sword to pay the debt,
To extinguish the evil deed!
Let it be, let it be — I curse:
Let the war-weapon slay you,
The sharp iron kill you,
Let there come to you in secret
From the sword a murderer,
From the spilled blood an enemy!
Let you die in the marsh,
Rot on a tussock,
Moulder in the bushes,
Decay in the thicket!
Hear, sword, precious iron,
Hear, kingly one, these commands,
Mark what in my thoughts
I curse with secret words:
Rise, iron, to be a slayer,
Grow to be a neck-cutter;
Pay the debt to the murderer,
Fulfill the maker's wish,
Where no thought has gone before,
No imagining in any dream!"

The mighty son of Kalev,
Half still drunk from the hops,
Half still in the rage's spin,
Staggered dazed from the room,
Stepped blindly into the yard;
For he did not take the curses
Any wiser heed,
Nor did he see the father's grief,
The poor mother's mourning gesture,
The wretched sisters' sighing,
The household's sorrow
Over the withered son's death,
Over the brother's painful blood.

Staggering as he stormed,
Kalev swayed through the gate,
Swayed across the wide meadow,
Lurched from the meadow into the paddock,
Then went at last to the open ground.

The mighty son of Kalev
Trod the road on unsteady legs,
Wandered the heavy path,
Until a river met him
On the left side of the road;
He walked along the riverbank,
Where three waterfalls tumbled,
Casting spray widely.

The weary son of Kalev,
When he had passed the cascades,
Took his rest from exhaustion,
From the draining of his body's strength,
A resting-place upon the mound;
He threw himself down to sleep,
To shake off the stupor of the ale,
To mend his heavy head,
To air the anguish from his mind.

The son of Kalev rested;
His snoring shook the fields,
Rattled the cliffs
Trembling and swaying,
Forced the sand to shift,
Sifted the gravel,
The birds in terror left off singing,
The forest creatures left off play.
But the people began to say:
Is war riding this way,
The war-wagon rolling?

Let us launch the little song-boat,
The singer's little craft,
The joy-carrying barge
To rest at the island's shore,
To rest at the raft's edge.
Let us go to the island's open ground
To see the old oak,
That was brought once from the sea,
Found once in the waves.

The fair little oak grew tall,
Swelled in the sunshine's glow,
Stretched in the rain's flow;
The oak pressed into the heavens,
Its long branches into the clouds,
Its crown near the sun.
The oak makes the sky dark,
Hides the light in darkness,
Covers the moon and covers the sun,
Shadows the stars from shining,
Buries the earth in black
Into darkness's hiding.
The oak rose, the oak grew,
Grew, rose ever taller;
The oak strains to lift the sky,
Its branches to scatter the clouds.

The island father had ridden out,
Had gone far to listen,
Measured by step many lands,
Rode on horseback many shores
Seeking helpers,
Hiring laborers,
Who would fell the oak,
Chop the enormous thing down,
Strip the broad branches from its sides;
Who would make the oak into useful wood,
The broad branches into ships,
The crown-pieces into towns.

The island father, sighing,
Begging the hired men:
"Come and fell the oak,
Strip its broad branches,
Bring down the crown;
The oak darkens the heavens,
Hides the sunshine,
Shadows the starlight,
Quenches the moon's gleam."

The men understood, answered back:
"We cannot come, dear fellow!
The oak has grown to the heavens,
Its crown parting the clouds;
The oak is mightier than we:
The trunk does not fear our axes,
The base our hatchets."
The island father came back,
Went home complaining.
The wife came to meet him in the yard,
Began to ask for the outcome.
The father understood, answered back:
"I rode the wind-roads for nothing,
I cannot get oak-fellers,
Broad-branch strippers,
Anyone to bring down the crown,
To scatter the long branches."

The wife led the father indoors,
Bade him go to the chamber,
Where an eagle was in bonds,
A thumb-sized man in fetters.
The wife spoke thus:
"I went to gather bedding,
To rake the litter together,
A golden rake in my hand,
A copper shaft behind it,
Silver rake-teeth,
Golden rings at the sides.
I took one windrow, took two,
Was beginning to take a third.
What did I find beneath the windrow?
I found an eagle beneath the windrow;
This was a home-raised eagle,
By day hatched, a sun-child,
By night hatched, a mother's child.
I brought the eagle home,
Put it in bonds in the chamber.
What was under the eagle's wing?
A man was under the eagle's wing.
The little man's height measured
Two spans' worth,
The length of Kalev's thumb.
What was in the man's arms?
An axe was in the man's arms."

The father asked the man,
Inquired of the thumb-sized one:
"Do you want, little golden one,
To go and fell the oak,
To strip its broad branches?"
The little man understood,
The thumb-sized one spoke:
"Free me from the prison-bonds,
Tear the chains from my shackles,
Then we shall strike a bargain!"
The little man was freed from the bonds,
Torn from the chains of his shackles,
They began to make the bargain.
What was given him as wages,
Promised as reward?
A golden bowl was given as wages.
The little man went outside,
Stepped close to the oak;
There he began to grow,
To rise beside the oak;
He grew a fathom, grew two,
Then straightened many fathoms more.
From the little man had risen a man
Who began to fell the oak;
He felled a day, felled two,
Felled a stretch of the third day:
The oak began to totter,
To sway on its stump,
Its crown beginning to fall.
The oak's trunk covered the island,
The crown fell into the waves.

What will be made from this oak?
From the trunk was built a sturdy bridge,
There was bent a fine causeway
On two arms across the sea.
One led from the island to the shore of Viru,
The second arm to the shore of Finland —
That famous bridge to Finland.
From the crown were made proud ships,
Were made precious merchant-ships,
From the middle, guild-boats,
From between, small little towns,
From the branches, slave-ships,
From the shavings, children's boats.

What is left over, leave it be:
From that comes the poor man's sauna,
A mourning-house for widows,
A shelter for orphaned children,
Where in the rolling of rain,
In the raging of the gale,
In the blizzard's blowing they find cover.
What is left over, leave it be:
From that comes a fine singing-house,
A pleasure-chamber for the singer,
Where these words are woven,
Glued into song-thread.

Those who pass by that way,
Who ride upon the Finnish bridge,
Stop and wonder:
Is this the town of Lihala?
Or is this the shore of Rahala?
Or is this the dwelling of Kungla?

The singer heard, and answered back:
"Oh, you fools and simpletons,
Blessed with meager wit!
Were this the town of Lihala,
Then it would be made of meat;
Were this the shore of Rahala,
Then it would be wrought of coin;
Were this the dwelling of Kungla,
Then it would be made of gold.
This is the singer's room,
The poor man's little chamber,
The destitute man's shelter.
The moon is my door,
The sun gleaming on my ceiling,
The stars dancing in my room,
The rainbow arching as my ridgepole.
Here these songs were fashioned,
These word-sailings born,
These tongue-turnings spun.
The spinning-wheel stood in the poor chamber's midst,
The tow-distaff in Taara's hall,
The thread-warp in the Creator's hands,
The second at the sun's gate,
The third in the dawn's schoolhouse.
Fair was the winding for the winder,
The skein lovely for the spinner;
The sun spun the drought-thread,
The dusk twisted the red thread,
The sky spun the blue silk."

Seitsmes lugu — Canto VII — The Homeward Voyage

The sun shone on the treetops,
Evening hung upon its shoulder,
Weary shadows stretched and drew
A silence-veil across the meadow,
A peace-robe over the forests;
From the mourning-birch's leafy embrace,
From the sorrow-aspen's bosom,
From the spruce's golden bonnet
A lone songbird called
The story of the day's ending,
Called in the evening's coolness,
Praising the setting sun,
Giving thanks to the wiser Father.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
When he had broken free from sleep's snare,
From weariness's bondage,
Began to clear his eyes,
Began to ease his eyelids,
Began to sort his thoughts,
Tried to bring to mind,
To remember what had passed,
What like a withered dream,
A faded phantom-shape,
Had flickered through his musings.
The footprints of recent hours
Had left no certain track.
In autumn's foggy darkness,
In drought-time's cloudy haze,
Yesterday's events stood still:
Whether in Finland or on the island
He had held long revelries,
Whether from Turku trouble had come,
Whether he had fought on Tuura's road —
Of this he knew nothing clearly.
The smith's son's killing,
The spilling of innocent blood,
Made no mark of sorrow in him,
Nor any burden of regret.

Dear son of the Kalevides
Hurried onward again,
Hastening in eager speed,
Until a hilltop met him
Past which he had come before.
He walked a day, he walked two,
Through the breadth of open plains,
Along rivers, along ridges,
Then passed through the wide forest,
Walked a stretch of the third day,
Striding long toward the shore.

On the sea-cliff, bound in rock,
Fast in iron chains,
Stood the wind-wizard's vessel,
The old sorcerer's little boat.
The son of the Kalevides took
The dead enchanter's boat
As an inheritance,
Took the ship as recompense
For having not found his mother.

The dearest son of the Kalevides
Loosed the little boat
From its bondage of chains;
Sat himself in the skiff,
Took the oars in his mighty hands,
Began to row in haste,
Striving toward home,
Set the sails to billow,
Set the rigging to stream in the wind.
The wind's thrust pushed from behind,
The waves drove him merrily,
Rolling him toward Viru.
On the water's surface the oar played,
Hurrying at the rower's command,
One hand held the tiller
So the boat would not stray from its course.

The son of Kalev does not tire;
His chest is rowan-wood,
His shoulder-blades are apple-tree,
His forearms are of maple,
His elbows are of elm,
His finger-joints are currant-wood,
His fingernails are honeysuckle,
Iron-strength through all his body.

The wind's thrust pushed from behind,
The waves drove him merrily,
Rolling him toward Viru.

The son of the Kalevides sang:
"I went to play upon the sea,
To sing upon the waves,
Golden oars in my hands,
Silver shafts to the oars.
What should come to meet me?
There came a flock of ducks,
Under the waves a flock of geese,
Above the waves a flock of swans,
And through the midst a fair flock of wild geese.

I went to play upon the sea,
To sing upon the waves,
Golden oars in my hands,
Silver shafts to the oars.
What should come to meet me?
There came three ships:
One was the ship of young women,
The second the ship of wise women,
The third of young maidens,
A pretty boat of fair girls.
There were many maidens there,
Currant-eyed sisters,
Girls by the dozen;
Golden gloves upon their hands,
Silver rings upon their fingers,
Silken shirts upon their backs,
Mist-patterns on their sleeves,
Fine coins about their necks,
Great brooches on their breasts,
Day-bright garlands on their heads.

The proud maidens, all at once,
Began to love me,
Pressed toward me eagerly.
I answered them in reply:
'Be still, my little hens!
Leave off your weeping, mournful birds!
Soon enough the evening of fortune comes,
A better sun will rise to shine,
When your fortunes blossom,
When your partners come to you,
When your mates grow tall for you,
Where your lots are cast,
Where your shares are dealt;
From Kalev no husband grows,
That lad is not your lot.'"

The wind's thrust pushed from behind,
The waves drove him merrily,
Rolling him toward Viru;
On the water's surface the oar played,
Hurrying at the rower's command,
One hand held the tiller
So the boat would not stray from its course.

The keen sea-breezes
Drove the boat toward Viru,
Southward drove the little skiff.
The keen sea-breezes
Freed his head from the sail's swaying,
From the hop-vine rage of drunkenness;
Yet a clear accounting
Of the last hostile feast,
Of the quarrel that rose in the smith's house,
The hero could not gain.
What bore witness to the truth
Were the familiar blood-marks,
The blood-traces on the sword's edge,
The blood-stains on his tunic.

The wind's thrust pushed from behind,
The waves drove him merrily,
Rolling him toward Viru.

Already midnight's cover
Had hidden the sea's surface,
Already the sieve stood on edge,
Its stakes against the brightness,
When a rising shape
Swelled up from the water's face.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Recognized the familiar island-shore,
Where on his outward voyage, unknowing,
He had befriended the island maiden,
Had rocked her in love's embrace.
The maiden's songs, the maiden's love,
The maiden's shrieking cries,
The terrible plunge into the sea,
The drowning beneath the waves —
All came back to the hero's mind,
Troubled his thoughts with confusion,
Broke his spirit into sorrows.
The dearest son of the Kalevides
Wanted to row softly past,
To glide past the island's shore,
Feared to grieve his father,
Feared to frighten his gentle mother,
Who still mourned the blossom,
Who still wept for the young maiden.

Listen, listen — what sounds from there,
What sings at the waves' falling?
Is that not a maiden's chiming,
A young girl's singing,
A lost hen's cooing
That rises from the waves,
That lifts from the quiet water-bed?

Kalevipoeg stilled his rowing,
Set the oars upon the edge,
Set them on the boat's rim to rest,
And began to listen to the song.

The maiden's shade from the water's hiding
Gleamed out of the waves,
Whistled like a waterbird,
Spoke like a little duck:

"The maiden went to swing on the sea,
To sing upon the waves,
The child went to ease her mind,
To forget the injustice done,
To quench her sorrows.
Brother sails at the water's edge,
Sails upon the wide waves,
Sister slumbers in her secret bed
In the hiding-chamber's depths.
What gleams there in the waves,
What flashes on the water's face?
A sword gleams in the waves,
Blood flashes on the water's face;
It makes the waves to blaze,
It makes the maiden's cheeks to redden.
Oh you brother, blood-greedy,
Boy who went astray in love!
Why did you go in wrath
To spill the innocent blood?
Why did you crush
Your own home-hen,
Your own father's dove,
Upon the turf?

I went to swing on the sea,
To sing upon the waves,
The child went to ease her mind,
To forget the injustice done,
To quench her sorrows.
What gleamed from the waves?
Blood gleamed from the waves.
Brother sailed on the water's face,
The murderer's sword gleamed at his hip,
Blood flashed on the sword's edge,
Made the waves to blaze,
Made the maiden's cheeks to redden,
Made the withered flower to bloom again.

Sister slumbers in her secret bed
Under the water's cold blanket,
In the wave-cradle's rocking.
Oh you brother, blood-greedy,
Boy who went astray in love!
Why did you go in wrath
To spill the innocent blood?
Why did you crush your own home-hen,
Your own father's dove,
Upon the turf,
Why did you waste the young one's peace,
Why did you force your sister
To slumber in death's bed?
A double debt of blood
Destroys the brother's peace.

Brother sails on the water's face,
Sister slumbers in her secret bed,
Under the water's cold blanket,
In the wave-cradle's rocking.
The brother has a heavy battle,
A heavy debt to answer
To still the innocent blood,
To quench the injustice done,
To atone for the deeds of excess,
What once unknowing,
A second time unwilling,
He rolled upon himself as a burden of debt.
Oh you wretched little brother,
Long is your age of debt!

I went, a young maiden,
To play at the sea's edge,
To sing upon the waves,
To scatter my dark mood:
There I, little hen, was lost,
There I died, little bird,
There I, young one, grew faint,
There I, blossom, withered!

Do not weep, dear mother!
Do not grieve, dear father!
In the sea I have a home,
Under the waves my secret dwelling,
In the spawn a little chamber,
In the sea-mist a little nest,
I have a bed in the cold,
A fair cradle in the waves;
The Kalevs rock me,
The Sulevs lull me to sleep.

Oh you wretched little brother,
Long is your age of debt!
Oh you wretch upon the water's edge:
When will you too be laid to bed,
Lulled into the lap of peace,
To rest from long pain?"

The withered maiden's songs of mourning,
The dear shade's lamentations,
The knowing-words from the wave-bed,
The speakings from the sea-floor
Grieved the son of Kalev,
Saddened the young man.
Thoughts in the mourning-mood
Bred longings,
Grew into regrets.
The flight of time gone by,
The Finnish smith's son's death,
What like a dream-shape
At dawn once whirling
Had suddenly vanished —
Kalev could not hold it fast,
Could not make the done undone.

He took the oars in hand,
Began to row again,
Rowing toward home.
The wind's thrust pushed from behind,
The waves drove him merrily,
Rolling him toward Viru;
On the water's surface the oar played,
Hurrying at the rower's command,
One hand held the tiller
So the boat would not stray from its course.

The son of the Kalevides sang:
"Where are the aspens of sorrow,
The aspen-groves of anguish,
The spruce-forests of sadness,
The birch-groves of regret?

Where I mourn, aspens grow,
Where I grieve, there an aspen-grove,
Where I am sorrowful, spruces grow,
Where I repent, birches shelter me.

Oh my gentle mother,
Who raised me in love,
Who rocked me in her hands,
Who lulled me by her lips:
You had to die alone,
To wither unseen!
Who pressed shut your eyes,
Who closed your brows together?
The bluebell closed your eyes,
The dewy grass covered your brows.
Oh my gentle mother!
The bluebell has hidden thorns,
The dewy grass has rough bristles.

Oh my gentle mother!
How you raised me,
Raised me, held me close,
Lifted me, bounced me,
Set me down, played with me,
Lulled me by your lips,
Rocked me in both arms!
You thought a help was growing,
Believed a support was stepping forward,
Hoped at life's ending
To gain one who would ease you down,
One who would close your eyes."

The wind's thrust pushed from behind,
The waves drove him merrily,
Rolling him toward Viru.

Already dawn was rising,
The sun's edge near its ascent,
When he turned the boat just right
Against the home-shore.

The dearest son of the Kalevides
Let the skiff rest on the shore,
Bound it with its chain
To the edge of a raft;
Leapt himself upon the bank,
Wanted straightway toward home
To set his steps,
To go see his brothers,
Whether perhaps the brothers on the Viru road
Had found their mother's tracks.

Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Reached the ridge of Iru Hill,
Where the wisdom of the Taara-folk
Had hardened his mother into stone.

Hush, hush, brave man!
Hold still, young son!
Do you hear the strangeness —
What sounds from the distance?
What gleamed at evening's hem,
What whistled on the wind?
Like a fashioned little song,
Like a human voice
It sounded from the wind's murmur.
Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Turned his ears toward the sound,
Where those voices had risen.
The unseen song-spirit,
The young daughter of the Wind-Mother,
Let her song flow smoothly
Into the listener's ear:

"From home flew the crook-beak,
From the nest the eagle's better son,
On grief's wings the swan flew,
On sorrow's wings the rooster;
The dear young eagle flew
To wander the righteous road,
To search for his mother's tracks;
Strong the wings upon the bird,
Sharp the talons on the eagle.
Fair, he flew from home,
Beautiful, from his father's yard,
As a teardrop rolls from cloud,
As snow falls on the open field,
As the pea-plant sheds its blossom,
As the bean loses its own,
As the lilac sheds its leaves,
As the rowan shakes its clusters,
And behind the bird-cherry branches.
So the bird flew from home,
The grouse to other waters,
The goose to other springs.

At Taara's wise desiring,
The widow's days of mourning,
The long and painful days
Had reached their evening in good fortune.

Eagle-son, crook-beak,
How does your road lead homeward?
Fair, you flew from home,
Beautiful, from your father's yard.
The eagle-son's iron talons
Spilled the innocent blood,
Wasted the maiden's peace.
A double debt of blood
Torments the young eagle,
Burdens the heart of the crook-beak.
Mother puts the breast to the mouth,
But cannot put sense into the head!
Beware, eagle, crook-beak,
Guard yourself against the sword:
Blood craves the price of blood!
The stone-mother can no longer
Speak to you at length."

So sang upon the wind's wing
The shade of the mother's spirit.

The dearest son of the Kalevides
Understood the song's riddle —
How his dear mother
Had faded on her deathbed;
Understood the song's riddle —
How on his Finnish voyage
He had done evil twice:
Gone wrong once unknowing,
A second time unwitting.
Kalevipoeg, the hero,
Hurried toward home;
Reached his father's yard,
Reached the pasture-gate,
Dogs barking in the yard.
The brothers came to the gate,
Came to look at the stranger.
When they saw the youngest,
Whom they had thought lost,
The brothers came in wonder
To recognize the newcomer,
Who bore a proud sword at his hip,
Golden spurs upon his boots.

Who could manage to ask
All the questions in their proper turn
That the three brothers spoke
Among themselves in turn?

On the second evening
The strong men sat, three together,
And shared their tidings —
How in searching for their mother
Each one's hand had fared.

The elder brother spoke,
And let a song fly forth:
"I went to search for mother,
To catch the lost hen,
I went, I walked a stretch of road,
A stretch of road, much land,
I walked a stretch of empty land,
Seven versts of that land,
Ten versts of Kurland,
Half a verst of Poland,
Five versts of the Russian road,
A hundred versts of the German lands,
A thousand steps of Lapland.
What should come to meet me?
There came a maiden of tin,
A girl wrought of tin,
Tin mouth, tin eyes,
Tin neck and tin body,
Tin sleeves upon her arms.
I asked the tin maiden:
'Did you see my mother's tracks,
The grouse-child's pathway?'
The tin could not understand
Nor give an answer:
Tin as dull as stone,
Could not move its mouth.

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly forward,
A stretch of road and much land,
I walked a stretch of empty land,
Seven versts of that land,
Eight stony mountains.
What should come to meet me?
There came a maiden of copper,
A girl cast in brass.
Copper mouth, copper eyes,
Copper neck and copper body,
Copper from head to toe,
A copper tunic on the maiden,
Copper sleeves upon the tunic.
I asked the copper maiden:
'Did you perhaps see the pathway,
Where the home-hen was lost,
Where the grouse-daughter went into the storm?'

Copper could not understand
Nor give an answer;
Copper as dull as stone,
Could not move its mouth.

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly forward,
A stretch of road and much land;
I walked a stretch of empty land,
Eight stony mountains,
A hundred versts of mossy bog.
What should come to meet me?
There came a maiden of silver,
A girl cast in silver,
Silver mouth, silver eyes,
Silver all the body
From head to toe;
Silver mantle, silver sleeves,
Silver-patterns on the sleeves.
I asked the silver maiden:
'Did you perhaps see the pathway,
Where the home-hen was lost,
Where the grouse-daughter went into the storm?'

Silver could not understand
Nor give an answer.
Silver cold as stone,
Could not move its mouth,
Silver tongue could not speak.

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly forward,
A stretch of road and much land;
I walked a stretch of empty land,
Seven versts of that land,
Eight stony mountains,
A hundred versts of mossy bog.
What should come to meet me?
There came a maiden of gold,
A golden king's daughter.
Golden mouth, golden brows,
Golden neck, golden body,
Gold from head to toe.
Golden sleeves upon her arms,
Gold-patterns on the sleeves,
Golden mantle, golden bonnet,
A golden crown upon the bonnet.
I asked the golden maiden:
'Did you perhaps see the pathway,
Where the home-hen was lost,
Where the grouse-daughter went into the storm?'

Gold understood, and answered at once,
The golden beak began to sing:
'Go to the clearing roads,
Hurry to the heather,
There you will find a maiden of flesh
Who speaks with a warm mouth.'

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly,
My toe-tips rolling.
I walked a stretch of empty land,
Seven versts of boggy marsh,
Eight cattle-pastures,
Ten versts of plowed land;
There I reached the clearing road,
The middle of the heather.
What should come to meet me?
There came a fair maiden,
A girl born from her mother's breast,
Cheeks flushed with rosy bloom,
Eyes bright with the spark of life.
I asked the maiden,
The high-breasted one:
'Did you perhaps see the pathway,
Where the home-hen was lost,
Where the grouse-daughter went into the storm?'

The fair maiden understood at once,
The girl spoke kindly:
'I have not seen, dear brother,
The hen's tracks in the heather,
The grouse's path elsewhere.
Perhaps a hawk carried the hen away,
Perhaps an eagle bore the grouse.
Come, brother, to our farmstead
To court our home-hens;
We have a host of fair-heads,
A greater company of currant-eyes,
A flock of curly-heads,
Seven fine brooch-breasted ones,
Ten who wear golden garlands,
Twenty with beautiful bead-necklaces,
A hundred clad in silk.'

I understood, and answered:
'I cannot come, young daughter!
I am no suitor,
No wanderer on maiden-roads;
I search for my lost mother's tracks,
For the little mother who went into the forest.'"

The second brother spoke,
And let a song fly forth:
"I went to search for mother,
To catch the lost hen,
I went, I walked a stretch of road,
A stretch of road, much land,
I tramped a stretch of open plains,
I strode through a great bog,
I walked along the riverbank,
Some versts through the forest.
What should come to meet me?
There came a little sauna.
I stood at the sauna door:
'Greetings, mother, greetings, father!
Come and show me the way!'
Mother did not answer, father did not answer,
A black cat mewed in the corner.

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly forward,
I went, I walked a stretch of road,
A stretch of road, much land,
I tramped a stretch of open plains,
I strode through another bog,
I walked along the riverbank,
Some versts through the forest.
What should come to meet me?
There came a forest-skulker.
I asked the wolf:
'Did you perhaps see, brother,
My mother's tracks in the forest?'

The forest-skulker could not answer,
The wolf-cub could not speak,
Just stared at me sideways,
Baring its teeth in a grin.

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly forward,
I went, I walked a stretch of road,
A stretch of road, much land,
I tramped a stretch of open plains,
I strode through another bog,
I walked along the riverbank,
Some versts through the forest.
What should come to meet me?
There came an old bear.
I asked the bear:
'Did you perhaps see, brother,
My mother's tracks in the forest?'

The bear could not understand
Nor give an answer;
What the fellow mumbled,
I could not make sense of.

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly forward,
I went, I walked a stretch of road,
A stretch of road, much land,
I tramped a stretch of open plains,
I strode through another marshy bog,
I walked along the riverbank,
Some versts through the forest.
What should come to meet me?
There came a tall spruce,
A golden cuckoo in its crown.
I asked the cuckoo:
'Did you perhaps see, golden beak,
My mother's path in the forest?'

The cuckoo understood, and answered at once,
The golden beak raised its voice:
'Go through the wide forest,
There comes a fair clearing,
Behind the clearing a lovely birch-grove,
In the birch-grove's midst a fine farmstead;
There you will find maidens
Who can give you an answer.'

Onward I hurried,
Let my steps fly,
I went, I walked through the forest,
I strode across the clearings,
I walked through the birch-grove.
What should come to meet me?
There came a fine farmstead,
In it four young maidens,
Four fair curly-necks.
One was stitching a silken shirt,
The second embroidering sleeve-patterns,
The third weaving a golden belt,
The fourth clattering at the loom.
As if warmed by the wind
The chamber shone for the newcomer,
Walls dressed in silk,
Floor cleanly swept.

I greeted them kindly:
'Greetings, maidens, sable-eyes!
Do you perhaps know the pathway,
Where the home-hen was lost,
Where the grouse-daughter went into the storm?'

She who stitched the silken shirt
Did not speak a word,
She who embroidered the sleeve-patterns
Did not open her mouth,
She who wove the golden belt
Took my greeting kindly,
She who clattered at the loom —
She was the richest in words,
She spoke the kindest:

'I have walked, love, the cattle-path,
I went yesterday to the berry-field,
The day before in the back-forest,
Before that in the meadow cutting hay,
I did not see the hen's tracks
Nor the grouse-daughter's path;
Perhaps they took to flight,
Perhaps they took the wing-road.
Let summer pass,
Autumn will come;
Take up the mead-cups,
Pack the bride-gifts in sacks,
Go courting the hen,
Go catching another grouse!'
I understood, and answered:
'I do not seek a young wife,
I do not want another grouse —
I search for my lost mother's tracks,
For my mother's paths of love.'"

The third brother spoke
Of how his searching journeys
Had also gone to waste upon the wind.
He told of the island voyage,
Of what had happened on the Finnish shore,
How the sorcerer, the wind-wizard,
Had sunk on his deathbed,
Told of the dear sword's purchase,
Of the long feasting;
But the last bloody quarrel,
The killing of the smith's son,
The island maiden's wave-song,
The mother's song on the wind —
These he did not tell his brothers.

The elder brother let his words,
His song fly forth:
"Father sleeps in his burial mound,
Under the gravel-sand blanket,
A stone-cover upon his bed;
Where mother's foot has strayed,
What has anchored her step —
Only the divine
Wisdom of Taara can know.
Whether the grief of widowhood,
The wearing away of sorrow,
Has ended our mother's life?
Or whether the force of wretchedness,
The pressing of suitors,
Has carried the gentle widow
In a thief's claws
To a foreign field?
Or whether the rolling waters
Have scattered her to the sea-floor?
This is unknown to any of us.

The sheltering wing of parents,
The brooding of love's embrace,
We three can hope for no more.
On our own wing's strength
We must fly now, birds.
Now the father's command must
Be carried out among ourselves;
Let us, brothers, cast the lots:
Which of us shall rise as king.
So the father before his death
Had instructed our mother."

The second brother let his words,
His song fly forth:
"You speak rightly, brother!
As the lost father's wisdom
Had confirmed his will as command,
So is it the duty of his children
To carry out the matter.
Our younger brother has reached manhood,
The chick now bears his wings,
Can launch from the nest and sail
Already across the sea:
Let the lots then be cast,
Let the matter find its answer!"

The youngest brother let his words,
His song fly forth:
"Father died before I was born,
Before I saw the light of day,
Mother went astray on the wrong path,
The poor one was perhaps taken by force.
Mother was carried from the doorstep,
Her love went out through the window,
Mother was carried along the road,
Her warm words along the bog;
Where the hen was laid low,
Where the grouse-daughter's grave was made,
There her love froze
Beneath the bank in winter's cold;
Mother was cast into the grave,
Her loving embrace grew stiff.

We, three brothers,
Orphaned children without parents,
Must strive to fulfill our father's command,
Carry it out without refusal.
Let us go tomorrow to cast the lots,
To test our strength,
To seek our fortune —
Which of us by Taara's will
Shall take the power of rule!"

Each man had his own thoughts,
His own secret wishes
Stirring in his heart:
Hope set upon the lot's fortune,
Fear of losing that fortune.

In the evening, at the hour of dusk,
In the twilight's lingering,
The youngest brother wandered alone,
Walking with sorrowful steps
To his lost father's grave;
A grief-cloth in the young man's hand,
A tear-cloth in his fist,
He stepped upon his father's grave,
Sat upon the burial mound.

His father's grave spoke:
"Who stirs above the sand,
Who treads upon the grave,
Who presses the gravel with his steps,
Who rocks the grave-stone?"

The son understood, and answered:
"Your son stirs above the sand,
Your son treads upon the grave.
Your youngest son, dear father,
Whom your eyes never saw,
Treads upon the gravel
And rocks the grave-stone.
Rise up, dear father!
Rise to give your love,
To stroke your son's head;
Rise to lend your strength,
To speak three words of counsel!"

The father understood, and answered:
"I cannot rise, young son,
I cannot rise, nor wake.
My neck-bone is broken,
My knuckle-dust has gone to knee-bone,
Moss has grown above the earth,
Meadow-grass above the grave,
Lichen has grown upon the stone,
Bluebells upon my eyes,
Meadowsweet upon my feet.
The wind comes — it brings love,
The sun comes — it strokes the head."

The son answered sorrowfully:
"The wind's love lasts for hours,
The sun's love lasts for days,
Taara's love lasts a lifetime,
A father's love lasts forever."

The father answered from beneath the earth,
In the language of love from the grave:
"Do not grieve, my son,
Do not weep, my young one!
Your lost father's shade shall guard
Your righteous path from the grave.
By the guidance of the gods
The streams of life shall run,
The waves of fortune shall flow.
The evil done unknowing —
Strive now to mend it!"

Kaheksas lugu — Canto VIII — The Stone-Throwing and the Plowing

Heaven's candle, Evening Star,
Brightest eye of the twilight,
Look from beneath the cloud-lid,
From under heaven's high brow,
Upon the singer's pathways,
Upon the harper's wanderings!

Quietly your eye has watched
The transformations of the ancient age,
Watched Taara's oak-groves,
The beautiful sacred trees
Greening in their leafy finery;
Watched the Mother's waves gleaming
Under the sun's shining face;
Watched the Mother's flowing,
The murmuring current's course
Thawing from winter's breast.

Surely you, dear star-daughter,
Slender maiden of heaven,
Saw the brothers rolling forth,
When they went to cast the lots!
Surely you saw the plowman,
The kingly son of Kalev,
Turning the Viru field with its furrows,
Turning the Järva field with its ridges,
Plowing with his mighty hand,
When he plowed the great islands,
Great islands, high hills,
Leveled the wide plains,
Reed-beds into bogs,
Mountains between the furrows,
Hills upon the curving field,
Valleys amid the heights.
Surely you, dear star-maiden,
Saw the hero's plowing!

Should the thread of my song-craft
Run short of yarn,
Of twisted golden speech,
Of the silver spindle's castings,
Surely the star will show the way,
Heaven will show the wise roads.
If I still lack words —
Sackfuls remain at home,
Glovefuls upon the oven-shelf,
Fistfuls upon the beam,
Shoe-measures in the chest.
If I should still run short,
I shall gather from the heather,
Pick along the clearing roads,
Glean what I can from the thicket,
From the withered hay-stubble,
Gather from the dewy grasses,
From the chaff of the aftermath,
Sweep it together from the husks,
From the sweepings of the bran.

When I begin to fashion the tale,
When I sing it openly,
Announcing the son of Kalev,
Then the parish stays to watch,
The village stays to listen to the gold,
The gentry stand at the edges,
The manor-folk linger in thought,
Listening to my speakings,
To my song's rattlings.

A wiser time shall follow,
A better feast in our age;
Then I shall sing the ancient songs,
Rattle out the singer's tales,
Roll forth the old melodies
That I gathered from Harju,
That I drew out of Viru,
That I ransomed from Lääne,
That I caught from Taara's sacred grove.
There I shall sing into the fire's blizzard,
Into the fragrant snowdrift,
Set the very clouds ablaze,
The snowflakes humming.
Such was the old way of Viru,
The craft of the Järva singers.

When I sing the tale openly,
Announce the son of Kalev,
Proclaim the son of Olev:
How much can the horse carry,
How much can the steed lift,
The flax-maned one haul?
Could the horse of Kalev,
The dappled steed of Alev,
Carry alone my song-crowds,
The golden loads of my tidings?

On the second day, at dawn's border,
In the small light's dimness,
The sons of the Kalevides set out,
Three together walking,
Wandering on the pleasant road:
Whether somewhere unexpectedly
A fairer lot-casting place,
A fortune-testing ground
Might meet their secret wishes
And come before their eyes.

The young sons of the Kalevides
Strode with powerful steps
Merrily toward the south,
Resting in the forest's shade
Their weary limbs from time to time;
Took food for sustenance,
A taste of drink for refreshment.

When the fair evening came,
When the lovely twilight rolled in,
They found a farmstead by the road,
A household among the lindens.
The strong men, three together,
Stepped into the yard.
The father stood at the gate,
The mother stood at the door;
The father called from the gate,
The mother raised her gentle voice:
"Step in, good men, into the yard,
Come, young grooms, to our farmstead,
Come, suitors, to the chamber!
You, proud suitors,
Dear sons of the Kalevides,
We have proud ones to be courted,
A wise father's daughters,
Maidens revealed from the sacred grove.
You have gold in your satchels,
Silver beads in your bosoms,
Coins in your purses,
Old thalers in your pockets;
We have chests piled in heaps,
Dowry-baskets all prepared."

The elder brother answered:
"We are no suitors,
Not treading the bridegroom's road.
We are walkers of the empty road,
We are seekers of fortune;
The house is yet unbuilt,
The chamber-corners not yet squared,
The bed-boards not yet sawn,
Where the bride would be brought."

The father understood, and answered:
"Do not take offense,
Do not think us ill:
Grooms you are, you rogues!
Why else are you wearing silken shirts,
Gold-woven other garments?
How did you know to come here,
To drive into this yard?
There was no mark on the hillock,
No sign on the fence-post
That here hens were growing,
Grouse rising from the earth,
Ducks brooding on the nest.
The sheltered children in the houses
Grew in the secret chamber,
Weaving golden cloth,
Binding silken ribbons,
Golden gloves upon their hands,
Silver rings on their fingers,
Great brooches on their breasts,
Fine coins about their necks.
You walk in the gleam of gold,
You ride in the gleam of brooches."

The second brother answered:
"Listen, wise old father,
Listen, gentle mother!
Let the maidens out to the open,
The girls to the evening's beauty,
Let them play upon the turf,
Let them cry beneath the swing!
The dowries may stay ungiven,
Your gold unspent!"

There the daughters were brought from the room,
Brought from the dear chamber:
Their belts were wound with gold,
Their garlands shone with glitter,
Silken trains like a hundred tails
Hung down along their hips,
Silver beads, golden chains
Swayed about their necks,
Great brooches on their breasts;
As they danced forward,
Silken ribbons fluttered,
Flashing down to their toes;
As they danced backward,
They leapt up to their heels.

The mother called over the threshold:
"These daughters have done their work,
Long woven at the loom,
Clattered at the shuttle,
These have hammered at the cloth,
Struck at the warp-beam,
Knitted silk stockings,
Cast the bright threads,
Adorned the precious fabrics;
They have not drowsed at smoke-time
Nor dozed while working;
From these shall grow the wife of a Kalevide,
The home-hen of a strong man."

The youngest brother understood at once,
Answered cleverly:
"Listen, gentle mother,
Listen, wise father!
The home-hens of the Kalevides —
Those are yet unborn.
No, from us three no suitors
Shall rise for your farmstead.
We go to seek our fortune,
We go to claim our nest.

Young maidens, dear ones!
Do not, loves, be sorrowful!
Tears steal the color from your cheeks,
The moon will steal the luster of your gown,
The sun's edge will steal the garland's brightness,
The twilight the beads' sheen,
The stars will steal the thaler's gleam,
Before your own one finds you.
We walk the road of fortune,
We go in the gentle night's radiance,
We walk in the golden moon's radiance,
We walk in the beauty of stars,
In the gleam of a sister's brooch,
In the light of an old wagon."

The young sons of the Kalevides
Strode with powerful steps
Merrily toward the south,
Walked a day, walked two,
Walked a stretch of the third day,
Until unexpectedly
A small lake came to meet them,
With fair, high shores.
Beautiful was the lake in every way:
Geese playing merrily on the waves,
Flocks of swans near the shore,
Ducks again below the raft,
Grey birds upon the raft.
Looking from the bank into the distance,
Against the falling sun there shone
Taara's beautiful sacred grove,
Greening from the ridge's crest
With gleaming leaves.
In the fortune-rich valley flowed
The Mother River tirelessly,
In the sun's shining rolling waves
Toward Lake Peipsi.
The Mother's breast nursed forth its gift,
Nurturing milk into Peipsi's lap.

The eldest son of the Kalevides
Set his words to flowing,
Began to speak thus:
"Here is a pleasant testing-ground,
A fit place for lot-casting;
From the sacred grove Taara's eye appears,
The ancestor's kindly gaze,
From the river the divine shadow.
Let us, brothers, cast the lots:
Which of us three brothers
Shall become king of the homeland,
Ruler of the father's realm,
Protector of the dear people?
Who shall go far for fortune's sake,
Taking power in a foreign land,
Building a dwelling-place afar?"

Three stones then were gathered,
Chosen as lot-stones,
With which the men by due measure
Were to throw the lots —
Whose hand could hurl
The stone the farthest.

They took the victory-stones,
Carried them nearer to the bank,
Arranged themselves in a row,
Three together at the water's edge.

The measure of victory was taken,
The target set as the lake's breadth:
Whose stone in swift flight
Across the wide lake
Should roll farthest beyond the others,
Landing past the water,
That one by law
Would be chosen as ruler.
The lost father's commands
They vowed without refusal
To carry out in full:
Two of them would roll far
To foreign lands,
The third brother would remain
As ruler of the homeland.

The elder brother spoke,
Setting his words to flowing:
"Let us go to cast the lots!
My duty, dear brothers,
Is to fling the first;
Mother, gentle mother,
Bore me at the bird-cherry's blooming
Earlier into this world,
Took me earlier to the bathhouse,
To swell in the sun's warmth,
Brought me sweet berries
Before she brought them to you.
Should perhaps your throwing
Exceed my measure:
Let no quarreling rise from it,
Nor any spite of enmity!
I have no mark set,
No target placed before my eye;
I must break the trail,
Make the path for others.
Where I send the stone,
There I set the mark for you.
The one who follows finds the tracks,
The one behind finds the made road.

Whoever bests this first work,
This work that has been done,
Let him go build the house,
Set the walls together,
Join the corner-beams,
Begin the roof-ridge,
Where the winds have made the way:
Then it shall be seen
How criticism with its wide tongue
Is quicker to find the faults
Than it is itself to do the wiser work."

When he had spoken at such length,
He began to wind the stone,
Raised his hand higher,
Sent the stone flying,
On wind's wings soaring.

The stone flew at the wind's speed,
At the wind's speed toward the sky.
To the watchers' reckoning
The stone-bird flew
To where the edge of heaven,
The great world's roof-eave,
Meets the wall of earth.
Then suddenly stumbling,
The stone fell earthward,
Plunging down in a slant,
Landed in the lake's wet bed,
Near the farther shore.
With a roar the water rose
Foaming against the sky;
The stone struck the lake-bottom,
Under the water's veil,
Sank into the depths of the waves,
Vanished from the watchers' eyes.

The second brother spoke,
Setting his words to flowing:
"My brother has made the road,
Has already broken the trail before me,
Built the house before me,
Set the room's walls together,
Joined the corner-beams,
Begun the roof-ridges;
Therefore I will follow the mark,
Walk the road behind him."

When he had spoken at such length,
He took the stone in his strong hand,
Wound it with a faster spin,
Hurled it with a keener whip,
The stone-bird flying,
The cliff-log sailing.
The stone rose toward the sky,
Tried to scatter the clouds,
To shadow the sunshine.
At the wind's speed the stone flew,
Higher, farther;
Then it wavered, swaying,
Scattering earthward,
Fell at the lake-shore's edge,
Between the water and the dry;
Half the stone was buried in the water,
Covered fast by the waves,
Half still in plain sight.

Now the victory-throw came
To the third brother's trial.
Though lesser in years,
Younger in count than the others,
The dearest son of the Kalevides
Was yet in his chest's swelling,
In his shoulder-blades' breadth,
In his body's firmness,
Stronger than the others,
Mightier than his brothers;
His wrist-sinews were harder,
His fingernails firmer,
His eye's aim was truer,
His mind's judgment was surer.

The youngest brother spoke,
Setting his words to flowing:
"Mother, gentle mother,
Bore me, her late lamb,
Into this world in great travail,
In great travail, in hard suffering
The widow's child of grief was born.
Mother, gentle mother,
Many nights she went sleepless,
Many dawns without breakfast,
Many days without dinner;
The fire did not go out in the room,
The ember not from the bedpost.
Mother from her finery,
The dappled horse from its harness;
The horse rode the physician's road,
The woman sought the healers,
The grey mare walked ten roads,
The steed many pathways,
The woman to the wise ones' houses.
She sought help for the child,
Weeping-stoppers for the weak one,
Strength-givers for the feeble;
She gave a lamb to the charmer,
A goat to the cord-cutter,
A pied one to the birch-switch healer,
Another to the brush-taker,
Gave a thaler to the wise one,
Promised another to the physician.

She sang early, sang late:
Be still, my young son!
Grow up for me as a herd-boy,
Rise as a bull-keeper,
Stretch as an ox-herder,
Grow, my son, into a plowman,
Shoot up a brave warrior!

The boy grew a long time,
A long time, many days,
Already lived through many summers,
Rolled through five hay-times,
When in my father's yard
I spun merrily on the swing,
On one bird-cherry's blossom,
On two birch-tree crowns,
On the alder's broad leaf,
On the hazel's heart.

Already the bird-cherry shed its blossoms,
Already the birch lost its leaves,
The alder-leaves flew,
The hazel's heart scattered.
But from me a man was growing,
Growing — a son of the Kalevides."

The youngest brother took the stone,
Wound it with the wind's roar,
Hurled it with a keener whip,
The stone-bird flying,
The cliff-log sailing;
A true eye aimed its course,
A strong hand set its path.
Though in the wind it gusted
And the stone flew higher,
Higher and farther:
It did not go to scatter the clouds,
Nor to shatter the breadth,
Nor to shake the heights,
Nor to shadow the light.
The stone rolled with a rush,
Flew across the wide lake,
To the far bank's other side,
Fell by the measure's reckoning
On the dry borders.

The elder brother spoke:
"Let us, brothers, go in truth,
Let us go with easy steps,
Let us wade through the little pool
To look at the victory-stones,
Where those stones have fallen!"

The nearer way went through the water,
The closer road through the lake;
There the sons of the Kalevides
Waded straight across,
Traveled the road there
To look at the victory-stones.
In the lake's middle the water carried
The son of Kalev to his shins.

The first brother's stone
Slept under the wave-blanket's shadow,
Slumbered in the lake's depths;
The eye could not see it
Nor the hand reach it.

The second brother's victory-stone
Was found near the bank's edge,
Between the water and the dry,
Half still showing on the open,
Half hidden in the waves.

The third brother's stone,
The mark of the victory-throw,
Was found alone on the dry bank,
Found sleeping on the turf,
A stretch of land farther than the others.
There the stone had landed
To signify heaven's will:
Which of the three brothers
Should be called king.

The elder brother spoke,
Setting his words to flowing:
"By divine guidance
A sign was made in the sand,
A mark was set on the turf,
Which of us by father's command
Is chosen as ruler,
Is raised up as king.

Let us go fetch water from the lake,
With which to bathe our brother,
To strengthen our brother's body,
To baptize him as king!
Let us dress his body fair,
Smooth his hair sleek;
A golden-woven mantle on his back,
A silver shirt beneath the mantle,
A tunic of ancient copper;
Set a golden bonnet on his head,
An iron shield upon his breast —
Then from our brother a warrior grows,
A mighty man of victory:
Where his step reaches,
There silk must rustle,
Precious gold must ring,
Silver must chime behind,
Copper must rattle at his heel.
Where now our brother walks,
There beauty shall gleam."

As old Kalev had commanded,
Had ordained before his death,
So the youngest brother was taken
As ruler of the fatherland,
Raised up as king.

The other brothers lifted a song,
Set their voices to gleaming:
"Let us go, brothers, rolling,
Walking two together;
Let us go seeking fortune,
Where the fortune-cuckoo calls for us,
Where the merry bird sings to greet us!"

The youngest brother sang in answer:
"Where the sun shines,
Where the moon glows,
Where the stars show the way,
There grow golden spruce-forests,
Leafy beautiful alder-groves,
There grow dear birch-forests,
There rise Taara's oak-groves.
There the fortune-cuckoo calls,
There the merry bird sings.
Where the fortune-cuckoo calls,
There build the walls of your house;
Where the merry bird sings,
There build the chamber,
Make a silken bed within;
Where perhaps the sorrow-bird sings,
There make the widow's sauna,
The orphan-child's little shelter!"

The other brothers spoke:
"Farewell, young brother,
King glued by the lot!
Farewell, nest-place,
Dear brooding-ground,
Where we, men, grew up,
Where we rose like oaks!
Now the meadows of youth shall weep,
The alder-groves of Lääne shall mourn,
Where the roosters were raised.
It is not water that rolls from our eyes —
The snipe has more eye-water;
From our eyes blood rolls,
Our cheeks have paled,
Sorrow on our brows,
Clouds of mourning on our eyelids.

Let the winter pass quietly,
It will wear through to spring,
It will melt into summer.
The rivers will begin to run,
The springs will branch forth,
Blossoms will press from their sheaths,
Birds will sing in the treetops;
Then the river shall reach there
Where home awaits us,
The spring-brook shall reach there
Where we build the house,
Where we raise the walls;
The blossom's beauty shall shine there
Where we make the bridal chamber;
The birdsong shall fall there
Where the maidens are growing,
Where the brooch-breasted ones are rising.
Farewell, Taara's garden,
Beautiful little Mother River!
Farewell, hills and valleys,
Fatherland's forests and plains!
The child parts from the mother's breast,
The weak one from the loving embrace;
A man must part from all,
Must leave behind the sweetest.
The world is kind and wide,
The sky high-vaulted;
For the strong there is no crowding,
For the mighty no crushing."

So the brothers rolled away,
The birds departed from the nest,
Left their brother by the lakeside
Alone upon the turf,
Left him alone to yearn
For the better days of youth,
For the beauties of his father's house,
For the fortune of a mother's love,
All dissolved like dew,
Scattered in the wind's gusting,
Burned away by the heat of day.

Sitting on the stone-rise
The man began to think:
"What has gone from the meadows,
Rolled from the blossoming fields
At summer's step and stride —
From it must come seed
For the coming days' profit.
When I was made king,
Chosen as ruler,
I must launch from the nest,
Fly out to the open,
Where a lone-born eagle-son
Must tread upon the winds
On his own wing the road of fortune,
Breaking new trails."

He cast silver-bright coins into the water,
As appeasement for the waves,
As enticement for the water-spirit,
As the old folk's custom
Had taught the younger —
What our men no longer understand,
Nor wise women observe.

After the victory-throwing,
After the brothers' parting,
The son of the Kalevides took
The power of rule in hand,
Took in hand the plow-beam,
Honoring the work of the plow,
The lot of the farmer.
And so that the plowman's station
In days of peace might always flourish,
Unspoiled by the noise of war,
Unstained by the blood of enmity,
For this a good many swords
Are always very needful
For the king's protection
In every place:
A support against intruders,
A shield against the enemy,
With which to punish evil,
To lessen the wrath of foes,
To mend the law of the realm.

The dearest son of the Kalevides,
Pack on his back, sword at his hip,
Set the plow on its beam,
Harnessed the horse to the plow,
Yoked the steed for plowing;
Began to furrow the bog,
To plow the dry land,
To turn the clearing's surface.
He ground the earth to dust,
Mixed stones to gravel,
Mixed clay to carry seed,
Dust to nourish shoots;
He plowed some places into farmland,
Into mighty grain-land,
Other places into pastures,
Into turf-land, into hay-land;
He sowed blueberries into the bogs,
Cranberries into the moss's lap,
Cloudberries into the tussock's breast,
Bilberries here and there.

He plowed places into forest-land,
Wide tracts into wilderness,
Sowed forests to grow,
Tall oaks to rise,
Thickets to swell;
He plowed places into open plains,
Wide clearings, wide meadows,
Into pleasant wandering-grounds;
He plowed hills into play,
Little knolls to sway;
He plowed valleys, furrowed groves,
River-meadows and water-meadows to green;
He sowed strawberries on the hill,
Lingonberries under the bushes;
He plowed flowers to grow,
Blossoms to bloom in beauty.

He plowed the land into rising swells,
Rising, billowing swells,
He plowed the fields into ridges
By the mighty plow's power,
What the wind smoothed over,
What the rain-water rolled,
What the melting snow caressed,
What the hail-grain ironed.
By the plow-beam's furrows
Grain would take root,
Food would rise abundantly,
Swelling from generation to generation
For the dying races of mankind.

The dearest son of the Kalevides
Plowed a day, plowed two,
Plowed the third day,
Plowed on for many days;
Plowed early after the mist,
Plowed late at the dew's border,
Plowed openly through the noontime.

The sun's fierce heat
Wearied the precious steed,
Tormented the plow-hauler,
Pained the plowman's body.
The horse endured the gadfly's sting,
The midge's tickling,
Endured the horsefly's goading
While laboring at the task.
The man's tongue dried
In his mouth from great thirst.

One noontime the sun shone
With more savage brightness.
The heat began to press,
Threatening to slay the beast.
Kalevipoeg unharnessed the horse,
Freed the steed from its yoke,
Bound its legs in fetters
So the horse would not run far.
He lay down on his side
To rest his weary body,
To stretch his strained limbs,
To straighten his back-sinews,
And sank into sleep's bonds,
Resting in the sunshine.

On the hillock's crest his neck rested,
His right hand supported his head
Like a pillow beneath his cheek;
The hill beside the man's body,
His legs spread across the plain.
So slept the man,
The nursling of the strong men,
Slept long in his turf-bed,
Until the sun on its evening turn
Sank already toward the west.

The savage drought-heat tormented
The sleeper in his sleep-embrace,
The slumberer on his bed of peace,
Made his skin steam,
His whole body sweat,
His face roll with water.

From his cheeks tears arose,
The sweat that ran from his hair
The hill drank like sap
Into its secret depths;
From there sprang little streams,
Springs beneath the earth,
Whence came tongue-quenching,
Body-refreshing draughts
For the sons of after-ages,
For the daughters of the coming days,
Strength-moisture for the weary;
Whoever tastes of it finds nourishment,
Gains a mightier power:
The sickly child finds growth,
The ailing finds healing at once,
The dim eye finds sharpness,
The blind eye perhaps clarity,
From the crippled one suffering departs,
From the pain-bearer pains depart,
The long torments depart.

In the spring-water is a mighty force,
A secret force from its begetting,
A nourishing strength from Kalev himself.
Whoever has once tasted that water
In the drought-day's heat
Feels at once the strength
Moving through his limbs,
Feels at once the joy-strength
Stirring in his heart.
On the maiden's cheek a bloom swells,
More lasting than Mary's bloom;
Mary's bloom swells on the cheeks
At rare times for a year's span,
But the bloom of Kalev's spring
Shines long upon the face,
Lasts until life's evening.

The strong son of the Kalevides
Found at sleep's ending,
Through the spirit's sight-gate,
An omen of misfortune —
How the horse in its fetters,
The precious plowing-steed,
Under the torment of predators
Was ending its life.

The horse had wandered from the pasture,
From the wide meadow's plain,
Driven by the midges' goading,
The gadflies' tormenting,
Step by step farther,
Into the thicket for hiding;
Had gone to the wide forest's edge
Seeking a resting-place,
Seeking a shelter,
Nodding a little while
To ease the day's suffering.

In the great ancient forest
Many wolves were breeding,
Many predators growing,
Who like blood-greedy hounds
From far away with their sniffing snouts
Had scented the horse's sweat.
Wolves came in packs,
Bears came in droves,
Foxes like a hailstorm,
To feast on the steed's fatness,
To taste the sweetness,
Came out to watch,
To lurk at the forest's edge,
Where the wind's breath had brought
The scent to their noses.

The dear steed of the Kalevides,
In its fetter-rope the grey one,
Leapt on its bound hooves,
With its tied-up steps,
With hobbled horse-legs
Across the wide plain,
Tried to flee from danger,
To row from death's mouth.
The fetter checked its born speed,
The bonds blocked its steps,
The silver hobble its gallop.

The steed lashed out at the forest robbers,
Struck behind with crashing hooves
Upon the tormentors' necks,
Beat down the wretches.
With its forelegs it charged the road,
With its hind legs kicking
It combed the great wolves,
The claw-pawed bears.
But stubbornly more packs came
From the forest to the plain,
In flocks like a flock of birds,
Attacking the horse savagely,
The steed's failing strength.

At last, in weariness,
The last strength of the steed gave out
Under the wicked predators' claws,
In the ravenous mouths' teeth;
The dear horse of the Kalevides
Was broken down upon the turf
As prey for the forest scavengers.
Tracks the horse left behind
For the road's guidance as witness,
For the length of a league,
For the dear son of Kalev.

Where the fettered leg fell,
There a hollow was born,
Where it struck the predators,
There a hill was raised,
A knoll was heaped;
Where at last into the predators' grip
At the forest's edge it had fallen,
There blood flowing out
Became a pool on the plain,
A wide red lake;
Where the liver rotted,
There a hill was born;
Where it lost its innards,
There a bog was born,
A deep marsh was laid;
Where it dropped a bone,
A beautiful knoll grew;
Where it shed its hair,
Reeds grew at once;
Where the mane had fallen,
There rushes grew thickly;
Where the tail had landed,
There hazel-bushes were sown,
Thickets of nut-trees.

So in dying it had given birth,
In its ending had itself created —
The dear steed of the Kalevides —
Memorials and markers,
Witness-signs and tokens
For the generations after.

Üheksas lugu — Canto IX — The Wolf-Hunt, the Prophecy, and the Messenger's Ride

The sun stood past noon,
Stretching toward the west,
Sinking onto the treetops.
The Kalevides' dearest son
Woke from sleep with a start;
A cruel dream-vision,
Threatening danger,
Had conquered the man's weariness.
Whistling through the leaf's power
He began calling his horse,
Summoning the plow-steed.
The whistle sank into silence,
The summoning faded far
Into the wide tumbling winds:
The horse did not hear the call,
The dear steed heeded not the man;
Only birdsong merrily
Answered back the calling.
The Kalevides' strong son
Hurried to catch his horse.
Following the steed's trail,
Walking in the hobble-tracks,
He went across the heather,
A stretch of road, much land,
Crossed the wide clearings,
Strode along the mossy bog,
Until he reached the place
Where the steed to the predators,
The good horse to the wolves,
Had fallen as prey,
Had slipped into death's embrace.
True testimony,
Many kinds of signs
He found across the open ground:
He found the withered horse-hide,
Scraps of the steed's fat,
He found a wide pool of blood,
He found the liver on the turf,
He found bones in the near places,
Rib-bones here and there,
He found near the alder-grove
The dead steed's innards,
Bits of spleen among the bushes.
From this he read the clear sign
How the dear steed had perished,
The horse had sunk into death.
The Kalevides' strong son,
When he had mourned the loss,
When in sighs of misfortune
He had aired his grief a while,
Took the lost steed's hide
From the tussock as a keepsake. —
The heart swollen with great rage
Caught fire in the man;
Then he set with a full mouth
Words upon their rowing:
"Be still, rush of wind,
Be still, murmur of the forest!
Stand, treetops, without swaying,
Grass-stalks without swaying,
Leaves without stirring,
While I hurl down curses,
While I roll forth crueler words,
While I spin forth angrier ones!
Let it be, let it be, I curse it so,
Let your kind die,
Rot on the tussock-tops,
Starve upon the meadow,
Waste away beneath the bushes,
Turn to carrion in the bogs,
Collapse upon the clearings;
Let your kind die in the marsh,
Wither on the hilltops!"
Then he took the war-sword,
Took the blade as executioner,
Plunged into the oak-forest behind,
Plunged through the wild forest
Into the thick darkness
To seek the wolf-dens,
To harry the predators.
The Kalevides' strong son,
In his fury at the predators,
Made a road, trampled a path,
Made a road through the forest,
A path through the thicket,
Where no rooster had walked before,
No hen had gone clucking.
He knocked down the oak-branches,
Trampled down the cherry-branches,
Broke down the pine-branches,
Tore down the spruce-branches,
Snapped down the birch-branches,
Flung down the tall oaks,
Cast down the tall lindens,
Struck down the willows,
Smashed down the elms,
Branches before, trunks behind,
Trampled the stumps to dust.
Where he had walked, a road behind him,
Where he had gone, a clearing behind him.
Whatever in his forest-rampage
Fell into his hands of the predators
Found death in that instant.
The sword was cruel in its raging,
The war-blade dealing death,
The strong man killing.
Already in herds
The carcasses of forest-beasts covered the turf,
Predator-bodies the hillocks;
Blood dyed the thickets,
Death-sweat the mosses,
Dyed the turf blood-red,
The seedlings a dark hue,
The lingonberry-leaves crimson.
The surviving wolves howling,
The forest-bears roaring,
Fled into the thickets,
Into the midst of the great bogs,
To hiding-places in the marshes.
The sun had gone down,
The light had rolled below,
Darkness covered the places,
Confused the Kalevide's eyes,
So that he could not chase
The predators' tracks any longer:
Otherwise the bear-herds,
The howling wolf-kind
Would have been finished entirely.
The Kalevides' strong son,
Very weary from the work,
Exhausted by his rage,
Crossed from the forest to the clearing
To seek a bed for the night.
When he had found at last
A fairer spot on the open ground,
He spread the horse-hide
As a blanket on the grass;
He stretched out on his back,
His body upon the steed's hide,
To rest in the night's chill,
To refresh his worn strength,
Which in doing his work,
In beating the wolves,
Had today greatly flagged;
The plowing and the predator-hunting
Had greatly wearied the man.
Before the twilight-glow
Had let the Kalevide's eyes
Sink into sleep's chains,
Fall beneath the drowsing lids,
There hurried at great speed,
At a galloping, panting pace,
A carrier of war-tidings,
A herald of evil news,
To the Kalevipoeg's side.
From the elder of the Viru coast
An order was brought to Kalev,
A summons to the king:
How the foe was rolling,
War pressing to ride.
The carrier of war-tidings
Set his words upon their rowing,
The evil news rising:
"King, son of Kalev,
Ruler by strength's power,
Protector with a strong hand!
From the elder of the Viru coast
I must deliver a sorrowful report,
Reveal a tale of need:
The steps of secret scouts
Have rolled onto the Viru roads;
In the evening boats were seen,
Craft on the swell of the waves,
Sailing from the north;
Under cover of night
The boats carried men
To spy upon our lands,
To scout in secret;
Therefore our men judged,
Our wise ones noted,
Our sharp lads reckoned:
War presses to row,
The foe's wagon to roll,
Presses to plunder Viru,
To ravage the peace of Järva,
To scatter the days of fortune,
To prepare wretchedness.
On the secret scouts' steps
Strength rows in its hundreds,
Others sweep in their thousands
Down upon the necks of the poor Virufolk.
Mothers hiding their families,
Scattering the little ones
Into hollows, into hiding-places,
Into cracks in the thick cliff;
Fathers making defenses,
Preparing resistance against the foe.
The hardship grows more bitter,
The feast ever worse;
The watchers on the headlands report
How on Kõrgesaar the ships,
On Tütarsaar more ships,
On Lavassaar the wide barges
Are rowing war-men,
Carrying the brave,
Those who by sea
Roll foreigners to the Viru shore —
Fierce throat-cutters,
Greedy-handed robbers —
As the stars have witnessed,
As the sky with its signs has told.
Women weep in the corners,
Young maidens in the streets,
Old ones on the meadow,
Children in the wide alder-groves,
Herd-keepers in the birch-groves,
Bull-watchers in the oak-groves:
Misery over all Virumaa!
Behind a curtain of tears
The widow stands bound in sorrow:
Grief crushes the mind,
Death-fear the hearts.
Young men stand bowed,
Blanched with dread.
The married man knows no laughter,
The father of children no joy;
Fear drains the men's strength,
Terror the mothers' sons.
Who among them will row to war,
Who will go into the battle,
Roll against the foe
In the warriors' combat?
Who will step forth as defender,
Rise as a pillar before the others,
An iron wall for the weak?
Will a brother go, dear brother,
Or a currant-eyed sister
To shelter the poor children,
To keep peace for the feeble?
Who will protect the women,
Who will quell the foe's wrath?
The sword breaks the fairest,
The blade kills the bravest,
The spear ruins great multitudes,
The arrow gives no mercy.
What does not fall in battle,
Does not roll upon the enemy's field —
Fire kills it from behind,
The fang of famine destroys it,
The claw of plague kills it,
The heavy rod of misery.
The thief's hand leaves the gallows,
The heavy stone the stream's current;
Fire spares no one,
Misery makes an end of the last."
The dear Kalevide's son
Understood at once and answered:
"Let the reins hold, let the ropes bind,
Let the reins hold the horse,
Let the fetters hold the plow-oxen,
The snares the forest-beasts,
The ropes bind the loads,
The sky the wide snowfall,
The clouds the long rains,
The heavier hailstorm!
Whatever is the firmest fastener,
The strongest restrainer,
Let it lock your mouth shut,
Clamp your jaws
At the telling of evil speech,
At this shameless announcement!
Who has seen such a wonder in the world,
Heard such a strange thing before?
Why do you slander our men,
Defame our menfolk?
Have the punishers of women,
The frighteners of young girls —
Terror and foreboding —
Rolled upon the men of Viru?
Let the swords break as they may,
Let the sharp blades kill as they may,
Let the spears destroy in their multitudes —
The brave man does not fear blood!
Let the men stand in the war-tumult
With the firmness of an iron wall,
Stand like oaks in the wind,
Cliff-walls in the storm;
Stand in battle unwavering,
In war as a pillar before the others!
Build for the children a shelter-house,
For the feeble a peace-sauna,
For the women a guarded corner,
A hiding-chamber for the maidens,
A mourning-place for the widows!
If the hardship grows more bitter,
The foe's wrath more bloody,
The killing more fiery —
Then I myself will come,
Will step forth as a helper. —
Take bread, weary stranger,
Something wet to refresh your tongue!
On the tussock stands the pack,
The flask hangs from the alder-branch;
Fill your belly, guest,
Lie down to sleep!
Tomorrow, early before light,
At the small dawn's reddening,
Saddle your horse,
Put the steed in harness,
Put on the secret saddle!
Begin riding in secret,
Fleeing homeward in hiding,
So that the Viru roosters will not hear,
The Viru roosters, the Järva dogs,
The steps of your horse,
The steed's secret hoof-beats!
Ride softly over the bridge,
Softly through the street,
Go softly through the village,
In hiding past the farmsteads,
Roll in secret over the meadow,
Under cover through the raspberry-bushes,
In secret through the bogs,
In hiding through the thickets
To the elder's gate!
Send the men to battle,
The brave to the enemy's field,
The strongest to the fighting!
Keep yourself in the center,
The standard-bearer near you!
Do not stand at the front of battle,
Not at the front, not at the rear,
Not upon the battle's edge!
The foremost are felled,
The hindmost are killed,
Those at the edge are slain —
Those in the center come home."
Kalevipoeg, the strong man,
Ending the kind speech,
Turned onto his other side,
Wishing to refresh his work-weary body
In the chill of the dew,
To let his eyes fall beneath the lids
Into sleep's embrace.
Before sleep had prepared
A shadow-veil for his eyes,
Already a second stranger approached
At a swift pace,
At a secret step to his bed,
Who as if tossed by the wind,
Cast down from a cloud,
Had fallen here unexpectedly.
The Kalevides' strong son,
In an ill temper, asked:
"Will the dance not end today,
The comings find no rest?
Does everyone have errands,
Vain trampings of the empty wind?
Do all winds blow,
All water-veins roll,
All wide waves crash,
All rain-clouds burst,
All snow-clouds scatter,
All hail-clouds crack
Down upon the Kalevide's neck?
Had I known, had I been able to know,
Had I been able to see in my sleep,
To foresee even while dreaming,
To reckon in my calculations
What the king's lot would be —
Then I would have a hundred times,
A thousand times on the wing of the wind,
Like a bird, flown away,
An eagle to other cliffs,
Gone to other sandy shores,
Swum to other springs,
Taken a road to a foreign land,
A path to far-away places.
I would have leaped into ravines,
Dashed to the sea-shores,
Fallen into the sea-waves,
Drowned in hidden depths,
Where neither cuckoo could be heard
Nor the voice of birdsong.
The bird has peace in the alder-grove,
The swallow a resting-place in its nest,
The cuckoo sleeps on the spruce-top,
The lark on the summer-field,
The plover in the copse,
The song-bird in the leafy trees,
The thrush in the thick undergrowth —
When the rooster has crowed,
When the song is finished.
Enough I wracked my body,
Enough I exhausted my strength:
I plowed the land ten days,
I plowed from evening to morning,
I turned the stones,
I tore up the hillocks,
I furrowed the wet bogs,
I cut the wide clearings,
I turned the long fields,
Until my horse by mischance
Was throttled in the predators' claws.
Come tomorrow morning,
Early before light,
To whisper secret speech,
To sow your tidings!"
The stranger, a kind old man,
His beard grey, his hair grey,
Understood at once and answered:
"It is not the winds that have blown,
The water-veins that have rolled,
The wide waves that have crashed,
The rain-clouds that have burst,
The snow-clouds that have scattered,
The hail-clouds that have cracked,
The thunderbolts that have struck
Down upon the Kalevide's neck,
Upon the boy's shoulders;
You might well have known in advance,
Might have seen in your sleep,
Foreseen even while dreaming,
Reckoned in your calculations,
Known in advance by wise thought
What the king's lot would be,
The life of a ruler of men.
When you were still growing at home,
An oak growing stronger,
There was time enough for fortune,
To ponder riddles,
To reckon matters of wisdom,
To observe the future.
In your father's yard the birds sang,
Cuckoos called in the copse,
Golden-beaked in the spruce-tops,
The nightingale rejoiced beneath the yard,
The lark trilled in the alder-grove,
The crow called from the meadow,
The dark bird from the pine-wood,
The wise bird from the oak-wood:
'The king has ten loads,
A hundred labors the ruler,
Five hundred the brave one,
A thousand tasks the strong one,
Ten thousand the Kalevipoeg!'
That I have come to you today
By mercy's compulsion of my steps,
That I have walked here from far away
At a friend's wish's rowing —
From this shall rise your profit,
From this shall grow you many a gain,
Mighty shoot of the Kalevides.
Perhaps you did not remember me,
Did not recognize me as an acquaintance,
Yet I am your kindred's friend.
Did I not come to you before,
When you played upon the turf,
Rolled stones upon the meadow,
Grew oaks upon the bank,
Swung upon the swing at evening?
Did I not come to you before,
When you cried out in the cradle,
Suckled at your mother's breast?
Did I not come to you before,
When your father on his wooing-journey
Held the long wedding feast?
Did I not come to you, an old acquaintance,
Come visiting as a guest,
When for you the house was built,
The walls were raised,
The foundation-logs were laid,
The corner-stone was placed?
Did I not ride to you in secret
Earlier to look upon you,
When your father was not yet born,
Your mother still unhatched,
Not yet risen from the grouse-egg?
Did I not ride to you in secret,
When Harju was not yet begun,
Järva's borders not yet drawn,
Viru's borders not yet marked?
Did I not ride here in secret,
When those stars were still being made,
The sun was being set in place,
The moon's house was being gathered,
The clouds were being arranged?
From below I opened the grey sky,
From above I opened the dry sky,
From behind the redder heaven,
From the center the golden-whirling one,
From between the five rainbows,
From the midst of six dawns,
From beneath the folds of nine twilights,
I rode from the Pleiades' edge,
From between the Great Wain,
From beneath the yard of the Evening Star,
From the gate of the Sun's household,
Past a thousand familiar homes.
From below I wore out the grey irons,
Wore through the dark hooves,
Lost the gold spurs
On the slippery bird-road,
On the burning sun-road.
On the winds I greeted you,
On the air I blessed you,
With the dew I strengthened you,
By moonlight I nourished you,
In the sun's warmth I made you grow —
Until you grew into a strong man,
Grew into the son of the Kalevides.
What you lifted in the plowing,
What you furrowed with the blade,
From that shall profit multiply,
Fortune richly blossom,
From that shall come grain-land in Viru,
Quick bread-land in Järva,
From there wealth for the people,
Riches for the great estates,
Profit for many a village;
From there good hay-meadows,
Nourishing pastures,
Pleasant forest-lands,
Berry-land for the village children,
Grove-land for the village lads,
Turnip-land for the village women,
Garden-land for the young maidens,
Plowing-land for the village men;
Water-meadows on the clearings,
Dry-lands, flood-meadows,
Turf-land beneath the forest,
Moss-land upon the bogs.
The Kalevipoeg's plowing-work,
The furrows of his mighty plow
The villages shall praise,
Others far and wide shall thank,
Children shall sing with joy.
The forest's beauty, the meadow's grace,
The blossoming of the fruit-trees
Shall to the generations after
Proclaim the mighty plowing. —
Dear son of the Kalevides!
The field-work is left unfinished:
A place in Harju left unplowed,
Another in Lääne left unharvested,
A third piece left uncultivated,
The field-edges unturned,
Many borders left unfurrowed,
The flood-meadows still unharrowed —
There the chaff's aid,
The husk's light sack
To the children of the later age
Shall lend a supplement to bread,
Shall give help in time of need."
The Kalevide's son heard,
Understood at once and answered:
"I did my work, I bore the toil,
I plowed for more than ten days,
I plowed from evening to morning,
I plowed in the dew's tracks,
After the long twilight,
In the noonday heat
I wiped the sweat from my brow,
The warmth from my burning face,
Wrung the water from my shirt,
Stretched my body's strength to the limit —
That from the work profit might rise,
That nourishment might richly grow
For the people of the later age."
The stranger, the kind old man,
Understood at once and answered:
"For that reason I have come, friend,
To look upon the finished work,
To set things in good order,
So that your toil-weariness,
The sweat-pangs of the heat,
Shall not remain as a widow lamenting,
Weeping in frustration.
Without divine aid,
Without heavenly support,
The race of men cannot
Bring profit from their work.
From the wind comes strong help,
From the air Uku's blessings,
From the rain the nurturing of grain."
The Kalevides' dear son
Understood at once and answered:
"Who are you that came to us before,
When I played upon the turf,
Rolled stones upon the meadow,
Grew oaks upon the bank,
Swung upon the swing at evening;
Who came to us before,
When I cried out in the cradle,
Suckled at my mother's breast;
Who are you, that old acquaintance who came to us,
Came visiting as a guest,
When my father on his wooing-journey
Held the long wedding feast;
Who came to us before,
When for us the house was built,
The walls were raised,
The foundation-logs were laid,
The corner-stone was placed;
Who rode to us in secret before,
When my father was not yet born,
My mother still unhatched,
Not yet come from the grouse-egg;
Who rode to us in secret,
When Harju was not yet begun,
Järva's borders not yet drawn,
Viru's borders not yet marked;
Who rode here in secret
When those stars were being made,
The sun was being set in place,
The moon's house was being gathered,
The clouds were being arranged;
Who opened from below the grey sky,
Who walked from above the dry sky,
From behind the redder heaven,
From the center the golden-whirling one,
From between the five rainbows,
From the midst of six dawns,
From the folds of nine twilights,
Who rode from the Pleiades' edge,
From between the Great Wain,
From beneath the yard of the Evening Star,
From the gate of the Sun's household,
Past a thousand familiar homes. —
Tell me, old man,
Confess, wise elder,
Where is your home far away,
Your worthy dwelling-place?"
The stranger, the kind old man,
Understood at once and answered:
"Dear son of the Kalevides,
King bound by lot!
What has been swept here by the winds
On fortune's unexpected path —
Do not try to reckon it;
Homes in Taara's hall
Are golden cliff-chambers.
Hear the golden tidings,
The silver announcements
Of the coming age's coming,
Of the days of the generation after!
As long as you rule,
With a strong hand shelter the land,
So long there is fortune's time in Viru,
Unbroken peace-time in Järva,
Beautiful mercy-time in Harju,
In Lääne a wide feast of joy
Blooming among the people.
But the rich age of beauty,
The true time of fortune,
Cannot last long.
The weak shall get weaker ones,
The feeble shall rule others.
Alas, son of the Kalevides!
The spilling of innocent blood
Passes judgment upon you;
Blood seeks blood's wages,
Death is death's begetter;
The stains of innocent blood,
The Finnish smith's curses,
A gentle mother's tears,
A sister's eye-water —
Cannot be wiped from the sword,
No evil thing can quench them.
Be watchful, brave man,
Lest from your sword a murderer,
From your war-blade a death-dealer,
A hand of vengeance should grow!
Blood craves blood's price,
Injustice has no sleep,
Evil work has no rest."
Sadly sounded the last speech,
Sadly the foretellings,
Which like the sighing of the breeze,
The mournful murmur of the waves,
The whining of the rain-wind,
Reached the Kalevide's ears.
As those thick fog-clouds
Vanish in the sun's warmth,
Or as the quiet evening shadows
Hide the rolling sun —
So into the evening's embrace,
Into the dew-mist's arms,
The stranger old man's shade dissolved.
The weary Kalevide's son
Sank peacefully to rest;
Sleep fell upon his brows,
Fell from his brows upon his lids.
A dream wove images,
True meanings
Into a carpet's false designs.
The stranger old man's speeches,
The wisely given signs
Kept scattering into wind.
At sunrise, lifting his head,
Escaping from sleep's bonds,
The Kalevide's son tried
To recall to mind
What the dear stranger
Had openly told him the evening before;
But the night and the sleep-mists,
The deceptive little pictures,
Had confused into a foggy murk
Yesterday's heard revelations.
The Kalevides' strong son
Ordered the messenger to hurry:
"Go quickly homeward,
Hasten on horseback toward the coast
To carry the order to the elder!
Set watchmen to scanning,
Sentinels on the cliff,
Keen-eyed men on the meadows
To watch the sea-shore:
Are the enemy ships already,
The boats of the aggressors,
Moving on the swell of the waves?
If the ships draw to shore,
The barges ever closer —
Then brave men against them,
The strongest as support for the others,
War-giants to fight!
Spearmen to the front,
Swordsmen to the rear rank,
Clubmen to the flank,
Gaffs as help to the edge,
Pike-men into the fray,
Wrestling-giants to the charge,
Victory-men to the open ground,
Their shadows into the thicket,
Forest-companies in secret,
Sentries as cover for the elder,
Scythes for the whistle-blower,
Archers on the hilltop;
Slingers slipping
On both sides of the shore;
Horsemen like a hail-storm
To scour the enemy's ranks!
Let each be a wall for the others,
Set strength against iron!
Then let the swords rage,
Let the spears deftly drive,
Let the blades dance behind,
Let the scythes mow fiercely,
Let the arrows nimbly
Deliver fitting death —
Then the war-clamor will grow still,
The cruel foe's wrath will quiet! —
Be brave, Virufolk,
Take brave men as help,
Stout lads from Järva,
Support from Alutaguse,
Helpers from Harjumaa,
From Lääne some more as reinforcement!
Roll the enemy-dogs
From the shore at once to far away!
Send me tidings,
Orders on swift feet!
If the battle grows wider,
If the hardship grows more bitter —
Then I myself will come,
Will step forth as a helper.
I go to air my sorrow,
To soothe my mournful heart."

I rode swift across the Finnish Bridge,
The water-arc's copper road,
The rainbow's rain-road,
The king's order in my pocket,
The elder's order in my coat,
The war-message in my mouth.
What swayed toward me,
What eerie thing befell me?
An old crow swayed toward me,
An old crow, a wretched fellow;
Its beak was sniffing the meadows,
Its nostrils were blowing the clouds;
Its nose had sniffed at war,
Its nostrils had sifted the mist,
Wondering if it might catch a secret scent,
If it might read the urgent order's letter.
Already it had sniffed at war,
Had scented the smell of blood.
I rode swift across the Finnish Bridge,
The water-arc's copper road,
The rainbow's rain-road,
Urging on the urgent order;
The king's order in my pocket,
The elder's orders in my coat,
The war-message in my mouth:
Already the banners are stirring,
The spear-points driving,
The sword-blades serving.
What swayed toward me,
What eerie thing befell me?
A cruel eagle swayed toward me,
A cruel eagle, hook-beaked;
Its beak was sniffing the meadows,
Its nostrils were probing the mist,
Wondering if it might catch a scent of the matter,
If it might read the urgent order's letter.
It had already sniffed at war,
Had scented the smell of blood,
And hurried to tell the others.
I rode swift across the Finnish Bridge,
The water-arc's copper road,
The rainbow's rain-road,
Urging on the urgent order;
The king's order in my pocket,
The elder's orders in my coat,
The secret message in my mouth,
The captain's prayers on my tongue-cord:
Already the banners are stirring,
The spear-points driving,
The blade-edges pressing.
What swayed toward me,
What eerie thing befell me?
A carrion-crow came toward me,
A carrion-crow, a corpse-feeder;
Its beak was sniffing the meadows,
Its nostrils were blowing the clouds:
Wondering if it might sift a secret scent,
If it might read the urgent order's letter.
It had already sniffed at war,
Had scented the smell of blood:
And hurried to tell the others.
I rode swift across the Finnish Bridge,
The water-arc's copper road,
Urging on the urgent order;
The king's orders in my pocket,
The elder's orders in my coat,
The secret message in my mouth,
The captain's prayers on my tongue-cord.
What swayed toward me,
What eerie thing befell me?
A wolf swayed toward me,
On the wolf's heels a bear.
Their noses were sniffing the meadows,
Their nostrils probing the mist,
Wondering if they might catch a scent of the matter,
If they might read the secret order's letter.
The friends had already sniffed at war,
Had scented the smell of blood,
And hurried to tell the others.
I rode swift across the Finnish Bridge,
The water-arc's copper road,
The rainbow's rain-road,
Urging on the urgent order;
The king's order in my pocket,
The elder's orders in my coat,
The war-message in my mouth,
The captain's orders beneath my cap:
Already the banners are stirring,
The spear-points driving,
The blade-edges serving,
The sword with killing thoughts raging.
What swayed toward me,
What eerie thing befell me?
Famine swayed toward me, weak,
Famine weak, its bones rattling;
Its nose was sniffing the meadows,
Its nostrils were sifting the clouds,
Wondering if it might catch a secret scent,
If it might read the urgent order's letter.
It had already sniffed at war,
Had scented the smell of blood;
And hurried to tell the others.
I rode swift across the Finnish Bridge,
The water-arc's copper road,
The rainbow's rain-road,
Urging on the urgent order;
The king's orders in my pocket,
The elder's orders in my coat,
The secret message in my mouth:
Already the banners are stirring,
The spear-points driving,
The gaffs driving their business,
The blades hammering the others.
What swayed toward me,
An unexpected torment?
Plague swayed toward me, cunning,
Plague cunning, the people's robber,
War's seventh servant, the cruelest;
Its nose was sniffing the meadows,
Its nostrils were sifting the clouds,
Wondering if it might reckon a secret scent,
If it might read the urgent order's letter.
It had already sniffed at war,
Had scented the smell of blood;
And hurried to tell the others.
I held my steed firm,
I put the horse in iron hobbles,
In the Kalevide's fetters,
So that it could not step,
Nor reach a gallop;
I began to reckon the matter,
To soothe my mind's thoughts:
Will my journey bring profit,
Will my ride yield increase?
Bloody are the wounds of war,
On the battlefield its cruelty.
Why should I scatter war-misery,
The raging of the murderer's sword,
Upon the age of peace?
Let it be, let it be, I curse it so,
Let the message sink into the deep,
Into the sea's storm to sleep,
Into the fish-spawn to vanish!
Let it slumber in the sealed depths
Before it rings further,
Before it echoes to the village!
I tore the orders from my pocket,
The elder's orders from my coat,
And flung them into the bottomless sea,
Into the wider crash of waves.
The water rolled them into foam,
The fish vanished in fright.
So the shadow of war grew silent,
So the clamor of battle vanished.