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       Hardens well his feathered arrows,

       And imparts to each new virtues,

       Steeps them in the blood of serpents,

       In the virus of the adder.

       Ready now are all his arrows,

       Ready strung, his cruel cross-bow.

       Waiting for wise Wainamoinen.

       Youkahainen, Lapland's minstrel,

       Waits a long time, is not weary,

       Hopes to spy the ancient singer;

       Spies at day-dawn, spies at evening,

       Spies he ceaselessly at noontide,

       Lies in wait for the magician,

       Waits, and watches, as in envy;

       Sits he at the open window,

       Stands behind the hedge, and watches

       In the foot-path waits, and listens,

       Spies along the balks of meadows;

       On his back he hangs his quiver,

       In his quiver, feathered arrows

       Dipped in virus of the viper,

       On his arm the mighty cross-bow,

       Waits, and watches, and unwearied,

       Listens from the boat-house window,

       Lingers at the end of Fog-point,

       By the river flowing seaward,

       Near the holy stream and whirlpool,

       Near the sacred river's fire-fall.

       Finally the Lapland minstrel,

       Youkahainen of Pohyola,

       At the breaking of the day-dawn,

       At the early hour of morning,

       Fixed his gaze upon the North-east,

       Turned his eyes upon the sunrise,

       Saw a black cloud on the ocean,

       Something blue upon the waters,

       And soliloquized as follows:

       "Are those clouds on the horizon,

       Or perchance the dawn of morning?

       Neither clouds on the horizon,

       Nor the dawning of the morning;

       It is ancient Wainamoinen,

       The renowned and wise enchanter,

       Riding on his way to Northland;

       On his steed, the royal racer,

       Magic courser of Wainola."

       Quickly now young Youkahainen,

       Lapland's vain and evil minstrel,

       Filled with envy, grasps his cross-bow,

       Makes his bow and arrows ready

       For the death of Wainamoinen.

       Quick his aged mother asked him,

       Spake these words to Youkahainen:

       "For whose slaughter is thy cross-bow,

       For whose heart thy poisoned arrows?"

       Youkahainen thus made answer:

       "I have made this mighty cross-bow,

       Fashioned bow and poisoned arrows

       For the death of Wainamoinen,

       Thus to slay the friend of waters;

       I must shoot the old magician,

       The eternal bard and hero,

       Through the heart, and through the liver,

       Through the head, and through the shoulders,

       With this bow and feathered arrows

       Thus destroy my rival minstrel."

       Then the aged mother answered,

       Thus reproving, thus forbidding.

       Do not slay good Wainamoinen,

       Ancient hero of the Northland,

       From a noble tribe descended,

       He, my sister's son, my nephew.

       If thou slayest Wainamoinen,

       Ancient son of Kalevala,

       Then alas! all joy will vanish,

       Perish all our wondrous singing;

       Better on the earth the gladness,

       Better here the magic music,

       Than within the nether regions,

       In the kingdom of Tuoni,

       In the realm of the departed,

       In the land of the hereafter."

       Then the youthful Youkahainen

       Thought awhile and well considered,

       Ere he made a final answer.

       With one hand he raised the cross-bow

       But the other seemed to weaken,

       As he drew the cruel bow-string.

       Finally these words he uttered

       As his bosom swelled with envy:

       "Let all joy forever vanish,

       Let earth's pleasures quickly perish,

       Disappear earth's sweetest music,

       Happiness depart forever;

       Shoot I will this rival minstrel,

       Little heeding what the end is."

       Quickly now he bends his fire-bow,

       On his left knee rests the weapon,

       With his right foot firmly planted,

       Thus he strings his bow of envy;

       Takes three arrows from his quiver,

       Choosing well the best among them,

       Carefully adjusts the bow-string,

       Sets with care the feathered arrow,

       To the flaxen string he lays it,

       Holds the cross-bow to his shoulder,

       Aiming well along the margin,

       At the heart of Wainamoinen,

       Waiting till he gallops nearer;

       In the shadow of a thicket,

       Speaks these words while he is waiting

       "Be thou, flaxen string, elastic;

       Swiftly fly, thou feathered ash-wood,

       Swiftly speed, thou deadly missile,

       Quick as light, thou poisoned arrow,

       To the heart of Wainamoinen.

       If my hand too low should hold thee,

       May the gods direct thee higher;

       If too high mine eye should aim thee,

       May the gods direct thee lower."

       Steady now he pulls the trigger;

       Like the lightning flies the arrow

       O'er the head of Wainamoinen;

       To the upper sky it darteth,

       And the highest clouds it pierces,

       Scatters all the flock of lamb-clouds,

       On its rapid journey skyward.

       Not discouraged, quick selecting,

       Quick adjusting, Youkahainen,

       Quickly aiming shoots a second.

       Speeds the arrow swift

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