rth's most dusky region.

WOINOMOINEN.

From the Finnish.

Woinomoinen was, according to the Mythology of the ancient Finns, the
second Godhead, being only inferior to Jumala. He was master of the
musical art, and when he played upon his instrument produced much the same
effect as the Grecian Orpheus, enticing fishes from the stream and the
wild animals from the forest. The lines here translated are a fragment of
a poem which describes a musical contest between Woinomoinen and the Giant
Joukkawainen, in which the latter was signally defeated.

Then the ancient Woinomoinen,
On the bench himself he seated,
Took the harp betwixt his fingers,
On his knee about he turn'd it,
In his hand he fitly plac'd it.
Play'd the ancient Woinomoinen,
Universal joy awaking;
Like a concert was his playing;
There was nothing in the forest
On four nimble feet that runneth,
On four lengthy legs that stalketh,
But repair'd to hear the music,
When the ancient Woinomoinen,
When the Father joy awaken'd.
E'en at Woinomoinen's harping
'Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded.
There was nothing in the forest
On two whirring pinions flying,
But with whirl-wind speed did hasten;
There was nothing in the ocean,
With six fins about that roweth,
Or with eight to move delighteth,
But repair'd to hear the music.
E'en the briny water's mother {38}
'Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her,
On a little sand-hill rais'd her,
On her side with toil up-crawling.
E'en from Woinomoinen's eye-balls
Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled,
Bigger than the whortle-berry,
Heavier than the eggs of plovers,
Down his broad and mighty bosom,
Knee-ward from his bosom flowing,
From his knee his feet bedewing;
And I've heard, his tears they trickled
Through the five wool-wefts of thickness,
Through his jackets eight of wadmal.

THE WORDS OF BEOWULF, SON OF EGTHEOF.

From the Anglo Saxon.

Every one beneath the heaven
Should of death expect the day,
And let him, whilst life is given,
Bright with fame his name array.

For amongst the countless number
In the clay-cold grave at rest,
Lock'd in arms of iron slumber,
He most happy is and blest.

THE LAY OF BIARKE.

From the Ancient Norse.

The day in East is glowing,
The cock on high is crowing;
Upon the heath's brown heather
'Tis time our bands we gather.
Ye Chieftains disencumber
Your eyes of clogging slumber;
Ye mighty friends of Attil,
The far-renown'd in battle!