n,
When thy daily cares have ended,
To the good of all thy people,
To the pleasure of Wainola,
To the joy of Kalevala!"

_Rune L._ Meanwhile there had been dwelling in the Northland a happy
maiden named Mariatta, who, wandering on the hillsides, once asked the
cuckoo how long she would remain unmarried, and heard a magic voice
bid her gather a certain berry. No sooner had she done so than the
berry popped into her mouth, and soon after she bore a child, which
being the offspring of a berry was to be called Flower. Because her
mother indignantly cast her off, she wandered about seeking a place
where she could give birth to her child. She was finally compelled to
take refuge in the manger of the fiery steed of Hisi, where her infant
was charitably warmed by the firesteed's breath. But once, while the
mother was slumbering, the child vanished, and the mother vainly
sought it until the Sun informed her she would find it sleeping among
the reeds and rushes in Swamp-land.

Mariatta, child of beauty,
Virgin-mother of the Northland,
Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land,
Finds him in the reeds and rushes;
Takes the young child on her bosom
To the dwelling of her father.

Mariatta soon discovered him there, growing in grace and beauty, but
priests refused to baptize him because he was considered a wizard.
When Wainamoinen sentenced the mother to death, the infant, although
only two weeks old, hotly reproached him, declaring that, although
guilty of many follies, his people have always forgiven him. Hearing
this, Wainamoinen, justly rebuked, baptized the child, who in time
grew up to be a hero and became the greatest warrior in the land.

Wainamoinen, having grown feeble with passing years, finally built for
himself a copper vessel, wherein, after singing a farewell song, he
sailed "out into the west," and vanished in the midst of the sunset
clouds, leaving behind him as an inheritance to his people his
wondrous songs.

Thus the ancient Wainamoinen,
In his copper-banded vessel,
Left his tribe in Kalevala,
Sailing o'er the rolling billows,
Sailing through the azure vapors,
Sailing through the dusk of evening,
Sailing to the fiery sunset,
To the higher-landed regions,
To the lower verge of heaven;
Quickly gained the far horizon,
Gained the purple-colored harbor,
There his bark he firmly anchored,
Rested in his boat of copper;
But he left his harp of magic,
Lef