Was Paulinius, the Christian, and he said,
Bowing low a reverent head
That was white with many years,
To King Edwin and his Eldormen and Thanes, And his words were dim with tears:
"Oh, not merely tempest-tossed,
Not again in darkness lost,
Is the little bird that came
In between us and the flame,
For the bird will find his nest.
So King Edwin, and you, Eldormen and Thanes, Be not your heart distressed.
"Not from darkness comes the soul,
Nor shall darkness be its goal.
For that, too, there is a nest
Whither flying it shall rest
Evermore. It must be so."
Said King Edwin and his Eldormen and Thanes, "Would to God that we might know!"
BECAUSE thou com'st, a tired guest,
Unto my tent, I bid thee rest.
This cruse of oil, this skin of wine,
These tamarinds and dates are thine:
And while thou eatest, Hassan there
Shall bathe the heated nostrils of thy mare.
Allah il Allah! even so
An Arab chieftain treats a foe:
Holds him as one without a fault,
Who breaks his bread and tastes his salt;
And, in fair battle, strikes him dead
With the same pleasure that he gives him bread!
ARRANGED FROM THE "KALEVALA"; THE EPIC OF FINLAND.
Laid his luncheon in his basket,
Drove the herd to mountain pastures,
O'er the hills and through the marshes
To their grazings in the woodlands,
Speaking as he careless wandered
"Of the youth am I the poorest,
Hapless lad and full of trouble,
Evil luck to me befallen!
I, alas! must idly wander
O'er the hills and through the valleys
As a watch-dog for the cattle!"
From the woods a bird came flying,
Sang this song to Kullerwoinen:
""Tis the time for forest-dinners,
1 Kullerwoinen was a shepherd boy employed by the wicked wife of
Ilmarinen, who gives him a cheat-cake for luncheon.
For the fatherless companion
Of the herds to eat his luncheon,
Eat the good things from his basket!"
Kullerwoinen heard the songster,
Looked upon the sun's long shadow,
Straightway spake the words that follow:
"True the singing of the song-bird,
It is time indeed for feasting,
Time to eat my basket-dinner."
Thereupon young Kullerwoinen
Called his herd to rest in safety,
Sat upon a grassy hillock,
Took his basket from his shoulders,
Took therefrom the arid oat-loaf,
Turned it over in his fingers,
Carefully the loaf inspected,
Spake these words of ancient wisdom:
"Many loaves are fine to look on,
On the outside seem delicious,
On the inside chaff and tan-bark!"
Then the shepherd, Kullerwoinen,
Drew his knife to cut his oat-loaf,
Cut the hard and arid biscuit;
Cuts against a stone imprisoned,
Well imbedded in its centre,
Breaks his ancient knife to pieces.
When the shepherd youth, Kullervo,
Saw his magic knife had broken,
Weeping sore, he spake as follows:
"This the blade that I hold sacred,
This the one thing that I honor,
Relic of my mother's people!
On the stone within this oat-loaf,
On this cheat-cake of the hostess,
I my precious knife have broken.
How shall I repay this insult,
How avenge this woman's malice?"
From a tree the raven answered:
"Take a birch-rod from the valley,
Drive thy herds across the lowlands
Through the quicksands of the marshes;
Sing the forest wolves together,
Sing the bears down from the mountains,
Drive them home like spotted cattle,
Drive them to thy master's milk yards;
Thus wilt thou repay the hostess
For her malice and derision."
Ilmarinen's wife and hostess
Long had waited for the coming
Of her herd with Kullerwoinen,
Waited for the milk at evening,
Waited for the new-made butter,
Heard the footsteps on the cow-path.
Then the wife of Ilmarinen
Built a field-fire in the passage,
Went to milk her cows awaiting,
Looked upon her herd in wonder,
Spake these words of happy greeting:
"Beautiful, my herd of cattle,
Glistening like the skins of lynxes,
Hair as soft as fur of ermine,
Peaceful waiting for the milkpail!"
On the milkstool sits the hostess, -
Milks one moment, then a second,
Then a third time milks and ceases,
When the bloody wolves disguising,
Quick attack the hostess milking,
And the bears lend their assistance,
Tear and mutilate her body
With their teeth and sharpened fingers.
POOR Puss is gone!-'Tis Fate's decree:
Yet I must still her loss deplore,
For dearer than a child was she,
And ne'er shall I behold her more.
With many a sad presaging tear,
This morn I saw her steal away,
While she went on without a fear
Except that she should miss her prey.
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