After sable-haired Murikki,
  And the many-colored Kimmo. 
  Many runes the cold has told me,
  Many lays the rain has brought me,
  Other songs the winds have sung me;
  Many birds from many forests,
  Oft have sung me lays in concord;
  Waves of sea, and ocean billows,
  Music from the many waters,
  Music from the whole creation,
  Oft have been my guide and master. 
  Sentences the trees created,
  Rolled together into bundles,
  Moved them to my ancient dwelling,
  On the sledges to my cottage,
  Tied them to my garret rafters,
  Hung them on my dwelling-portals,
  Laid them in a chest of boxes,
  Boxes lined with shining copper. 
  Long they lay within my dwelling
  Through the chilling winds of winter,
  In my dwelling-place for ages. 
    Shall I bring these songs together? 
  From the cold and frost collect them? 
  Shall I bring this nest of boxes,
  Keepers of these golden legends,
  To the table in my cabin,
  Underneath the painted rafters,
  In this house renowned and ancient? 
  Shall I now these boxes open,
  Boxes filled with wondrous stories? 
  Shall I now the end unfasten
  Of this ball of ancient wisdom? 
  These ancestral lays unravel? 
  Let me sing an old-time legend,
  That shall echo forth the praises
  Of the beer that I have tasted,
  Of the sparkling beer of barley,
  Bring to me a foaming goblet
  Of the barley of my fathers,
  Lest my singing grow too weary,
  Singing from the water only. 
  Bring me too a cup of strong beer;
  It will add to our enchantment,
  To the pleasure of the evening,
  Northland’s long and dreary evening,
  For the beauty of the day-dawn,
  For the pleasures of the morning,
  The beginning of the new day.

From the FINNISH. 
Translation of JOHN MARTIN CRAWFORD.

* * * * *

PARTING LOVERS.

SIENNA.

  I love thee, love thee, Giulio! 
    Some call me cold, and some demure,
  And if thou hast ever guessed that so
    I love thee ... well;—­the proof was poor,
    And no one could be sure.

  Before thy song (with shifted rhymes
     To suit my name) did I undo
  The persian?  If it moved sometimes,
    Thou hast not seen a hand push through
    A flower or two.

  My mother listening to my sleep
    Heard nothing but a sigh at night,—­
  The short sigh rippling on the deep,—­
    When hearts run out of breath and sigh
    Of men, to God’s clear light.

  When others named thee,... thought thy brows
    Were straight, thy smile was tender,...  “Here
  He comes between the vineyard-rows!”—­
    I said not “Ay,”—­nor waited, Dear,
    To feel thee step too near.

  I left such things to bolder girls,
    Olivia or Clotilda.  Nay,
  When that Clotilda through her curls
    Held both thine eyes in hers one day,
    I marvelled, let me say.