You will observe this is verse of eight syllables with four trochees to a line.  Now it is perhaps as near to Finnish verse as English verse can be made.  But the Finnish verse is more musical, and it is much more flexible, and the rules of it can be better carried out than in English.  There is much more to be thought about than the placing of four trochaic feet to a line.  Not only must the verse be trochaic, it must also be alliterative, and it must also be, to some extent, rhymed verse—­a matter which Longfellow did not take into consideration.  That would have doubled his difficulty.  To make verse trochaic, alliterative and rhymed, is very difficult indeed—­that is, to do it well.  Only one liberty is allowed; it is not necessary that the rhyme shall be regular and constant; it is necessary only that it should be occasional.  But the interest of Finnish verse does not end here.  I have not yet mentioned the most important law of Finnish poetry—­the law of parallelism or repetition.  Parallelism is the better word.  It means the repetition of a thought in a slightly modified way.  It is parallelism especially that makes so splendid the English translation of the Bible, and the majesty of such passages in the Book of Common Prayer as the Funeral Service.  So that Finnish poetry is anything but very simple.  We may now sum it up thus—­trochaic verse of eight syllables, with alliteration and rhyme, a caesura in the same part of every line, and every line reiterated in parallelism.

A little above I mentioned the English of the Bible.  Long ago I explained why that English is so beautiful and so strong.  But remember that much of the best of the Bible, in the original Hebrew, was not prose but verse, and that the fine effects have been produced by translating the verse into musical prose.  The very effect can be produced by translating the “Kalevala” into prose.  Occasionally the passages are of surprising beauty, and they are always of surprising strangeness.

It is in parallelism especially that Finnish poetry offers a contrast to Japanese, but there is no reason whatever why, in the longer poems of Japanese poetry, parallelism could not be used.  All things have value according to place and time, and this has value—­provided that it has a special effect on a special occasion.  All through the “Kalevala,” all through five hundred pages, large pages, the parallelism is carried on, and yet one never gets tired.  It is not monotonous.  But that is because the subject is so well adapted to this form of poetry.  See how the poem opens, when the poet begins to talk about what he is going to sing: 

“Anciently my father sang me these words in hewing the handle of his ax; anciently my mother taught me these words as she turned her spindle.  In that time I was only a child, a little child at the breast,—­a useless little being creeping upon the floor at the feet of its nurse, its cheek bedaubed with milk.  And there are other words which I drew from the spring of knowledge, which I found by the wayside, which I snatched from the heart of the thickets, which I detached from the branches of the trees, which I gathered at the edges of the pastures—­when, In my infancy, I used to go to guard the flocks, in the midst of the honey-streaming meadows, upon the gold-shining hills, behind the black Murikki, behind the spotted Kimmo, my favourite cows.