Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
The eternal forger-artist,
Laid the metals in the furnace,
In the fire laid steel and iron,
In the hot-coals, gold and silver,
Rightful measure of the metals;
Set the workmen at the furnace,
Lustily they plied the bellows. 
Like the wax the iron melted,
Like the dough the hard steel softened,
Like the water ran the silver,
And the liquid gold flowed after. 
Then the minstrel, Ilmarinen,
The eternal wonder-forger,
Looks within his magic furnace,
On the border of his oven,
There beholds the fire-sword forming,
Sees the blade with golden handle;
Takes the weapon from the furnace,
Lays it on his heavy anvil
For the falling of the hammer;
Forges well the blade of magic,
Well the heavy sword be tempers,
Ornaments the hero-weapon
With the finest gold and silver. 
Wainamoinen, the magician,
Comes to view the blade of conquest,
Lifts admiringly the fire-sword,
Then these words the hero utters: 
“Does the weapon match the soldier,
Does the handle suit the bearer? 
Yea, the blade and hilt are molded
To the wishes of the minstrel.” 
On the sword-point gleams the moonlight,
On the blade the sun is shining,
On the hilt the bright stars twinkle,
On the edge a horse is neighing,
On the handle plays a kitten,
On the sheath a dog is barking. 
Wainamoinen wields his fire-sword,
Tests it on the iron-mountain,
And these words the hero utters: 
“With this broadsword I could quickly
Cleave in twain the mount of Pohya,
Cut the flinty rocks asunder.” 
Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 
“Wherewith shall I guard from danger,
How protect myself from evil,
From the ills by land and water? 
Shall I wear an iron armor,
Belt of steel around my body? 
Stronger is a man in armor,
Safer in a mail of copper.” 
Now the time has come to journey
To the never-pleasant Northland;
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
And his brother, Ilmarinen,
Hasten to the field and forest,
Searching for their fiery coursers,
In each shining belt a bridle,
With a harness on their shoulders. 
In the woods they find a race;
In the glen a steed of battle,
Ready for his master’s service. 
Wainamoinen, old and trusty,
And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
Throw the harness on the courser,
Hitch him to the sledge of conquest,
Hasten on their journey Northward;
Drive along the broad-sea’s margin
Till they bear some one lamenting
On the strand hear something wailing
Near the landing-place of vessels. 
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
Speaks these words in wonder, guessing,
“This must be some maiden weeping,
Some fair daughter thus lamenting;
Let us journey somewhat nearer,
To discover whence this wailing.” 
Drew they nearer, nearer, nearer,
Hoping thus to find a maiden
Weeping on the sandy sea-shore.