“Such is not the mind of others,
Other brides of Northland heroes;
Others do not leave unhappy,
Have no tears, nor cares, nor sorrows,
I alas! must weep and murmur,
Carry to my grave great sadness,
Heart as dark as Death’s black river. 
“Such the feelings of the happy,
Such the minds of merry maidens: 
Like the early dawn of spring-time,
Like the rising Sun in summer
No such radiance awaits me,
With my young heart filled with terror;
Happiness is not my portion,
Like the flat-shore of the ocean,
Like the dark rift of the storm-cloud,
Like the cheerless nights of winter! 
Dreary is the day in autumn,
Dreary too the autumn evening,
Still more dreary is my future!”
An industrious old maiden,
Ever guarding home and kindred,
Spake these words of doubtful comfort: 
“Dost thou, beauteous bride, remember,
Canst thou not recall my counsels? 
These the words that I have taught thee: 
’Look not joyfully for suitors,
Never heed the tongues of wooers,
Look not in the eyes of charmers,
At their feet let fall thy vision. 
He that hath a mouth for sweetness,
He that hath an eye for beauty,
Offers little that will comfort;
Lempo sits upon his forehead,
In his mouth dwells dire Tuoni.’ 
“Thus, fair bride, did I advise thee,
Thus advised my sister’s daughter: 
Should there come the best of suitors,
Noblest wooers, proudest lovers,
Give to all these wisdom-sayings,
Let thine answer be as follows: 
’Never will I think it wisdom,
Never will it be my pleasure,
To become a second daughter,
Linger with my husband’s mother;
Never shall I leave my father,
Never wander forth to bondage,
At the bidding of a bridegroom: 
Never shall I be a servant,
Wife and slave to any hero,
Never will I be submissive
To the orders of a husband.’ 
“Fairest bride, thou didst not heed me,
Gav’st no thought to my advices,
Didst not listen to my counsel;
Wittingly thy feet have wandered
Into boiling tar and water,
Hastened to thy suitor’s snow-sledge,
To the bear-dens of thy husband,
On his sledge to be ill-treated,
Carried to his native country,
To the bondage of his people,
There, a subject to his mother. 
Thou hast left thy mother’s dwelling,
To the schooling of the master;
Hard indeed the master’s teachings,
Little else than constant torture;
Ready for thee are his bridles,
Ready for thy bands the shackles,
Were not forged for any other;
Soon, indeed, thou’lt feel the hardness,
Feel the weight of thy misfortune,
Feel thy second father’s censure,
And his wife’s inhuman treatment,
Hear the cold words or thy brother,
Quail before thy haughty sister. 
“Listen, bride, to what I tell thee: 
In thy home thou wert a jewel,
Wert thy father’s pride and pleasure,
‘Moonlight,’ did thy father call thee,