Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 
“Not for me was born this virgin
From the magic molten metals;
I shall take her to Wainola,
Give her to old Wainamoinen,
As a bride and life-companion,
Comfort to him in his dotage.” 
Ilmarinen, much disheartened,
Takes the virgin to Wainola,
To the plains of Kalevala,
To his brother speaks as follows: 
“O, thou ancient Wainamoinen,
Look with favor on this image;
Make the maiden fair and lovely,
Beautiful in form and feature,
Suited to thy years declining!”
Wainamoinen, old and truthful,
Looked in wonder on the virgin,
On the golden bride of beauty,
Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 
“Wherefore dost thou bring this maiden,
Wherefore bring to Wainamoinen
Bride of molten gold and silver? 
Spake in answer Ilmarinen: 
“Wherefore should I bring this image,
But for purposes the noblest? 
I have brought her as companion
To thy life in years declining,
As a joy and consolation,
When thy days are full of trouble!”
Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 
“Magic brother, wonder-forger,
Throw the virgin to the furnace,
To the flames, thy golden image,
Forge from her a thousand trinkets. 
Take the image into Ehstland,
Take her to the plains of Pohya,
That for her the mighty powers
May engage in deadly contest,
Worthy trophy for the victor;
Not for me this bride of wonder,
Neither for my worthy people. 
I shall never wed an image
Born from many magic metals,
Never wed a silver maiden,
Never wed a golden virgin.” 
Then the hero of the waters
Called together all his people,
Spake these words of ancient wisdom: 
“Every child of Northland, listen,
Whether poor, or fortune-favored: 
Never bow before an image
Born of molten gold and silver: 
Never while the sunlight brightens,
Never while the moonlight glimmers,
Choose a maiden of the metals,
Choose a bride from gold created
Cold the lips of golden maiden,
Silver breathes the breath of sorrow.”

RUNE XXXVIII.

ILMARINEN’S FRUITLESS WOOING.

Ilmarinen, the magician,
The eternal metal-artist,
Lays aside the golden image,
Beauteous maid of magic metals;
Throws the harness on his courser,
Binds him to his sledge of birch-wood,
Seats himself upon the cross-bench,
Snaps the whip above the racer,
Thinking once again to journey
To the mansions of Pohyola,
There to woo a bride in honor,
Second daughter of the Northland. 
On he journeyed, restless, northward,
Journeyed one day, then a second,
So the third from morn till evening,
When he reached a Northland-village
On the plains of Sariola. 
Louhi, hostess of Pohyola,
Standing in the open court-yard,
Spied the hero, Ilmarinen,
Thus addressed the metal-worker: