Whereupon the ancient minstrel,
Asked the second time the monster,
Urgently inquired a third time: 
“Iku-Turso, son of Old-age,
Why art rising from the waters,
Wherefore dost thou leave the blue-sea? 
Iku-Turso gave this answer: 
For this cause I left my castle
Underneath the rolling billows: 
Came I here with the intention
To destroy the Kalew-heroes,
And return the magic Sampo
To the people of Pohyola. 
If thou wilt restore my freedom,
Spare my life, from pain and sorrow,
I will quick retrace my journey,
Nevermore to show my visage
To the people of Wainola,
Never while the moonlight glimmers
On the hills of Kalevala!”
Then the singer, Wainamoinen,
Freed the monster, Iku-Turso,
Sent him to his deep sea-castles,
Spake these words to him departing: 
“Iku-Turso, son of Old-age,
Nevermore arise from ocean,
Nevermore let Northland-heroes
See thy face above the waters I
Nevermore has Iku-Turso
Risen to the ocean-level;
Never since have Northland sailors
Seen the head of this sea-monster. 
Wainamoinen, old and truthful,
Onward rowed his goodly vessel,
Journeyed but a little distance,
Scarce a moment had passed over,
When the King of all creators,
Mighty Ukko of the heavens,
Made the winds blow full of power,
Made the storms arise in fury,
Made them rage upon the waters. 
From the west the winds came roaring,
From the north-east came in anger,
Winds came howling from the south-west,
Came the winds from all directions,
In their fury, rolling, roaring,
Tearing branches from the lindens,
Hurling needles from the pine-trees,
Blowing flowers from the heather,
Grasses blowing from the meadow,
Tearing up the very bottom
Of the deep and boundless blue-sea. 
Roared the winds and lashed the waters
Till the waves were white with fury;
Tossed the war-ship high in ether,
Tossed away the harp of fish-bone,
Magic harp of Wainamoinen,
To the joy of King Wellamo,
To the pleasure of his people,
To the happiness of Ahto,
Ahto, rising from his caverns,
On the floods beheld his people
Carry off the harp of magic
To their home below the billows. 
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 
“I have lost what I created,
I have lost the harp of joyance;
Now my strength has gone to others,
All my pleasure too departed,
All my hope and comfort vanished! 
Nevermore the harp of fish-bone
Will enchant the hosts of Suomi!”
Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
Sorrow-laden, spake as follows: 
“Woe is me, my life hard-fated! 
Would that I had never journeyed
On these waters filled with dangers,
On the rolling waste before me,
In this war-ship false and feeble. 
Winds and storms have I encountered,
Wretched days of toil and trouble,
I have witnessed in the Northland;