Willingly obeyed his master. Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began to rake the sea-beds, Raked up all the water-flowers, Bits of broken reeds and rushes, Deep-sea shells and colored pebbles, Did not find his harp of fish-bone, Lost forever to Wainola! Thereupon the ancient minstrel Left the waters, homeward hastened, Cap pulled clown upon his forehead, Sang this song with sorrow laden: "Nevermore shall I awaken With my harp-strings, joy and gladness! Nevermore will Wainamoinen Charm the people of the Northland With the harp of his creation! Nevermore my songs will echo O'er the hills of Kalevala!" Thereupon the ancient singer Went lamenting through the forest, Wandered through the sighing pine-woods, Heard the wailing of a birch-tree, Heard a juniper complaining; Drawing nearer, waits and listens, Thus the birch-tree he addresses: "Wherefore, brother, art thou weeping, Merry birch enrobed in silver, Silver-leaved and silver-tasselled? Art thou shedding tears of sorrow, Since thou art not led to battle, Not enforced to war with wizards? Wisely does the birch make answer: "This the language of the many, Others speak as thou, unjustly, That I only live in pleasure, That my silver leaves and tassels Only whisper my rejoicings; That I have no cares, no sorrows, That I have no hours unhappy, Knowing neither pain nor trouble. I am weeping for my smallness, Am lamenting for my weakness, Have no sympathy, no pity, Stand here motionless for ages, Stand alone in fen and forest, In these woodlands vast and joyless. Others hope for coming summers, For the beauties of the spring-time; I, alas! a helpless birch-tree, Dread the changing of the seasons, I must give my bark to, others, Lose my leaves and silken tassels. Men come the Suomi children, Peel my bark and drink my life-blood: Wicked shepherds in the summer, Come and steal my belt of silver, Of my bark make berry-baskets, Dishes make, and cups for drinking. Oftentimes the Northland maidens Cut my tender limbs for birch-brooms,' Bind my twigs and silver tassels Into brooms to sweep their cabins; Often have the Northland heroes Chopped me into chips for burning; Three times in the summer season, In the pleasant days of spring-time, Foresters have ground their axes On my silver trunk and branches, Robbed me of my life for ages; This my spring-time joy and pleasure, This my happiness in summer, And my winter days no better! When I think of former troubles, Sorrow settles on my visage, And my face grows white with anguish; Often do the winds of winter And the hoar-frost bring me sadness, Blast my tender leaves and tassels, Bear my foliage to others, Rob me of my silver raiment, Leave me naked on the mountain, Lone, and helpless, and disheartened!" Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: "Weep no longer, sacred birch-tree,