Like a concert was his playing;
There was nothing in the forest
On four nimble feet that runneth,
On four lengthy legs that stalketh,
But repair'd to hear the music,
When the ancient Woinomoinen,
When the Father joy awaken'd.
E'en at Woinomoinen's harping
'Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded.
There was nothing in the forest
On two whirring pinions flying,
But with whirl-wind speed did hasten;
There was nothing in the ocean,
With six fins about that roweth,
Or with eight to move delighteth,
But repair'd to hear the music.
E'en the briny water's mother {38}
'Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her,
On a little sand-hill rais'd her,
On her side with toil up-crawling.
E'en from Woinomoinen's eye-balls
Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled,
Bigger than the whortle-berry,
Heavier than the eggs of plovers,
Down his broad and mighty bosom,
Knee-ward from his bosom flowing,
From his knee his feet bedewing;
And I've heard, his tears they trickled
Through the five wool-wefts of thickness,
Through his jackets eight of wadmal.