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’Neath the wolf-prints in the marshes,

And the imprints of the bear-paws.’

“Then he pondered and reflected,

‘What would be the upshot of it,

If I cast it in the fire,

And I laid it on the anvil?’

“Sore alarmed was hapless Iron,

Sore alarmed, and greatly startled,

When of Fire it heard him speaking,

Speaking of the furious Fire.

“Said the smith, said Ilmarinen,

‘But indeed it cannot happen;

Fire his friends will never injure,

Nor will harm his dear relations.

If you seek the Fire’s red chamber,

All illumined with its brightness,

You will greatly gain in beauty,

And your splendour greatly increase.

Fitted thus for men’s keen sword-blades

Or as clasps for women’s girdles.’

“Therefore when the day was ended,

Was the Iron from out the marshes,

Delved from all the swampy places,

Carried homeward to the smithy.

“Then he cast it in the furnace,

And he laid it on the anvil,

Blew a blast, and then a second,

And he blew again a third time,

Till the Iron was fully softened,

And the ore completely melted,

Like to wheaten dough in softness,

Soft as dough for rye-bread kneaded,

In the furnace of the smithy,

By the bright flame’s softening power.

“Then exclaimed the Iron unhappy,

‘O thou smith, O Ilmarinen,

Take me quickly from this furnace,

From the red flames that torment me.’

“Said the smith, said Ilmarinen,

‘If I take you from the furnace,