Ranolf and Amohia A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised |
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| 5. | Canto the Fifth. Amohia at the Fountain.
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| II. |
 | Ranolf and Amohia |  |
260
Canto the Fifth. Amohia at the Fountain.
1. A child from the hut goes for water to the fountain. 2. Amo hiding sings a song. 3. Its meaning. 4. Child, frightened, reports a Native ‘Fairy’ at the well. 5. Ranolf goes out to see, musing on ‘Spirits.’
I.
The night wore on; his friends were gone;Still Ranolf paced and mused alone.
It chanced, a little lad who slept
In his men's hut that evening—come
For change' sake from his neighbouring home—
Felt thirsty; from his mattings crept,
The yellow calabash to find,
Which, hollowed out, a hardened rind,
Was mostly full of water kept.
'Twas empty: looking out, “'Tis light
(He thought) almost as day:”—so quite
Forgot his native fear of Night,
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Set off his calabash to fill.
II.
The spring was close beside the path
To that quick-bubbling crystal bath
Where Amohia rested; she
Could in the moonlit distance see
The cot and its karaka-tree,
And Ranolf now emerge, so clear,
Now in its shadow disappear.
And she had marked the little lad
Set off her way with heart how glad;
And when he neared her bright retreat,
That heart with high expectance beat.
To that quick-bubbling crystal bath
Where Amohia rested; she
Could in the moonlit distance see
The cot and its karaka-tree,
And Ranolf now emerge, so clear,
Now in its shadow disappear.
And she had marked the little lad
Set off her way with heart how glad;
And when he neared her bright retreat,
That heart with high expectance beat.
Hard-by there grew in snowy bloom
Thickets of aromatic broom;
Within whose green impervious screen,
Stand but a yard, she ne'er were seen.
Into the copse she quickly slipped,
Three steps from where the fountain dripped.
There, breathless, stirless, on the watch,
She formed her little scheme—until
The thirsty lad had drunk his fill,
And held his calabash to catch
The water of the trickling spring.
Then in a warbling voice, low sweet and wild,
That intertwined with its harmonious plash,
The hidden Girl began to sing
A ditty to the startled Child
About a “fountain” and “a calabash:”
Flowing freely, flowing ever,
Flowing since the World began;
What shall we pour it in—
Heedfully store it in?—
If your calabash be not quite clean—if any foulness begrime or besmutch it,
Oh you never will catch the clear rillet—it will shrink away as you touch it!
Flowing coyly, dried up never
Since Tumátau moulded Man;
Flowing so tamelessly,
Seeming so aimlessly!—
Would you catch it with hands unsteady, or a heart with passion fretted?
Would you guide it in spouts of flax-leaf as you please?—Oh, you'll only get wetted!”—
Glistening out, then disappearing;
Blinding those who wink and blink:
How to get near it, then?—
Forward, ne'er fear it, then!
Sharp eye and free step—no crawling or creeping sideways like a shellfish—
All else like an innocent Child—confiding—straightforward—unselfish!
Chilling often, often cheering,
Numbing those who cease to drink:
How can we use it well?—
Drink and diffuse it well!
If in finely carved cisterns you try to enclose it securely—
Tiny monsters will breed there and wriggle—it will stagnate impurely.
Warbling to all tribes and ages,
Welling near us yet apart:
Who is it guards it so?
Watches and wards it so?—
If you fear any Spirit too much, you'll ne'er see it though flowing close by you—
But revere you no Spirit at all?—what you drink will but petrify you.
With still, lucent eye of Sages,
But with Childhood's open heart;
So may you light on it,
Thrive and grow bright on it!”—
Here Amohia from the thicket springing
Whisked from his hand the flask it clung to, singing.
“Though your calabash be battered, bruised,—yet fear not you to fill it,—
For the better 'twill hold, the fresher keep, this flitting, magical rillet.”
Thickets of aromatic broom;
Within whose green impervious screen,
Stand but a yard, she ne'er were seen.
Into the copse she quickly slipped,
Three steps from where the fountain dripped.
There, breathless, stirless, on the watch,
She formed her little scheme—until
The thirsty lad had drunk his fill,
And held his calabash to catch
The water of the trickling spring.
Then in a warbling voice, low sweet and wild,
That intertwined with its harmonious plash,
The hidden Girl began to sing
262
About a “fountain” and “a calabash:”
1.
“Golden water! golden water!Flowing freely, flowing ever,
Flowing since the World began;
What shall we pour it in—
Heedfully store it in?—
If your calabash be not quite clean—if any foulness begrime or besmutch it,
Oh you never will catch the clear rillet—it will shrink away as you touch it!
2.
“Golden water! golden water!Flowing coyly, dried up never
Since Tumátau moulded Man;
Flowing so tamelessly,
Seeming so aimlessly!—
Would you catch it with hands unsteady, or a heart with passion fretted?
Would you guide it in spouts of flax-leaf as you please?—Oh, you'll only get wetted!”—
The Child, at first too terrified
Even to run away, stood there
Holding the calabash in air,
With cheeks all blanched—mouth gaping wide,
And eyes outstarting; reassured
A little now, he seemed to gain
Some heart to list the simple strain;
But 'twas the voice that most allured,
And most his confidence secured.
Had not the Maid been ever known
And loved for that melodious tone?
And was it not at birth instilled,
That voice like Music? when they killed
In numbers at her name-day feast,
The Korimáko, sweetest bird
Of all that are in forest heard?
That so, with prayers of chanting priest,
The spirit of their sweetness might
Upon the happy Child alight,
And her maturing accents be
Unmatched for kindred melody?—
So, doubtful if to run or stay,
He stood—while she resumed her lay:
Even to run away, stood there
Holding the calabash in air,
With cheeks all blanched—mouth gaping wide,
And eyes outstarting; reassured
A little now, he seemed to gain
Some heart to list the simple strain;
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And most his confidence secured.
Had not the Maid been ever known
And loved for that melodious tone?
And was it not at birth instilled,
That voice like Music? when they killed
In numbers at her name-day feast,
The Korimáko, sweetest bird
Of all that are in forest heard?
That so, with prayers of chanting priest,
The spirit of their sweetness might
Upon the happy Child alight,
And her maturing accents be
Unmatched for kindred melody?—
So, doubtful if to run or stay,
He stood—while she resumed her lay:
3.
“Crystal water! crystal water!Glistening out, then disappearing;
Blinding those who wink and blink:
How to get near it, then?—
Forward, ne'er fear it, then!
Sharp eye and free step—no crawling or creeping sideways like a shellfish—
All else like an innocent Child—confiding—straightforward—unselfish!
4.
“Crystal water! crystal water!Chilling often, often cheering,
264
How can we use it well?—
Drink and diffuse it well!
If in finely carved cisterns you try to enclose it securely—
Tiny monsters will breed there and wriggle—it will stagnate impurely.
5.
“Diamond water! diamond water!Warbling to all tribes and ages,
Welling near us yet apart:
Who is it guards it so?
Watches and wards it so?—
If you fear any Spirit too much, you'll ne'er see it though flowing close by you—
But revere you no Spirit at all?—what you drink will but petrify you.
6.
“Diamond water! diamond water!With still, lucent eye of Sages,
But with Childhood's open heart;
So may you light on it,
Thrive and grow bright on it!”—
Here Amohia from the thicket springing
Whisked from his hand the flask it clung to, singing.
For the better 'twill hold, the fresher keep, this flitting, magical rillet.”
265
III.
—This was a song, in fact, by Ranolf made
And turned to Maori to assay
His skill, and see how far would reach
Or be constrained, the native speech;
When sport was slack one summer day,
As ambushed in tall reeds he lay
Just in the wary wild-duck's way;—
While thinking by what wonder it befel,
And with what natural supernatural aid,
The mighty Stream—the fluent race of Man,
Since first its mystic course began,
Even while in foam and turbulence it ran
Adown those ancient faintly-glimmering slopes,
The shadowy-lit Himálayas of old Time,
Had still been fed from age to age
With springs of Spiritual Truth sublime;
Rillets and runnels of immortal Hopes:
Some crystal Soul of saint or sage
For the great river timeously supplied;
Slipping, as 'twere, from any side,
Into its clouded and tumultuous tide:—
And how above, around us, and below
Those myriad-branching rivulets may flow
Capriciously, it seems, yet ever feeding
The heart of Man when most 'tis needing:—
Then all the evil that proceeds
From dams and dykes of narrow Creeds;—
Last how to enter that coy shadowy ground,
And the pure runnel's bright arrival wait;
Or in what spirit penetrate
Up to the airhung crevices of snow,
Or thicket-stifled gorges, dense, profound,
Where those divinest Wellsprings may abound.—
And turned to Maori to assay
His skill, and see how far would reach
Or be constrained, the native speech;
When sport was slack one summer day,
As ambushed in tall reeds he lay
Just in the wary wild-duck's way;—
While thinking by what wonder it befel,
And with what natural supernatural aid,
The mighty Stream—the fluent race of Man,
Since first its mystic course began,
Even while in foam and turbulence it ran
Adown those ancient faintly-glimmering slopes,
The shadowy-lit Himálayas of old Time,
Had still been fed from age to age
With springs of Spiritual Truth sublime;
Rillets and runnels of immortal Hopes:
Some crystal Soul of saint or sage
For the great river timeously supplied;
Slipping, as 'twere, from any side,
Into its clouded and tumultuous tide:—
And how above, around us, and below
Those myriad-branching rivulets may flow
Capriciously, it seems, yet ever feeding
The heart of Man when most 'tis needing:—
Then all the evil that proceeds
From dams and dykes of narrow Creeds;—
Last how to enter that coy shadowy ground,
And the pure runnel's bright arrival wait;
266
Up to the airhung crevices of snow,
Or thicket-stifled gorges, dense, profound,
Where those divinest Wellsprings may abound.—
Well, but this Song, a glimpse, a hint,
An impress from Reflection's mint
Struck faintly of a theme so vast—
Of a wide bee-eyed truth one tiny facet
With nothing but simplicity to grace it—
The fancy of the native girls had caught
(Who only of its literal meaning thought)
And Amohia's self had reached at last.
An impress from Reflection's mint
Struck faintly of a theme so vast—
Of a wide bee-eyed truth one tiny facet
With nothing but simplicity to grace it—
The fancy of the native girls had caught
(Who only of its literal meaning thought)
And Amohia's self had reached at last.
IV.
But that slight gesture of the MaidWhich tossed the calabash away,
Renewed the fears her song allayed;
No gift had bribed the Child to stay.
To Ranolf's side he scampered back
Aghast, agape with fright—Alack!
There was a Spirit at the well,
A Pátu-páere! he could tell
That voice so sweet—that form so fair,
Those eyes, with such a dancing glare!—
Rebuked, cross-questioned, coaxed or jeered,
Still to his tale the lad adhered.
So Ranolf, as he could not sleep,
And must perforce a vigil keep,
Strolled to the Spring himself to see
What might this wondrous Spirit be.
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V.
“Spirits—still Spirits!—strange that every raceOf Man,” thought Ranolf as he went,
“Still on that fixed idea is bent,
That in some fashion, form, or place,
Spirit without Matter can and does exist:
Yet to its source whene'er we trace
Some record of its presence, sent
Without a bodily environment,
The ‘proof’ (so-called) is always missed.
What then?—Is Matter's self much better off?
Prove its appearance unallied
With Spirit, if you can. Sure, Reason's pride
Should spurn the refuge of a scoff,
When Matter's very being is denied,
And bring us proof. Probe Matter to the last,
Nothing but active Spirit will be found:
Aye, all we see and hear, the glorious round
Of our sensations has no other ground;
Only their sequence stands so fixed and fast;
In such unchanged alliance are they passed
Before us by the Master-Showman's hand.—
All Ghosts and Apparitions here we stand!
And for your vulgar ‘Ghosts’ indeed
'Tis breach of sequence only that we need
Produce—no more; prove shadows may succeed
Each other in a series yet to law
Unknown; find but a single certain flaw
Or falter in the dream-procession grand.
An easy task, 'twould seem! And yet 'tis true
'Tis that—that merely—there are none can do!”
| Ranolf and Amohia | |