Ranolf and Amohia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ranolf and Amohia

A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised

Domett, Alfred (1811-1887)

BOOK THE FIRST. THE SAILOR-STUDENT.

Canto the First. The Sea-boy.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Second. Will-o'-wisp-chasing.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Third. From Wisp to Morass.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Fourth. Terra Firma.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

Canto the Fifth. Cloud-blowing.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

Canto the Sixth. Land-Life or Sea-Life?

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Seventh. The Shipwreck.

II.

III.

IV.

BOOK THE SECOND. THE SOUTH-SEA VILLAGERS.

Canto the First. The Rescue.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Second. The ‘Sounding Sea.’

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Third. The Magician.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Fourth. A Woodland Jaunt.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Fifth. The Legend of Tawhaki.

II.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Sixth. Mythical Cosmogonies.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Seventh. The Captive.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

BOOK THE THIRD. ALL IN A SUMMER NIGHT.

Canto the First. Miroa's Tidings.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Second. The Song-cheered Swimming.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Third. The Star-lit Swimming.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Fourth. Legends of the Spirit-Land.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Fifth. Amohia at the Fountain.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Sixth. Silence and Moonlight.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Seventh. The Meeting.

II.

III.

IV.

II.

VOLUME II.

BOOK THE FOURTH. A LATTER-DAY EDEN.

Canto the First. Flight of the Lovers.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

Canto the Second. Miroa's Story.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Third. Love and Nature luxuriant.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fourth. Trees and the Tree-God.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Fifth. The Fountain-Terraces.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Sixth. A Geyser Yoked.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Seventh. English Maidens.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

BOOK THE FIFTH. STILL IN EDEN.

Canto the First. The Haunted Mountain.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Second. Sports on the Lake.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Third. The Cicada.

II.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fourth. A loving Questioner.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Fifth. A cheery Theorist.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Sixth. Love beats Logic.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Seventh. An airy Nest.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

BOOK THE SIXTH WAR.

Canto the First. The Beleaguered Fortress.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Second. War needs Idealizing.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Third. The grand Assault.

II.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Fourth. Fight between ‘Sounding Sea’ and ‘Angry Star.’

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Fifth. Love fed by War.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Sixth. An old wrong avenged.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

[section]

VIII.

Canto the Seventh. Death of the ‘Sounding Sea.’

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

BOOK THE SEVENTH. SELF-SACRIFICE.

Canto the First. Weariness.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Second. A sad Resolve.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Third. Death of the Magician.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fourth. Where is Comfort?

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fifth. A Vision.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Sixth. The Departure.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Seventh. After-Experiences.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

BOOK THE FIFTH. STILL IN EDEN.

Canto the First. The Haunted Mountain.

1. Amo fears to ascend the Mountain—Tára-wéra. 2. A tree-girt niche. 3. The Mountain. 4. Morning and songsters. 5. The Lake.

I.

“Shall we run into the cloudlet, love, so luminous and white
That is crouching up in sunshine there on yonder lofty height?
We could step out of the splendour all at once into the mist—
Such a sunny snowy bower where a maiden might be kissed!
From the woody lower terrace we could climb the russet steep
O'er that chasm gorged with tree-tops still in shadow dewy-deep,
Where another slip of vapour, see! against the purple black,
Set on fire by the sunbeam which has caught it there alone,
Like a warrior-chief inciting his adherents to attack,
Has upreared itself upright with one imperious arm outthrown!
Up that slope so smooth and ruddy we could clamber to the crags

To the jutting rim of granite where the crouching cloudlet lags:
In and out the bright suffusion up above there in the skies,
I would follow my fleet darling by the flashing of her eyes,
O'er that lofty level summit, as they vanished vapour-veiled,
Or would glitter out rekindling and then glance away to seek,
Like swift meteors seen a moment, for some other silver streak—
Now bedimmed and now bedazzling till each dodge and double failed,
And I caught her—O would clasp her! such delicious vengeance wreak
On those eyes—the glad, the grand ones! on that laughter-dimpled cheek,
Till with merciless caresses the fine damask flushed and paled,
And half-quenched in burning kisses those bewitching lustres quailed!”

“Nay, but Rano, my adored one—O my heart and soul's delight!
Scarce with all your love to lead me—fold me round from all affright—
Would I dare ascend that Mountain! woody cleft and fissure brown
Are so thick with evil spirits—it has such a dread renown!
Such a hideous Lizard-Monster in its gloomy shades it screens,
That as rugged as the rocks are, winds along the close ravines—

E'en asleep lies with them sinuous like a worm in twisted shell—
And has eaten up more people in old days than I can tell!
Would you go and wake that Taniwha! O not at least to-day:
Look how lovely calm the Lake is!—'twill be sweeter far to stray
In the blue hot brilliant noon-tide to each secret shadowy bay,
And afloat on liquid crystal pass the happy time away!”—

II.

So he, who when he had his will,
For pleasure always went up hill,
So Ranolf spoke; and so replied
His wildwood bride, the diamond-eyed,
When morning's beam began to burn,
Up-springing from their couch of fern
By charming Tára-wéra's side.
A little plot of smooth green grass—
By tapering trees thick-set and tall
Beneath grey rocks that rose o'er all,
Shut in behind—a verdurous wall
Circling that lawny flat so small
Down to the very water's edge,
That spread in front its liquid glass;—
Not far from where, 'mid reed and sedge,
The warm Mahana's rapid tide,
A mile-long stream scarce six feet wide,
Comes rushing through the open pass—
As seeks a hot and fevered child
Its Mother's bosom cool and mild—

To Tára-wéra's ample Lake;
This shallow niche, tree-girt and green,
With nought its still sweet charm to break,
The lovers' lonely bower had been.

III.

In sunshine stretching lightly o'er
The Lake's far end from shore to shore,
Long stripes of gauze-like awning lay—
In stripes serene and white as they,
Re-imaged on its bright blue floor.
And many a rocky rugged bluff,
With crimson-blossoming boscage rough
O'er beetling crest and crevice flung,—
White cliff or dark-green hill afar
With patches bleached of scarp and scar—
Stood boldly forward sunrise-fired,
Or back in sun-filled mist retired.
Untrembling, round the glistening rim
Of that expanse of blooming blue,
From headland bright or inlet's brim,
Long fringes of reflection hung.
Its ramparts stretched along the sky,
One mighty Mountain reared on high
Far o'er the rest a level crest,
With jutting rounded parapet
And rude rock-corbels rough-beset,
Half-blurred by time and tempest's fret;
While smooth its slopes came sweeping down
From that abraded cornice brown.
The mountain this, the ruddy steep,
That Ranolf, sun-awaked from sleep,

So longed to scale; and high in air
In glad imagination share
Its sky-possessing majesty
Of haughty isolation!—there
Into each dark recess to pry
And every sight and secret see
Its lofty level might reveal,
Or those grim fissures' depths conceal,
That split the Mountain into three.

IV.

About the heights, soft clouds a few,
Clung here and there like floating flue;
Like helpless sea-birds breeze-bereft,
Unmoving spread their pinions white—
From jutting crag, deep-bathed in light,
To slip away in snowy flight;
Or closely crouched in shadowy cleft,
Like lambing ewes the flock has left.
Below, o'erjoyed at darkness fleeing,
Reviving Nature woke again
To all the exceeding bliss of being!
The minnows leapt the liquid plain
In shoals—each silvery-shivering train,
A sudden dash of sprinkled rain!
The wild-duck's black and tiny fleet
Shot in-and-out their shy retreat;
The cormorant left his crowded tree
And stretched his tinselled neck for sea;
All Nature's feathered favourites poured
To their adored undoubted Lord
Of light and heat, accordance sweet

Of pure impassioned revelry;
And honey-bird and mocking-bird
And he of clearest melody,
The blossom-loving bell-bird,—each
Delicious-throated devotee
In happy ignorance framed to be
Content with rapture—longing-free
For life or love they cannot reach—
Like chimes rich-tuned, to heaven preferred
The praise of their mellifluous glee!
Each lurking lyrist of the grove
With all his might sung all his love;
Till every foliage-filled ravine
And bower of amaranthine green
Rang persevering ecstasy!

V.

With free elastic hearts that shone
In joy as fresh as morning's own—
Each seated in a light canoe
The kind Lake-villagers supplied—
Amo's the lighter—gayer too,
With snowy tufts of feathers tied
In rows along each ruddy side,—
The pair went paddling, fancy-led;
For here no wond'rous sights of dread
Or beauty lurked to guide their quest
As at Mahana—nothing strange,
Or out of Nature's wonted range.

Yet Ranolf marked with lively zest
What charms the changeful scene possest:
The billowy-tumbling hills—the crags—
The smooth green slopes fern-carpeted;
Low cliffs with feathery foliage graced;
Rock-palisades emerging pale
And grey; and precipices faced
With head-stones—close-set armour-scale
Of gothic-pointed bristling flags;
Flat islets crowned with wood—cliff-bound;
And lake-side bowers and canopies;
And caves and grottoes within these!
And lichened rocks that singly stand
Detached from green umbrageous land,
Mere pedestals for single trees;
Or, jutting out with jagged arms
All plumed and fair with greenery, bear
Into the Lake the forest's charms;
And with the bank that proudly swells,
A wooded wall without a strand,
Make niches, nooks, and liquid cells,
With interlacing boughs o'erspanned.

Canto the Second. Sports on the Lake.

1–3. A water-chase. Amo in different characters popular in Maori mythology and fable. 4. A disappearance, and (5) an alarm. 6. Her love.

I.

The mists were gone—the sun rode high;
The pair went paddling merrily
Each bay and cove and nook to try;
In loving converse sauntering slow
Or darting swiftly to and fro,
Except for pleasure, purposeless
As minnow-crowds whose sinuous stream
Meandering through the azure gleam
Darkened the watery depths below.
It chanced the boats a moment lay
With prows that pointed both one way,
Amo's ahead a little space:
A sudden whim lit up her face;
Then, as a challenge for a race,

She chaunted, ere away she sped,
With laughing frowns of loving spite,
Set teeth and sideways-shaken head,
Mock words of bitter-sweet delight:

“I am Hátu! I'm Hátu! poor boy of the glen
Whom the wicked witch-giantess hid in her den!
And you are the Giantess hoarding her prize
With her terrible claws—O such hideous eyes!
But I've fled from caresses I . . . hate, O so much!
Escaped from her loathsome, her horrible touch—
From her dreadful . . . dear! . . . clutches escaped to the plain,
And I dare, I defy her, to catch me again!”—

II.

Then paddling off with all her might,
Away across the lake she flew,
And left a wake of foam snow-bright,
And broadening ripple glassy-blue;
While, dashing after, less expert
Soon Ranolf finds he must exert
His utmost skill to catch her, too.
But when, though less by skill than strength,
He nears her flying skiff at length—
With nimble paddle, dodging back
She slips off on another tack,
With swiftly-flitting noiseless ease;
As—when some fisher thinks to seize
With gently-dropped and stealthy spear
A flounder, down in shallows clear,
'Mid mottling tufts of dusky weeds

100

And white sand-patches where it feeds—
The trembling shadow shifts away
Through faintly-shimmering water grey—
'Tis there—and gone—his would-be prey!
So, hovering round with wistful eyes,
While many a feint, to cheat, surprise,
That merry mocker, Ranolf tries,
She, at a little distance staying,
And watchful, with the paddle playing,
No move of his, no glance to miss—
Now darts alert that way, now this;
And at each foiled attempt again
Provokes him in alluring strain:

“Look! I'm one of those divine ones—joy and love of all beholders,
Who had pinions, O such fine ones! growing from their stately shoulders;
Not that fond one too confiding—so in vain your bright eyes watch me—
He, the last on earth residing . . . Ah! you need not think to catch me! . . .
Who, beside his loved-one lying, let the Maid while he was sleeping,
Press his wings off, spoil his flying,—lest he e'er should leave her weeping!”—

III.

Then off she skims in circuit wide,
Resolved another plan to try,
Again with paddles swiftly plied,

101

Again across the lake they fly;
And as her little bark he nears,
A new defiance Ranolf hears:

“I'm Wákatau, he—
That Child of the Sea!
And my dearest delight
Is flying my kite.
Down beneath, on the sand,
With the string in my hand,
Under water I stand;
Or the kite in the air,
Like the day-moon up there,
Like an albatross strong,
Draws me swiftly along
As I float to and fro
On the green sea below.—
Apakúra, my mother,
Can catch me, none other;
From the quickest alive,
Down—down—would I dive!—
Whoever you be—
Though fonder, though dearer,
You, you are not she,
Apakúra, O no!—
So if you come nearer,
See—down I must go!”

IV.

Scarce on the gunwale had he laid
His hand, and scarce the words were said,

102

Ere, slipping from her loosened dress,
Her simple kilt and cloak of flax,—
Just as a chestnut you may press
With careful foot ere ripened well,
Shoots from its green and prickly shell,
With tender rind so tawny-clean
And dainty-pure and smooth as wax,—
She shot into the blue serene;
A moment gleamed, then out of sight,
Swift as a falling flash of light!

All round he seeks with anxious mien
The Naiad—nowhere to be seen.
A fearful time he seems to spy—
His heart beats quick—when lo, hard by,
A mermaid! risen on the rocks,
Whose diamond glances archly play
Through shaken clouds of glittering locks,
And glancing showers of diamond-spray:

“You are not Apakúra! O, no, no, not you!”
She cries—and dives beneath the blue.

He follows, watching where she glides
Beneath a drooping pall profound
Of boughs, that all the water hides.
Into the gloom he pushes: sound
Or sight of her is none around.
But hark!—'twas somewhere near the bank
That sudden plash! it takes his ear
As startlingly as sometimes, near
A stream where June's hot grass is rank,
You hear the coiled-up water-snake

103

Your unsuspecting footsteps wake,
Flop down upon the wave below,
And wabbling through the water go.

Again to the mid lake she hies;
In swift pursuit again he flies:
And see! she waits with face, how meek!
Till he can touch and almost clasp,
The shining shoulders, laughing cheek;
Then, diving swift, eludes his grasp:
Just as, with quick astonished eye,
A wild-duck waits, until well-nigh
The ruddy-curled retriever's snap
Is gently closing like a trap
On its poor neck and broken wing,
Before with sudden jerk she dips,
Beneath the ripple vanishing.
From Ranolf so the Maiden slips.

V.

But when, the chase renewed, he nears
The spot where next she reappears,
Look! floating on the glass she lies
With close-sealed lips and fast-shut eyes,
Still as a Saint in marble bloom
Carved snowy-dead upon a tomb.

Close to her side his skiff he steers:
“O Swallow of the waters fleet,
O wild lake-bird! my Swift, my sweet,
My lovely-crested Grebe! at last,

104

I catch, I kiss, I hold you fast!”
He takes that slender hand of hers;
She answers not—nor looks—nor stirs;
Surprised, her listless arm he shakes—
She neither stirs—looks up—nor wakes.
“Speak, speak, my Amo! what is this!
Do you not feel my clasp, my kiss?
Do you not hear my voice?”

—Ah no!
That low sad moan no answer gives:
She breathes—but heavy, stertorous, slow;
That breathing barely shows she lives.
He felt her heart—it faintly pulsed;
At times she shudders as convulsed;
“Yes, it must be! the hot, high sun
Has struck her, dear one; too opprest,
With such exertions quite o'erdone!”

Alarmed—reflecting what were best,
He soon resolves, and does it too.
Beneath each arm with tenderest care,
He twines a tress of streaming hair,
And knots them both with double turn,
Rich-volumed to his own canoe—
The open carved work of the stern:
Then tows her senseless till they reach
The nearest stripe of sandy beach:
There leaps ashore—seeks—breaks in half,
A cockle-shell—'twill answer well:
Then finds and feels the corded vein

105

That crosses with its azure stain
The tender hollow of her arm,
And soon will wake the life-tide warm.
But ere the shell's sharp point can wound—
Just ere it pricks her—from the ground,
Upleaping with a silvery laugh,
The cheat confessed, she darts away,
(Snatching her mantle up that lay
In Ranolf's boat, which he had thrown
Into it as she left her own)
And to a thicket near has flown—
Swift—sudden-glancing as a bird
The loud flirt of whose wing is heard
A moment, on the hot wood-side,
As, brushing out and in again,
A scarlet gleam, you see him glide,
Lancing his dodging flight; even so
Does Amo still the chase maintain;
And Ranolf follows, with mock-angry show
Of mirthful vengeance, fondly-threatening cries,
And chastisements that are caresses in disguise.

VI.

Thus ever and anon, this buoyant Child,
Free as the winds and as the waters wild,
With wayward whims the time beguiled:
Thus would the tranquil tenor of her joy
Still quicken into rapids of delight;
And break meandering into branches bright
Of manifold emotions that would rove
Diversely, but to give redoubled force
And sweet variety to one sure course—

106

Spreading and sparkling only to unite
In one broad current of unfailing Love.
Such simple arts would she employ
To tamper with, and tease, and toy
With her delight, its depth to prove;
With sportive sallies, sly disguises,
Arch mockeries—mimicries—surprises:
So on her heart impress a sense
More varied, vivid and intense
Of bliss all golden-pure without alloy,
And Love no time could cool, no fond fruition cloy!

107

Canto the Third. The Cicada.

1. The Lake-bower. The ‘Downy Ironheart’ Tree. 2. The hamper. Native fruits, etc. 3. ‘Eating the tables.’ 4. Dragon-flies. 5. The Cicada suggests old Athenians. 6. Insect-transformations: what by analogy deducible from them? 7. Cicada's joyous song. How Ranolf interprets it. As the blank beyond its comprehension is filled with the wonders of Science, etc., visionary to it; so something—and what but higher Spirit-Life?—must fill the blank beyond ours. Better than speculation the joyous trustfulness of its old friend Anacreon.

I.

'Tis burning Noon: from heat and glare
How sweet the bower the lovers share!
A Lakeside cleft—a rock-recess
Of soft sun-chequered quietness,
A nook for lovers made express.
Like birds in some umbrageous tree
Girt round with leaves they seemed to be,
A hollow globe of greenery:
For twisting, arching, overhead
Dark serpentining stems were spread;

108

And arching, twisting, down below,
Stems serpentining seemed to grow;
While on a plane of light between,
Suspended lay those skiffs serene.

Sunbathed arose the dome-like roof
A strangely-splendid wondrous woof;
Whose dark-green glistening foliage seemed
Thick over-showered with shining snow,
Except where blood-red masses gleamed—
Such luminous crimson—all aglow!
White buds and opening leaves the first,
With silvery-sheening velvet lined;
The last, rich-tufted bloom that burst
Bright-bristling, with the sun behind;
As if whole trees, 'mid heaped snow-showers
Were turning into burning flowers!
Below, the pair as thus in air
Upbuoyed, a sight as fair enjoyed;
The hollow shadowy floor, o'erlaid,
Beneath the clear transparent void,
With silvery-crimson soft brocade,
To that above in shape and hue
So like, the seeming from the true
By its inversion best they knew.
It was the ‘downy ironheart’
That from the cliffs o'erhanging grew,
And o'er the alcove, every part,
Such beauteous leaves and blossoms threw,
And made this cool sequestered nest
For silent, lone and loving rest.

109

II.

Then for refreshment in the noontide heat,
With mockery of much ado,
And lips comprest and pursed-up too,
And little nods of playful pride,
And self-complacent confidence to win
Applause at fine arrangements so complete—
As who should say: ‘Now open wide
Your eyes and see how I provide!’—
Fair Amo with arch mimic pomp outdrew
A platted basket hid in her canoe,
Cool-packed with leaves and lightly tied—
A flax-green basket autumn-piled; wherein
Date-like karakas made a golden show
Quince-coloured and quince-smelling; faintly sweet
Soft aromatic pepper-spikes were seen;
Potato-apples of the poro-poro tall
Rich-mellowing from their crude lip-burning green;
And, bounteous 'mid these wood-gifts wild and small,
Ripe, slippery-seeded and of juiciest flow,
Great water-melons melting crisp with crimson snow.

Nor was there lack of more substantial food,
Leaf-hidden in a smaller green flax-hamper;
Choice too, for appetites so young and good—
As roasted wild duck, red-grey parrot stewed,
And bread in its primeval form of ‘damper’—
Unleavened cakes of palatable maize
Well pounded by Te Manu, and well kneaded

110

By Amo, and in hot wood-ashes clean
Well baked—or rather in oven of simpler sort
Than most remote ‘Stone-period’ could report—
Mere flagstones laid and heated without trouble
Upon a quenchless fountain's boiling bubble;
Flat cakes that dish and platter superseded;
And, used instead, recalled in this far scene
A moment's memory of old school-boy days
To Ranolf—that crab-apple-feasted crew
Of Ocean-wanderers, wearily reposing
In maple shadows on green sunny slopes,
And watching with dim eyes and fading hopes,
The sparkle of the sea-waves summer-beaded;
Then fair Ascanius luckily disclosing
The prophecy's fulfilment, else unheeded,
“What! must we eat our very tables too!”—
Nay, one more luxury swelled the savoury list—
That dainty by our daintiest humourist
So prized—roast sucking-pig! for two of these
Nimble Te Manu had contrived to seize,
Cut off by clever doubles yesternight
From a long train that scampered after
Their grunting dam, and, driven from her track
Could not escape the youngster's clutches, though
They dodged him, as disabled half by laughter,
He obstinately chased them to and fro
An hour at least, imprisoned as they were
Between a shrunken river, and cliff chalk-white
That wall-like rising at their back
From the clean speckless gravel-bed upright,
Without a blade of verdure, bright and bare,
Made the small runaways look doubly black,
Doubly conspicuous in the sunset's glare.

111

IV.

So each as in a floating nest,
Moored side by side the lovers rest,
And catch veiled glimpses as they lie
Of splendour-flooded azure sky.
The birds that sung those matins sweet
Are silent now in slumberous heat.
In dreamy-lighted luxury
Lies Ranolf musing—marking well
Each charm of water, rock and tree
About that shadowy glimmering cell;
The low grey cliffs with stains imbued
Of lichens white and saffron-hued,
Flat crumpled—or blue hairy moss;
All doubled in the shimmering gloss:
Sometimes a loose-furred hawkmoth, see!
At those rich blossoms restlessly
Fumbles to suck their anthers sweet:
Sometimes, invading that retreat
Great black white-banded dragon-flies—
With green and gold-shot globuled eyes
On either side projecting wide
Like swift coach-lamps—on quivering wings
Of glittering gauze dart all about;
With tinier ones of richer dyes,
That hover—dodge aside—and fix
Themselves with those bent-elbowed legs,
And heads so loose, endlong to sticks
And twigs, and hold as straight as pegs

112

Their blue or scarlet bodies out;
Just as a tumbler, 'mid his tricks
Seizes an upright pole and flings
His particoloured legs in air,
And holds them horizontal there—
So proud to ape a finger-post.
“They were revolting, hideous things,”
Thought Ranolf, “but at least could boast
A faith that made them leave in time—
Come shouldering up through mud and slime
With horny eyes and dull surprise,
Out of the clogging element
Where their first grovelling life they spent!”—

—Meanwhile unseen cicadas fill
The air with obstinate rapture shrill—
A wide-fermenting restless hiss
Proclaiming their persistent bliss;
As if the very sunshine found
A joyous voice—and all around,
While woods and rocks and valleys rung,
In brilliant exultation sung.

V.

And Ranolf loved—could not but prize
That tiny classic Cymbalist,
So graced with old Greek memories;
The rapture-brimmed, rich-burnished one—
His bright green corselet streaked with jet,
His brow with ruby brilliants set—
That, undisturbed, would ne'er desist

113

From clicking, clattering in the sun
His strident plates—at every trill
Jerking with stiffly quivering thrill
His glassy-roofing wings; as gay
As his precursor could have been
Two thousand faded years ago!—

See! through thin morning vapour gray,—
With snowy marble-gleams between
Blue-shadowy clefts of fragrant gloom
Melodious ever and alive
With immemorial bees that hive
In honied thickets, lilac-green
With sage and thyme in deathless bloom,—
Bare old Hymettus looks serene
O'er silvery glimpses far below
Of pure Ilyssus in swift flow
Through plains—one revel of renown!
And there, along the myrtle path,
As fond of sunshine, full of joy,
Fresh-glistening from gymnasium-bath,
The hyacinth-curled bronzed Attic Boy
Would steal—O trust his artless tale—
Just for one luscious blossom-crown,
Their pride and pet delight who hail
For home that marvel-minded Town—
To some hot mead where violets hid
Blue round the well's white timeworn trunk
Of hollow marble slightly sunk
In grass about the spring that slid
Slow-creeping crystal all the year:
And there would find one violet
More fragrant-hearted, richer yet,

114

A lovelier-lowly dearer pride
Than any that the well beside
As gently shrink, as shyly peer:
For see! in crocus-coloured vest
And silver girdle—all her best—
Worn—to beguile that Boy-love?—Nay,
'Tis Queen Athene's festal-day!
With vase two-handled on her head
(Pale yellow spiral-striped with red)—
That slim slip of a Greek-limbed girl—
Who looks so sweetly grave upon
Sad news about their neighbour's son
Killed—since they met, at . . . Marathon!

—And there the Boy, as with a curl
Slipped from the shining coil he played,
In loitering chat beneath the shade
By glittering gray-leaved olives made,—
When War's mishaps had all been heard
Around that dear one's home incurred,
Vines—fruit-trees broken—fields untilled—
Pet-kids and lambs for forage killed,—
Would faltering tell—small need! how well
That bright procession-dress became
The radiant face! how sweet its smell
Of rosy apples redolent
Oft dropped inside its chest for scent;
And how she bore, in look and pace,
With what a proudly-pretty grace,
That vase—though brought with childish aim
To save her tripping there from blame!
And then would pause a little space,
Just in the act of sipping down

115

The fig she gives him, bursting-ripe,
Plump, melting-skinned, and purple-brown,
To mark their little gay compeer,
As hand-in-hand they draw too near,
Abruptly stilling its sweet shrilling,
And edging round its olive-branch,
Backing and sidling out of sight
Of eyes that sparkle hazel-bright,
As one fond wish the Boy expresses,
That chirper were but turned to gold
To stick in Myrrhin's golden tresses!
While not his wildest dream had told
The lad, how many an age to come,
In what far regions all unknown,
His race's merry earthborn type
Would still be singing blithe and stanch,
After its own grand Muse was dumb,
Its noisy greeds and glories gone!

VI.

So Ranolf's musing fancy strung
Together olden scenes and new;
Or on more dubious ventures flew,
If e'er as to some bough it clung
The songster's pupa-case was seen,
Whence from his base life subterrene
He made escape in wingèd shape—
The bright transparent brittle sheath
Wherein he slept his life-in-death.
A suit of perfect armour, where

116

He left it Ranolf notes it still;
An open crack across the back,
And lobster-claws thrown by because
Superfluous found, his labour crowned;
The forelegs raised—‘not as in prayer,’
Thinks he—“but work; for he too, mark!
Was forced to dig with strength and skill
His stout way from his dungeon dark
Up to his heaven of sunshine! Thus
From clogged and cramped existence fleeing,
He tries a second state of being
In the sphere that holds but one for us:
But both his lives to us seem one
Who see the changes undergone:
So this life and another too,
Nay, lives on lives, perhaps, of ours,
May seem but one to wider view
And keenlier-gifted loftier powers;
The subtle links we lose pursued,
The metamorphose understood.
But with what pitying smile must they
Look on, when with such sad array
The human insects hide away
Some care-worn soul-case out of sight;
And weep because they cannot stay
The freshwinged Soul's unfettered flight
To wider spheres and new delight!—

“That was the way those types to read—
A fine old cheery way indeed.
Will Science say remorseless?—‘Nay,
You must not read them so to-day.
The actual metamorphoses

117

Foreshadowed by—akin to these,
Are antenatal in mankind,
Gone through already. One surmise
From lingering traces undesigned
Of transformations some low grade
Of life sustained, ere birth displayed
In nascent undeveloped Man,
Might be by strictest reasoning made:
That if organic Being rise
Elsewhere upon the self-same plan—
Continue so ascending—there
Some glorious creature might be found
Of frame more complex, powers more rare,
In whom Man's perfect mould would be
But one in its imperfect round
Of embryotic stages. Try
What help, what hope therein may lie!’—

VII.

“Well, then, methinks, that surging sea
Of resonant shrill melody
Rings out a thoughtless answer free,
Whence one may frame a thoughtful plea:
‘O human Insect! sad Truth-seeker—
Which of us two is wiser—weaker?
Your senses—those deep reasoning powers
You will within their bounds compress,
May take a wider range than ours,
How vastly wider! none the less
They both are dwarfed, unspeakably
Fall short of and are distanced by
The infinite Reality:

118

And all beyond their feeble reach
Will doubtless seem and be for each
A blank—a void—mere nothingness!
O grand indeed the gains you boast,
The ever deepening, widening host
Of wonders Science as she presses
Into the Mystery's first recesses,
Works out, worms into, proves or guesses!—
—Creation, like a firework splendid
Ever exploding, unexpended;
As endlessly it whirls and flies
Still breaking into brilliancies
Of stranger gleam and lovelier guise:—
—Organic Nature, in its flow
By inorganic guided, so
Divinely from its hidden fount;
Germs, gemmules, cells; upstrivings shy;
And those consummate craftsmen—Chance!
Environment or Circumstance—
With aims so clear in harmony
Combining to evolve and mould
Such plastic structures manifold:
Their agents, climate, fire, and frost,
Food, famine, skilled to crush—uphold,
Choose what had best survive or perish,
The lower to check, the higher to cherish,
Make progress sure at any cost!
So force in falling stones, and heat
And cold, can make and mar and mount
From starred frost-flowers to crystalled rock,
Tree, insect, bird, beast, Man complete!
Though still outstands that stumbling-block
Of Science—Life! her pride to shock

119

And Matter's despot-sway to mock!—
Well—as so brilliantly the blank
Beyond our powers perceptive teems
For you with wonders that would rank
With us as visionary dreams;
So surely is there something still
The blank beyond your own to fill;
Something unsoundable by Man,
If finite reason never can
The Infinite comprise or span;
Yet what (a point to raise no strife)
Within that blank so likely rife
As mightier facts of Spirit-Life?—
Dreams?—aye, but all you pray for—prize,
Within that realm of vague surmise
May well to loftier beings be
Demonstrable reality!—
O human Insect! wiser—weaker—
O suicidal secret-seeker,
What if you left your “proofs” alone
And joined our reckless rapturous Pæan
Of clear confiding trustfulness,
That once so charmed the jovial Teian,
Whose loves and lyre and brimming beaker
Were all o'erthrown by one grape-stone
That choked his life out, just as you
Your life of life by laying stress
On doubts perhaps as trivial too;
Wresting despair with so much pain
Out of a scheme not your poor brain
Nor ours can compass or contain,
Exhaust, unravel, or explain!’”—

120

Canto the Fourth. A loving Questioner.

1. Amo's devotion to Ranolf. 2. Asks the wise white men's opinions as to Spirits after death. 3. Materialism. 4. Amo wants Ranolf's own opinion.

I.

Still side by side the lovers rest
Afloat in that sequestered nest.
As close to Ranolf's, Amo's head
Reclined,—her silky tresses spread
Beneath—beyond his own—unrolled
In black abundance uncontrolled
To the warm and moisture-drinking air,—
A splintered sunbeam lighting there
Upon his locks of amber gleamed,
Which so contrasted—cushioned—seemed
A moon where sable soft cloud streamed,
Or golden lustrous coronet
On funeral pall of velvet set.
O'er rocks and trees, through light and shade
His curious eyes unresting strayed;
But hers were fixed upon his face,
Their choicest, dearest resting-place!

121

“O Rano—” such appeared to be
The train of feelings half expressed
In murmuring words that filled her breast:
“Great is indeed my love for thee!
It seems almost a dream, even now,
These lips—these eyes—this noble brow,
These locks that like the day-break shine,
Are mine, O mine—all—only mine!
How can I make you know and feel
How much I love you! how reveal
My thirst for what my heart adores,
The longing of my soul for yours!—
O best I love to lie awake,
A lonely tender watch to keep
Over my trusting own one's sleep,
And think, how can my love be shown!—
What can I ever do to make
Myself more worthy of his own?
And almost wish your welfare less
That more might be the chance for me
To make or mend the happiness,
Health, comfort, I would have depend
On me, your dearest, only friend!
To do some little more of good
Than just preparing clothes or food;—
And I at times would almost flee
Your dear caress and company,
E'en when I know no need to go,
Just to contrive—consider—do
Some thing—some active thing for you;
As if the care itself were dear
As him I cared for!—all the same
It is my joy to trust—revere—

122

Look up to—as my ruler claim
And sole protector, guide and guard,—
Him o'er whose weal I watch and ward.
So would I, with the parent's love
The cherished child's affection prove;
So be the mother-bird to hold
The young one in her fond wing's fold,
Yet nestle like the fledgeling too
Beneath the breast so sheltering, true:
As if—my love, my lord, my life,
It were not all to be your wife!—

But I can never, never have
Enough of that sweet love I crave;
Can never find or feign or steal
Sufficient outlet to reveal
The burning boundless love I feel!
So could I anger—give you pain,
To soothe, coax, comfort you again;
Would have you sick, to nurse and tend,
And deeper love that way expend
Upon you; have you cruel, sweet!
So might I down before you throw
Myself in self-abandonment
More utter—not to frustrate so
The working of your full intent,
But to cling to you and entreat
And clasp your knees and kiss your feet
And mercy with hot tears implore,
Only to feel myself the more
Your own—all yours—life—body—soul—
On whom no shadow of control
Shall check your power at any hour

123

To wreak your wildest whim or will—
To ban—to bless—to save or kill!

So would I tend—implore—offend—
Do anything your thoughts to fill,
Share each emotion, every thrill,
And bear an all-absorbing part
In all the beatings of your heart!
So should my Soul live, drink, and feed
On yours—its ardour-kindling spring!
For are you not—indeed—indeed—
The gulf into whose depths I fling
My all of being; plunged and tost
In fathomless sweet fires, and lost
In this immeasurable abyss
And whirl of overwhelming bliss!
Yes, yes! you know that you are this,
My soul-devouring, lordly bird
Of beauty! O, with plumes so fair,
Such stately step, commanding air
And eyes so proud and free! O whence,
Whence shall I seek new life to drain,
Win some existence back again,
But from this heart of yours alone
Which so consumes—absorbs my own!—

So dearest, you conceive how thence
My foolish fancy, my pretence
Of drowning came; 'twas but to hear
Your love in your lamenting—cheer

124

My heart with your despair and feel
The sweet sensations o'er me steal
Of your fond efforts to restore
And bring me back to life once more!—

But had I really died to-day
Think not, dear friend! my Soul set free—
This ‘Wairua’—could have fled away
To any realm where Spirits stray,
Could ever have abandoned thee!
I know, I know! distressed, forlorn,
It could not from thy side be torn—
Would long for—linger—only rest
Near what in life it loved the best!”

II.

“You know it, dearest! and just now,
To see you looking forth and far,
As bright, soft, bold and beautiful
As some outstanding steady Star,
With full assurance so serene,
Such radiant love upon your brow—
Might make the wretch most doubting, dull,
Catch confidence from yours, my queen!”

“Nay, surely 'twere a little thing,
My soul to yours should choose to cling;
Not stay to vex, as others do,
Poor wretches who may break taboo—”

“So then you think, if this sweet breath
Were stopped—these kindling eyes were closed—
These lovely living limbs reposed

125

In rigid, stirless, icy death,
My loving Amo would not be
Gone—perished—done with utterly!”

“Nay, what have these to do with me—
With me who speak to—love you so?
How strange a fancy!—tell me then
For you know all things, you white men,
What course my Spirit, down below,
If to that land before your own
It chanced to go (I know, behind
It could not, would not stay alone!)
Should take with least delay to find
And fly to your dear heart, and show
The deep and deathless love, I know,
It would be burning to bestow?”—

“What can I tell you! you know more,
Dearest, yourself—as much at least;
Do you remember, once before
I told you, love, I was no priest,
No learned Tóhunga—not I—”

“But tell me what your wise men say,
And all about us when we die;
You laughed at us, I know, that day,
Too proud to give a true reply!”

III.

“Our wise men, Amo!—sooth to say, the most
Of these, just now seem doing as one day

126

A great white War-chief did to find a way
O'er shallow sea-flats when the ford was lost.
Straight through the rising tide his band he sent
In all directions radiating round,
Resolved to follow him who furthest went,
And footing most secure the longest found.
So seem our Sages wandering, all and each.
Some struggle through the weltering waves and sink,
Still panting for the shore they never reach;
Some plod along complacently and think
Already they enjoy the wished-for beach;
Some crouch upon a rock-reef close at hand
Whence leads no path, and swear the vaunted land
Is but a film that dims the seeker's eye,
A passing cloud that mocks the groping band;
Content to perish where gulf-girt they stand
They hug their barren rock with dreary cheer—
Confess to no confinement—vow they hear
No wanderer's wail—no plaintive breeze's sigh,
No moanings of the melancholy main:
Life after death—that any Spirit can
Exist apart from Matter—God or Man—
To them a dream, how visionary—vain!
What their minute sensorium may contain,
What they could touch, taste, smell or hear or see,
Is all that in the Universe can be!

Well! it will have its day—that simple notion!
But might they not as well—these pleasant men
Strive to compress the blue tremendous Ocean
In all its dim far-sparkling boundlessness

127

Into yon yellow calabash! And when
They failed—declare with confidence no less,
With self-complacent doggedness insist,
That all it would not hold did ne'er exist:
That no reflections on its outer side,
No dancing day-gleams from the waters wide,
Are any signs that Seas or Oceans roll
Beyond the circlet of that narrow bowl?”

IV.

“Well, that I cannot understand, you know;
But tell me what you think yourself is true;
That I am certain must be right—and so
Will I believe, and only trust in you.”

“In me, dear Child!—but that indeed
Were trusting to a broken reed!”

“That reed no whit the less shall be
A staff of trust and truth for me!”

“Well then, suppose your eyes you close,
And on my shoulder rest your head,
While lasts, my sweet! this noontide heat
And that shrill music sunshine-bred;
And try to sleep while I devise
Some answer wondrous deep and wise
To my fond querist, little dreaming
What mysteries questions may comprise
To her so plain and simple-seeming.”

128

“There—then; I will be still as death—”
And soon the soft-recurring breath
Long-drawn, and breast that gently heaves,
Tell how the life that gushed and glanced
So brightly, lies in sleep entranced—
Sleep, placid, light and infantine—
Serene as those green-imaged leaves
That up through crystal pointing shine.

129

Canto the Fifth. A cheery Theorist.

1. Ranolf goes over old ground. 2. ‘Will’—First Cause—displays ‘Mental’ powers. 3. Man could invent Geometry: long after, knowledge of the Universe proved that ‘God geometrizes’ too. Resemblance so far between Finite and Infinite ‘Mind.’

4. Perhaps a like resemblance in the ‘Moral’ Sphere. Science virtually admits the possibility. 5. Does existence of Evi lnegative it? Evil revolts our divinely-given Finite Moral Nature; may revolt the Infinite too; though permitted for a purpose.

6. Our Moral standard (Love, etc.) should be as true as that Mental one. 7. Is it? The Will Divine shown by a dominant Power. Such Power certainly the Good. So the Moral Universe tends to harmony with our Moral standard. 8. This, if not satisfied here, why not elsewhere?

9. And as the mental standard foretold stars to fill gaps it found in the Physical, may not our moral one foretell completion of defects in the Moral Universe? 10. Ranolf concludes optimistically.

I.

Pondering on Amo's questions, while the Maid
So lightly slumbered, lulled in noontide rest
So still, the golden spots that flecked its shade
Moved only with her moving half-hid breast,
Perplexed and doubtful Ranolf lay.

“What must I teach her? how impress
This pliant Spirit's willingness?

130

On this unlettered Soul so white
What characters am I to write?
What truths in sooth have I to tell
To one whose native instincts might,
For aught I know, teach me as well?—
For I know nothing; could but play
With some results our Sages say
Are truths—and let them take their way.
Where are we? let us run again
O'er what of old seemed clear and plain.
With nothing else have we to do
But what we know or feel is true.”—

His train of thought we cannot far pursue:
How the old grounds for hopeful faith—some few
And intellectual mainly, from the mass
Too vast for swift reviewal, he ran through.
All but some slight analogies we pass;
Themselves but shadows in a darkling glass;
Faint inklings of itself—imperfect hints
On Finite Mind the Infinite imprints.

II.

“Cause—say a Power that causes—this
Long since we saw must be and is.
Dead Matter too we saw and see
The cause of Force could never be.
Saw while through Nature's circling zone
None but results of Force are shown,
One kind of source or cause of Force—

131

One kind of Causal Power alone
The Mind as thinkable could seize:
The Will that in ourselves we own
Sets Thought in motion when we please.

So then we found it fair to hold
This Will might some faint hint unfold
Of what in its unboundedness
Is different still beyond all guess—
The Infinite Power—unknown—untold—
That still unfolding—still o'erseeing—
Still sets the glories we behold
For ever whirling into Being!

Sunclear we found it too—there shine
Throughout the works that Cause Divine
In its high Universe effects,
Proofs of all powers (perhaps its least
Although to infinite increased)
Which by the human Mind displayed
Infinitesimal in grade,
This last in some slight way reflects.

Nor feared nor fear we this maybe
Anthropomorphic fallacy—
Treading the path so often trod—
In Man's own image making ‘God!’

III.

“For say—for powers so proved—what name
But ‘Mind’—could reason find or frame?—

132

And does not one strange fact proclaim,
Nay, prove this bounded Mind of Man
In some accordance made, or grown,
With that all-boundless Mind unknown
That did the mighty Cosmos plan—
Faint spark from its omnific Flame?—
A thousand years that human Mind
Its subtle sciences designed
Of numbers—angles—ratios—lines—
Complex ingenious symbol-signs—
Pure brainwork as the wildest dream!
Then, when the long research of Time,
For Man's rapt gaze withdraws the veil
That hides the Universe sublime,
To his amazement, lo! the scheme
Of the majestic fabric stands
Before him, fitting to the Scale
So long prepared by his own hands;
In strictest keeping ranged and wrought
With fine gradations, ratios, rules,
Spun out of his unaided Thought
So many an age before, and taught
As abstract Science in his schools.
'Tis as if God himself blazed out
A moment there! beyond all doubt
Perceived—the still small voice profound
Speaking for once with trumpet-sound!
A glimpse of the All-Puïssant say
A moment deigning to display
Some kinship of its mind with ours—
Its infinite with our finite powers!
To prove how in our mind could lurk
Some power to scale some little way

133

Unconsciously the self-same heights
Where soared its own imperial flights;
Power to invent, construct, do work,
Though far-off, faint, in thought alone,
In strict accordance with its own!

IV.

“But the Infinite Echo the Finite could waken
When the Intellect's rockier region it tried—
Can it tempt from that Mystery tones unmistaken
When it calls in the far-aloft forest-recesses
Where the Heart and its finer-winged progeny hide?—
Well—to speak not of ‘Duty’; all ‘Conscience’ impresses;
All the hints and the hopes in the consciousness pleading
For kinship more close with the Boundless and Blest;
Even Science allows that the ‘Energy’ feeding
The Universe-Life and Mankind's at its best,
(Like the meaner blood-life though unconscious, unheeding,
With the life of the Man co-existent, agreeing)
But a lower subordinate function may prove
Of some Life more sublime—a still loftier Being!

But confess, there's no Life we can think of, above
The highest this human can reach at its height,
Save what may to Reason all-perfect unite—
And to Will that could never be swerved from the Right,
The ideal of boundless Benevolence—Love!

Then, as we found betwixt the two—
The Finite and the Infinite—

134

In mental working—sound if slight
Resemblance—kinship faint yet true;
We might with less of self-conceit
And with assurance more complete
Expect (what seems ev'n requisite
For Nature's harmony alone)
In high emotions of the Heart,
The human Being's nobler part,
A like resemblance should be shown.

V.

“Ah, here we strike the stubborn rock!—
One boundless Mind—First Cause of All—
That mighty Fact not Physics, no,
Nor metaphysics can o'erthrow!
And ‘Infinite Will’—without a shock
To Reason we may dimly deem
The Force that works the Wondrous Scheme!
Thus much will pass. But how to call
That Cause all good—that Infinite Will
Omnipotent? with Evil still
So rampant? even the babe unborn
By reckless Sires' diseases torn?
The ‘God-made’ cat before your hearth
Torturing the ‘God-made’ mouse for mirth?

Well, these things outrage all our sense
Of Justice—Love—Benevolence—
All the instinctive moral powers
That most exalt this soul of ours;
These instincts now, howe'er they grew,
From inner impulse—outer force,

135

Or interaction of the two,
Weaving in brain the fibres due,
With all ‘like breeding like’ might do,—
Yet surely sprang from that sole source—
Were caused by Prescient Will divine—
Made spring and grow so by design;
These instincts so ‘God-made’ we say,
Make what allowances you list
For Evil's uses, ends, excuses—
Are jarred, revolted every way
That any Evil should exist!

Then may we not deem that the Power whence came
Those diviner emotions, whatever its name,
Though we never may prove for what reason or aim
It permits all the Evil, may yet in the vast
Unknown of its Being—its schemes undisclosed,
Be accordant so far with the highest we claim,
As to will that this Evil be hated—opposed—
By the Good it is used for be one day outcast—
In the end overcome—done away with at last?

VI.

“Why should indeed the Power that gave
To man that mental standard, found
As true, complete, as wish could crave
To gauge the sensuous Universe
As its majestic shows unfurled—
Be deemed to mock, as stinted, bound
By some defect, some flaw unsound,
Man's dearer need with any worse
A standard of his moral World?

136

Our Love, distinctly his own dower
As is that calculating power—
As surely our one gauge, the best—
His spiritual Creation's test;
Why should it be less true, complete?
Why should it only prove a cheat?

VII.

“Or does that ‘Will Divine’ in fact
As in this world we see it act—
Permitting Evil—prove thereby
Our standard false, that ‘Love’ a lie?—
Long since we learnt one true reply.

For own—the Will Divine must be
Denoted by some power at least
Of overmastering energy,
Throughout the Universe we see
Or that we see not; one whose sway
Is active—in the ascendant—free—
Ever increasing and increased;
Not one that flourish how it may—
Is worsted—weaker—giving way.
In the material World, we know,
Though Action and Re-action show
Equal and needed both; although
Both motion and inertness seem
Balanced—essential to the scheme;
Yet so-called Matter, in the last
Result of that harmonious strife,
Is whirled into victorious life;

137

Resistance in the glorious sum
Of things, is overborne, surpassed—
If still renewed, is still o'ercome.
Well, what results is what is willed—
The intended—that which is fulfilled.
So in the moral World—the Good
Is counteracted and withstood
By Evil; yet this last, 'tis clear
(The matter of the moral sphere)
Is found, as the long centuries roll,
Still more and more subdued—outdone;
Of those two forces, on the whole
The losing and the lessening one.
Although the contest ceases never,
Though nothing may the two dissever,
Though Evil may the stuff supply
Good works on—here has being by;
Yet, as Time flies, who can deny,
For guerdon of the World's endeavour,
Good triumphs—there is Progress ever!—
No doubt, the single Will Divine
Decrees and works both powers; as, when
A rower directs a pair of sculls,
With one hand backs, the other pulls—
Both acts are caused by one design.
So Evil seconds Good; but then
The most triumphant element,
The victor principle, must best
That Universal Will suggest,
Best argue the Supreme Intent.

So even in the World we see,
Good grows—and grows unceasingly:

138

This Will must therefore be confessed—
As far as our Experience shows,
Or finite faculties disclose
Its working—on the whole to tend
Triumphantly to some great end
In harmony with that high test
Itself first planted in Man's breast,
With this intent among the rest.

VIII.

“But why, because that mighty Will
Cannot be said, within the bound
Of our perceptions to fulfil
All that the test, so true and sound,
Demands—insists on; why declare
Its wondrous working ceases where
Our poor perceptions do?—why fear
To say that what it breaks off here
It perfects in some other sphere?
Why carry through all Time and Space
The flaw we only know has place
Within the narrow field we trace?
Why this avowed, yet finite Wrong,
Into the Infinite prolong?—
More true to Reason 'tis, to trust
That standard of the Good and Just
And Loving—trust its dictates too.
If this world wrongs that standard true,
It wrongs God's Love, God's Right no less;
That wrong His justice must redress:
And how? but by some other state
Where compensation must await

139

All wrongs endured by small or great;
All Love's requirements be supplied—
The God-given standard justified?

IX.

“Aye truly! and as when by mere appliance
Of that brain-fashioned scale of Abstract Science
To the Star-worlds on high, diviners bold
Have sometimes found a gap—declared a flaw
In our serenest dance of sister spheres;
And with a god-like confidence foretold
The missing Planet needed by their law:
And when the optic tube, redoubling sight,
Comes in the course of long-revolving years
To test the startling prophecy aright—
Lo! there the cinders of the crumbled World,
Of proper weight, in fitting orbit hurled!
Or down in some obscure recess of Space,
Lo! there the lurking lost one they will trace,
And in some shining crowd you least suspect,
The furtive golden fugitive detect!—
Even so—when Love, that test diviner far,
Finds mightier flaws the moral fabric mar,
With full assurance may he not foretell
Some compensating cure must somewhere dwell—
Some good that shall the sense of wrong dispel?
And if immortal Life and nothing less
Be needed that deficience to redress,
Is it a splendour of too vast an orb,
Too bright for those whose gloom it should absorb—

140

Too grand a boon by Man to be enjoyed,
With his material kinship to the clod?—
Nay—'tis a speck to Him who left the void;
A World to us—a tiny Asteroid
To the infinite Munificence of God!

Well then—through all that glittering mystery
Man sees that each demand brings its supply;
Responsive forces each stray force correct,
All waste restored, all aberrations checked;
Till perfect in all parts before him stands
The mighty structure from the Master's hands.
With no harsh note—no inharmonious noise,
Vast Worlds in myriads wing their flight sublime;
Their balanced whirl no chance, no change destroys;
But every pebble finds its counterpoise,
And every Star comes rounding up to time!—
So were the Spirit-World found perfect too
Could we its whole completed cycle view;
No wrong its neutralizing right would miss;
No sorrow some equivalent of bliss;
And every Soul whate'er its make or mood,
Though long or short the circuit it pursued,
Come brightening back at last to happiness and good!”

X.

But why prolong the sanguine strain?
When even to Ranolf's self 'twas plain,
The coolest, soberest argument,
With or without his own intent
(Nor made thereby, perhaps, less true)
Although no kindling orb firenew

141

Whirled freshly off some teeming train
Of heated vapours of the brain;
Say but a cinder of dead thought
From smashed-up creed or theory brought;
Soon by the heart's attraction caught,
By feeling's friction set aflame,
Straightway a shooting-star became—
A mildly-flashing Meteorite
That haply shed a shadowy light
O'er nooks which Doubt had steeped in night!

His glad conclusions this, we said,
From Truth not more aberrant made.
For will not, in all likelihood,
The Future's final faith (or growth
In faith—if faith be understood
A thing of no finality)
Some joint result and compound both
Of Intellect and Feeling be—
Outcome of Heart as well as Mind
Of universal Humankind?—

But these will never loose their hold
Or lessen their august demands
On Hope! or from her Angel hands
Take brass for all her promised gold!

Small wonder then, and less reproach
To Ranolf, if the soothing hour—
That silvery-crimson crystal bower
Of bliss—and all the bloom and pride
Of Love and beauty by his side—

142

Lapping his soul in such excess
And luxury of loveliness—
On Reason's sphere might so encroach
With subtler, more persuasive power
And rosy light their radiance lent,—
Soon to a close his musings drew
In hardihood of rich content
That half to careless rapture grew!

“Enough—enough! I know—I knew
To sense and reason's widest view,
The cheerful still must be the true!
Look up, my love! nor longer keep
That sweet pretence of trustful sleep;
I know beneath each full-orbed lid
The coiled-up living lustre hid
Lurks ready for an innocent dart—
Not aimed at—sure to hit—the heart;
And round the placid lips the while
Dawns the faint twilight of a smile!
Then listen, sweet! and let me try
To queries wide what seems to me
In this our great obscurity
A true—albeit a trite reply?”

143

Canto the Sixth. Love beats Logic.

1. Ranolf's theism and belief as to Future Life. 2. Hardly satisfying to Amo. Both too content with the present to be troubled much about the Future. 3. Old truth—conviction of immortality got by moral experience, (4) and mysterious ‘soul-motions’ such as the ‘Aprile’ of Browning alludes to. 5. Too much care for the future ungrateful perhaps? 6. Amo learns to write. 7. The Lovers make and feel the beauty of the scene.

I.

Like him who glancing at the sun's full splendour
Is by that lightning-ringed blue disc half-blinded,
Then Ranolf, by the greatness of his theme
So dazzled, told the Maiden simple-minded
Whose thirsting eyes, with looks how rapt and tender
Drank fawn-like at his voice's cheery stream,
Of one Great Spirit ubiquitous;—for ever
Unknown;—invisible—intangible—
Inaudible; whose nature none can tell;
Subtler than Thought in essence; and yet never
To be disproved—discarded—disavowed;
Educing Good with infinite endeavour
From Evil for some mystic end allowed;
Whose work, Mankind, would be a cheat detected,

144

A palpable abortion and confusion
(Truly an inconceivable conclusion!)
If not in some serener Sphere perfected:
For He was good—all Life and time proclaimed it,
Where Good was ever in the slow ascendant;
And that blind bias (Conscience as we named it)—
Towards what seems good and better—though dependent
On other powers, for knowledge, be it granted,
Of what is good and better,—was implanted
Within our brain at first, and could not be
Belied or outraged by Himself who framed it;
So must the Evil and the wrong be righted
In some great World of bliss we could not see,
Where suffering innocence would be requited,
And ties of rent affections reunited.
And this, which Reason pleaded for,—the best
And brightest of that Spirit's emanations—
Souls in their very structure revelations
Of his high nature on their own impressed,
Had felt and died for; on the facts insisting
Their souls were forced and fashioned to attest—
The certain Life immortal, to remove
And remedy all mortal woes existing;
And that supreme predominance of Love!
And therefore they who most their Souls may nourish
On Love, and hearken to his high decreeing,
Doing all right and every wrong repressing,
With pure self-sacrifice for others' blessing—
Must be the least unlike that Power supernal—
Most with that Will in their poor way agreeing;
Must be the fittest to survive and flourish
In that transcendant Sphere of Life eternal—
Of ever blest and beatific Being.

145

II.

Poor, vague, and disappointing merely
These reasonings to the listening Maid appeared;
Scarce lighting up that shadowy Life more clearly
Than the rude faith wherein she had been reared.
Some simple tale of pathos and pure wonder,
The founts divine of pity and awe unsealing,
With death's great mystery mystically dealing,
Her mental clouds had sooner rent asunder—
More strongly stirred her fancy and her feeling.
But all was Gospel from his lips that fell;
His tongue more gifted than with Prophet's spell.
And what he felt might well for her suffice,
Who, free from anxious fear too curious, nice,
Held this no theme to handle too austerely,
Wholly absorb, or trouble her too nearly!
Her lovelit bosom knew no listless pining
For future worlds or lives beyond divining,
With so much glory in the Present shining.

And Ranolf had no taste for doubts intrusive,
Nor chafed too much at reasons inconclusive.
The mystery of the mighty Universe
He loved to play with as a subtle jest,
As children with conundrums; none the worse
Because the answer could not soon be guessed.
While its reality was a pure joy
That well might heart and life and love employ—
A bliss no doubt, no mystery could destroy!

146

III.

And though he showed himself content no more
Even now than in old student-days of yore
To practise and abide by what he saw
Even then might be for Man a settled Law;
He could not, while he reasoned, quite forget
The possible truth so long before descried,
Which of itself had made him feel as yet
How slight his power to be that Maiden's guide;
That time-developed secret of the soul,
How the conviction of its glorious goal
And ultimate high destiny divine,
Is haply not designed to be the dower
Of any play of intellectual power—
No cold deduction Logic's subtlest line
Could dimly draw from shadowy postulate,
Mental or moral axiom overfine,
Admitted or disputed, as innate
Or for purblind Experience to acquire;
No theme to wrangle on with wordy strife:
But down—far down—in gulfs of Spirit profound,
Which action and keen passion only sound—
Lies, a pure gem for purified desire;
But rather, perfect gold by patience won,
Must by severer Alchemy be run
Out of each Soul plunged in the actual fire,
And smelted in the crucible of Life.

IV.

No! he could not forget that Truths like these
May lurk secreted for the Soul to seize

147

Out of the chaos of her own emotions;
Heights of celestial rapture—depths like Ocean's
Of sacred sorrow; mystic yearnings speech
Is speechless for no intellect can reach;
Divinely-darkling inmost sympathies,
Dimly discerned—awakened—half-exprest
Haply by the blind might of Music best
Echoing Infinitude; ‘strange melodies’
That lustrous Song-Child languished to impart,
Breathing his boundless Love through boundless Art—
Impassioned Seraph from his mint of gold
By our full-handed Master-Maker flung;
By him whose lays, like eagles, still upwheeling
To that shy Empyrean of high feeling,
Float steadiest in the luminous fold on fold
Of wonder-cloud around its sun-depths rolled.
Whether he paint, all patience and pure snow,
Pompilia's fluttering innocence unsoiled;—
In verse, though fresh as dew, one lava-flow
In fervour—with rich Titian-dyes aglow—
Paint Paracelsus to grand frenzy stung,
Quixotic dreams and fiery quackeries foiled;
Whose rocket-rush of Power, at death's far height
Melts in a silvery rain of loving Light;—
Or—of Sordello's delicate Spirit unstrung
For action, in its vast Ideal's glare
Blasting the Real to its own dumb despair,—
On that Venetian water-lapped stair-flight,
In words condensed to diamond, indite
A lay too like the Sun—dark with excessive bright:—
Still,—though the pulses of the world-wide throng
He wields, with racy life-blood beat so strong,—
Subtlest Dissector of the Soul in song!—

148

—No! with that possible Soul-truth full in sight,
'Twas little disappointment, less surprise,
To Ranolf that he read in Amo's eyes
Not all the satisfaction and delight
She looked for when the queries first she pressed
Which he with more delight and greater zest
Would doubtless, if he could, have set at rest.

V.

But all these things apart—to them the Real
The Present seemed so rapturous an Ideal,
It seemed almost a sin to speculate
Or spend a thought upon another state;
Seemed flat ingratitude to Him who spread
A banquet so superb his guests before,
To ask, when on its dainties they had fed,
What His great bounty had provided more?
While sitting at His luxury-laden board,
To guess what fair festivities the Lord
Of the redundant feast had yet in store,
Music or dance to follow when 'twas o'er!

VI.

And so to lighter themes they gaily turn;
And “Rano! when shall I begin to learn”—
Said then the lively girl, “the white man's art
Of seeing talk—and sending, word for word,
To distant eyes unspoken speech unheard?”—

And Ranolf straightway hastened to impart
A first fond lesson in the mystery deep

149

Of letters—guiding that confiding hand
To trace huge characters on marbled sand,
Or clean smooth claystone of some yellow steep;
With many a toying frolicsome reproof,
And merry chiding, when the stalk of fern
And taper fingers seemed resolved to turn
Some curve from what was aimed at far aloof;
And both would join in joyous outcry wild
At each great blunder of the Woman-Child;
With childlike guerdon of a kiss no less
Rewarded at each wonderful success.
But such a keen and kindling sympathy
Between their hearts and minds electric played,
Both Taught and Teacher could delighted see
How swiftly and how sweetly, so conveyed,
The pupil would imbibe that mystery;
How soon that lovely Learner would o'ercome
The task of noting down in symbols dumb
The speech the learner with her loving smile
Was teaching to the Teacher all the while.

VII.

And now, upon a knoll beside the Lake,
Embowered with trees their resting-place they make.
The savoury light repast was over, won
By Manu's indefatigable gun,
Whose echo through the day they oft had caught
Faint from the glens or o'er the waters brought.
Their young elastic spirits they resigned
To the soft hour's delicious influence,
And the full consciousness of all the bliss
Of love like theirs in such a life as this;

150

As sweet and free to their enamoured sense
As the pure air without a sound or sigh
They breathed in its sunlit serenity.
The solitude—the stillness so intense—
The blue ethereal lake—the liquid sky—
The silent banks and bluffs that watched around;—
The silent beams that broadly visible streamed
Through limpid veils of atmosphere, and gleamed
Along the silent hills that looked, spell-bound,
As if they felt the shadows o'er them grow,
From every fold and crevice creeping slow
And linking to exclude each slanting ray
That slumberous on their burnished shoulders lay:—
Or where those faint cliffs seemed in fading day
Refining to a vision far away;
Soft tints aërial—tender streaks of shade,
Or mottling stains their painted verdure made.—
All was so rapt and mute and motionless—
The pictured dream of lonely loveliness
Diffused o'er hearts that needed no such balm
The soft contagion of its soothing calm!
Twin hearts—mere atoms in the wide expanse—
They seemed absorbed in its voluptuous trance;
Yet 'twas the rapturous love that through them thrilled
That rather into Nature's frame instilled
Their own impassioned warmth, until it glowed
As fit for spirits in bliss some high divine abode!

151

Canto the Seventh. An airy Nest.

1. Sunset on the Lake. 2. Evening—and Love—divine. 3. The ‘Downy Ironheart-tree’—whence its propensity to fit itself for survival? 5. Stars; Orion upside down. 6. Plans for the morrow. 7. The airy nest. 8. Return home.

I.

Now Sunset's hushed and awful Splendour fills
The solemn scene;—transfigures heaven and earth
With luminous glory as in strange new-birth;
Clothes with vermilion woods the Eastern hills;
And where the Lake should spread its glassy length
Leaves a great hollow of one hue—blood-red
As the mysterious garments round Him rolled
Who travelling in the greatness of his strength,
In glory of apparel unalloyed,
Though stained like one who doth the winepress tread,
From Edom and from Bozrah came of old.
A single bar of light, a silver thread—
Stretched o'er the incarnadined and hollow void—
Betrays the viewless surface. On each hand
See how the headlands glow in solid gold!

152

See in the midst that mighty Mountain stand
One ruby!—deepening off through bluer shade
And bluer, towards the North the hills and sky
Lose more and more of that ensanguined dye—
Through all the purples of the pansy fade;
And in their darkest, most impressive gloom,
Rival the richest violet's loveliest bloom.

II.

And Amo felt the evening;—felt
The solemn tenderness that dwelt
In all that gorgeous flood of pride
And splendour, spreading far and wide
Into her kindred spirit melt:
And nestling close to Ranolf's side
As half in sport and half in fear—
“Hush!”—whispered she, quite serious-eyed—
“Some awful Spirit must be near!—
What is it else that from the deep
Abyss o'erhead, seems so to creep
And creep—and ever nearer steal,
As though the heavens above us bending,
Were closing round us—slow descending!—
Not evil though, that Spirit, I feel!
But like some gentle boundless arm
Encircling us—in shelter warm
Infolding us from hurt or harm;
Close to us, yet unheard, unseen:
Just as I felt you bending down
One morn above our couch of fern,
Which you had left so soon, to learn

153

What bird it was whose strange new cry
('Twas that blue crane with bristly crown—
You recollect?) we heard so nigh;
And I, unknowing your return
Lay half-awake nor wooing sleep;
With eyes just lightly shut to keep
Your image there with clearer glow,
And play with it in fancy so;
In dreamy bliss—such full content—
Somehow as calm and innocent,
It seemed, as when in infant days
Upon a mother's breast I leant;
So loath was I my lids to raise;
Or my fantastic joy resign
Till I should be no more alone!—
But you had stol'n towards me unknown;
And though I neither saw nor heard,
I felt your face approach my own:
Your lips were almost touching mine,
But did not—and no limb you stirred;
I neither heard nor felt your breath,
For you were silent—still as death;
And yet I knew your presence dear,
I knew that it was you so near,
Pausing before you would impress
To wake me quite, some light caress
Of fond and playful tenderness.
But that was Love—made me so wise,
To see without the use of eyes;
And know who 'twas did by me stand,
Without the aid of ear or hand:

154

No tongue to speak—no limb to move,
Was needed for my heart to prove
That near approach of Love to Love!”—

“Yes—that was Love! and this, as well,
This solemn, sweet, absorbing spell,
This charm diffused o'er heaven and earth,
In Love may have its hidden birth!
For all that Reason—Science—guess,
It stands a mystery, none the less;—
A symbol, why not so designed
To do just what we find it do?
Impress upon the human Mind
A soothing sense of Love as true,
As warm and true as mine and thine,
But infinite—and all divine!—

III.

“But see! how through the floating, thin,
And tender purple gloom, one star
Is wildly throbbing—faint and far!
And lost in liquid twilight, look,
Where others lurk its depths within!—
Come, dearest, then! in yonder nook
See how, from its sun-smitten slopes
The snowy-crimson trees outthrow
Their sturdy stems that downward grow,
All firmly laced, securely braced
And cabled to the rocks with ropes
Of their own branches, backward bent
Along each coalescing trunk,
Half in its rugged column sunk

155

As up to roots again they run,
Stem, branch, and root, distinct yet one!
As if they saw and would prevent,
With conscious aim intelligent,
The great tree's risk so imminent
Of slipping down the steep descent.

IV.

“But does the risk produce the aim?—
On level ground no cables sprout:”
(Thinking aloud, all this, no doubt)
“Or if in some rare case thrown out—
Perchance where casual winds create
A partial risk, but not the same—
The cable hangs its listless weight
Unreaching earth; its would-be roots,
A tuft of red abortive shoots.
Adaptive Nature's powers are great;
And her organic products mate
And match each shifting change and chance
Of inorganic Circumstance;
Set each to each in ordered dance,
With a discriminating might
Of blindness keener than all sight;
And kindling here, and quenching there
At random—but with luck so rare
And mutual, ever full and fair
The cycle of Existence leave.
The trees that could their cable weave
Might stand—and those that could not—fall;
I wonder what the cause they call,
Gave this though not another tree

156

That cunning first propensity
For veering cables out at all!
Was it itself, itself to save
Such self-preserving prescience gave?—
This ‘struggle for existence,’ saith
Your Science, everywhere we view;
Yes! and 'tis Life's untiring true
Protest against and hate of Death!

V.

“But come, my sweet, since there at last,
The pendent trees are anchored fast;
Suppose a fern-filled mat we sling
To one, up high, of those that fling
Their branches out most straight and stout!
So fine the night we need devise
No roof against those loving skies.
How pleasant there to lie awake
And try if any glimmering sheen
Or shimmer of the sleeping Lake
So far beneath—through all the green—
The latticed screen of boughs between,
A leafy labyrinth—could be seen!
How sweet to lie up there so high,
And half asleep, so drowsily,
To all the faint night-noises hark
That make the hush more deep; and mark,
Watching the dim o'erbrooding sky,
How one by one and two by two
The moving stars come blinking through
The unmoving leaves—chink after chink—
Slow-pacing!—or if you should sleep

157

I might alone a vigil keep
Sometimes for mere delight; and think
What mighty Suns we use to link
Our tiny memories with; and how
Keen Sirius and red-flashing fierce
Aldebaran that deep Space may pierce,
And have no other end just now
For me, but with familiar rays
To call back far-off scenes and days!
How the faint Pleiads are less clear
Than fond regards they bring—so dear!
And old Orion upside down,
Mythic Bœotian huntsman brown—
Though here such different names he own,
Shines grand as his antique renown;
And flings abroad his giant limbs
In daring splendour nothing dims!
Although head foremost towards the sea
In all his glittering panoply
He plunges, eager to return
To those dear glorious lands below,
Far down below, where long ago
I first beheld his ardours burn!—

VI.

“And we will settle, nestling there
Which way to-morrow we shall fare;
If back to strange Orákei's stream
Whose dark-green banks are chequered bright
With many a gaudy scar and seam
Sulphureous yellow—red and white,
Where over crusted strata grey

158

A hundred hot-springs steam and play:
Or shall we to the Lake hard by
Of woody Oka-réka hie,
That mocks you with deceitful mien,
By loving cliffs encompassed round—
Fair captive, so resigned, serene,
Lulled in a seeming sleep profound;
Yet all the while slips off unseen
In secret diving underground;
And bursts out into open day
A beautiful Cascade, they say,
All flash and foam, a mile away!
A sudden startling change complete
From mimic death to leaping life,
As yours, my wily winsome cheat,
This morn when starting to your feet
At touch of that rude ready knife!”

VII.

What answer? but a laugh of fond assent
From her whose head upon his shoulder leant;
As, gaily springing up, the Maid addrest
Herself to that delightful task—to aid
In building birdlike such a pendulous nest
'Mid twisted stems over the waters thrown,
As charmed with thoughts of airy rest
Lightly leaf-canopied and star-inrayed;
Toyed with by tender touches of the Moon;
Bare to each influence of the fine-flecked skies;
And yet secure as ever flung the boon
Of sweet unconsciousness o'er lovers' eyes—

159

Yet in secluded luxury uplaid
As ever rest enjoyed by lovers lone
In any green serenity of shade.

VIII.

So through the fervid Autumn's lingering glow
But Life and Love's young Spring-time; revelling so
In Eden-scenes as lovely-strange
As to the lover's power to change
All scenes to Edens, ever yet displayed
An Eden ready-made:
So, custom-licensed to be blest and bless
In luxury of lawful lawlessness,
Did our unbridled bridal pair
Pass their wild-honeymoon no moon
Restricted—and, arriving all too soon,
Homeward to Rotorua slowly strayed.