Ranolf and Amohia A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised |
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 | Ranolf and Amohia |  |
I.
Wasting and weakening ever, day by day,
The ‘Sounding Sea,’ deep-wounded, lingering lay;
Or heavily dragged about his gaunt great frame,
With hollowing cheeks, and eyes that yet would flame
When news about his late assailants came,
And how his gallant clansmen on all hands
Made deadly havoc of their scattered bands.
The fatal ball that pierced his massive chest
Had torn an opening to his lungs their art
Could never close, although it healed in part;
So that whene'er the gasping Chieftain drew
A labouring breath, the air came hissing through;
At which in pure self-scorn he oft would jest,
Laugh a faint echo of his old great laugh,
And say he was already more than half
A ghost, and talked the language of the dead,
The whistling tones of spirits that have fled;
And Kangapo had best beware, or he
Would worry him, for all his witchery!
—But most he loved to spend his scanty breath
In urging all who stood his couch beside
To hold their own, whatever might betide;
Whate'er the odds, the arms, the Chiefs renowned
Assailed them, still unblenched to keep their ground,
And never, never yield—but fight till death!
The ‘Sounding Sea,’ deep-wounded, lingering lay;
Or heavily dragged about his gaunt great frame,
With hollowing cheeks, and eyes that yet would flame
When news about his late assailants came,
And how his gallant clansmen on all hands
Made deadly havoc of their scattered bands.
The fatal ball that pierced his massive chest
Had torn an opening to his lungs their art
Could never close, although it healed in part;
So that whene'er the gasping Chieftain drew
A labouring breath, the air came hissing through;
At which in pure self-scorn he oft would jest,
Laugh a faint echo of his old great laugh,
And say he was already more than half
A ghost, and talked the language of the dead,
The whistling tones of spirits that have fled;
232
Would worry him, for all his witchery!
—But most he loved to spend his scanty breath
In urging all who stood his couch beside
To hold their own, whatever might betide;
Whate'er the odds, the arms, the Chiefs renowned
Assailed them, still unblenched to keep their ground,
And never, never yield—but fight till death!
And, when too weak to rise, his race nigh run,—
He made them lift him out into the sun:
Had all his favourite weapons round him laid—
The weapons of his glory, youth, and pride;
And these, while memory with old visions played
Of many a furious fight and famous raid,
He feebly handled—proudly, fondly eyed:
That heavy batlet bright of nephrite pure,
Green, smooth and oval as a cactus leaf—
“How heavy!” sighed he with a moment's grief;
But then what blows it dealt, how deadly sure—
Its fame and his for ever must endure!
And that great battleaxe, from many a field
Notched, hacked and stained, he could no longer wield,
How many a warrior's fate that blade had sealed!—
The others to his kinsmen he bequeathed,
But these he could not part with while he breathed.
Then all the muskets he could boast—but few—
And even his powder-kegs were set in view.
These were the Gods on whom he placed his trust
To guard and keep his tribe when he was dust;
These were the sacred symbols—holy books—
Whereon for comfort dwelt his dying looks.
He made them lift him out into the sun:
Had all his favourite weapons round him laid—
The weapons of his glory, youth, and pride;
And these, while memory with old visions played
Of many a furious fight and famous raid,
He feebly handled—proudly, fondly eyed:
That heavy batlet bright of nephrite pure,
Green, smooth and oval as a cactus leaf—
“How heavy!” sighed he with a moment's grief;
But then what blows it dealt, how deadly sure—
Its fame and his for ever must endure!
And that great battleaxe, from many a field
Notched, hacked and stained, he could no longer wield,
How many a warrior's fate that blade had sealed!—
The others to his kinsmen he bequeathed,
But these he could not part with while he breathed.
Then all the muskets he could boast—but few—
And even his powder-kegs were set in view.
These were the Gods on whom he placed his trust
To guard and keep his tribe when he was dust;
These were the sacred symbols—holy books—
Whereon for comfort dwelt his dying looks.
| Ranolf and Amohia | |