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250

Canto the Second. A sad Resolve.

1. Amohia's misery. 2, 3. Wartime and news of invasion. 4. Amo's plan to save Ranolf. 5. A letter from home. 6. Another flight.

I.

So with factitious fervour—zeal in vain
Assumed to banish thought and deaden pain,
Sad Ranolf seeks the boar-hunt's toil again;
While native mongrels, bad or good, replace
His first stanch sturdy comrade in the chase;
But none he loved so—none that so loved him—
As that good-tempered wriggling tiger—Nim!
And many a day and sometimes nights he passed
Amid the forests on the Mountains vast;
While Amo, loving still and lonely grieved,
By his affected interest undeceived
In these pursuits; and with increased distress,
Saw the sad struggle she so well could guess—
The discontent of forced contentedness.
Though he was kind—aye kinder than before,
'Twas not for kindness that she yearned alone,
But love—glad glowing love like that of yore,
Impetuous and impassioned as her own
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That kindness might be pity—nay, it must!
What else could be more likely—natural—just!
What else could one of such exalted sphere
Her fancy lifted to a realm so clear
And high above her, from his glorious place
Feel towards a being of inferior race,
Such as her love still made herself appear?
“Did he not come, a wonder and a prize
From some far Clime mysterious as the Skies—
Stoop in his flight to steep me in excess
Of too delightful fleeting happiness—
My lowly life with strange wild joys to crown,
As Hapae in the legend once came down,
The white-winged Wanderer from blue haunts above—
And on Tawhaki lavished all that love?
Ah! what am I, or what my claim or right
To keep all to myself a thing so bright?—”
And then her anguish took another turn;
With the old pride at moments would she burn:
“Am I not something too! through all the land
Where'er on great or small the Sun would shine
What Maid could boast superior birth to mine?
Could I help hearing how on every hand
They said—not men, even women—far and wide
For beauty none with Amohia vied;
None in the dance such wavy grace displayed;
Such fair designs for rich-wrought purfles made—
Like her could tell a legend—turn a song?—
Was it all flattery then—delusive—wrong?
Is she—through her whole life so praised—so prized,
Doomed to be now neglected and despised?”—
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In her distraction then how would she try
To hate the cause of all this agony;
Half curse him in her impotent distress—
Aye—curse him with a passion that—would bless!
The mere conception of harsh words of hate
Such instant fond revulsion would create,
The ire wrung out by woe, in utterance choked,
Itself a gush of boundless love provoked—
The rage ran off in tears of tenderness:
“Too mad! too mad!—too horrible to curse
One so beloved—so beautiful—O worse
Than Rona cursing the full Moon for light!
Is it his blame he shines at such a height?
Ah, miserable me! who can but find
Food for a curse in what I am too blind—
No—not too blind! I cannot, ne'er could be
So blind, that dear, dear glory, not to see!
And seeing it and him—to think it strange
If love like mine he only could bestow
On beings like himself in fair exchange—
Bright beings—ah—those Maids he talked of so—
All golden light and sunset-tinted snow!
In beauty, knowledge—all attractions fine
Such as perchance I never could divine,
Would they not dim these poor dark charms of mine
As he does all our native youths outshine!
But could they love like me? Ah, were they here
To show which held the dearest one most dear!
Would they were here! if deadly danger prest
His life, he soon would learn who loved him best!
Would they, like me (O would I might!) to save
Him sinking, rush into the flooded wave
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And all the terrors of the torrent brave?
Would they, like me, dash into thickest fight,
Cling to his conquering foe about to smite,
And take the blow—Ah me! with what delight,
Aimed at that head so beautiful—so bright!
Then, then—those Wonders—none he soon would see
Could worship—doat on—die for him like me!
Ah, why can men love nothing but the skin,
So little care for all that glows within—
All that should lure their love—their praises win?
Ah why was I not made as wise—as fair—
Why should those Gods or Atuas—whatsoe'er
They be—have left me of these gifts so bare
And grudged me all but misery and despair?
And yet he said—for I remember well
When of those wondrous beauties he would tell
The greatest merit could be had or known
Was for another's good to give your own;
And those grand Creatures, born to light and bliss,
Good in so much besides were best in this.
But there at least I am their equal—I;
O could I not the best of them defy
To give all I would give his good to buy?
None—none of them like me, without a sigh,
To give him joy a thousand times would die:
O that the chance would rise—howe'er it came
That I might prove and he might learn the same!”
And so the days slid heavily for both—
Each grief grew daily with the other's growth;
And from the woods upon his sad return
The sadness in her eyes he would discern,
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And try to cheer her, O, with words too drear—
Words meaning much—but sounding little—cheer.
And then it was her turn sad joy to feign,
Which, pressing hard her heart to check its pain
She feigned—with stiffening lips that twitched in vain;
Thinking—with anguish smiling for his sake—
“O misery! my heart will break, will break!”

II.

So matters stood. And now the Autumn's fruits—
Karaka—tarro—kumera—berries, roots—
Had all been harvested with merry lays
And rites of solemn gladness; choral praise
And pure religious feeling—grateful—true;
Though rude, benighted if you will, the due
Of the great bounteous Spirit unknown or known
Of Nature; due in every clime or zone;
They called it ‘Rongo’—God of fruits and peace;
What matter, so the gratitude was given
To Spirit—call it Nature, God or Heaven?—
The worst was, almost ere the songs could cease,
With idiot inconsistency, like—men,
The very life-preserving gifts that then
They thanked their God for, they would straight employ
As means, almost incentives, to destroy;
And seize the occasion of abundant food
As fittest for the work of war and blood.

III.

'Twas then, that tidings of invasion planned
By far more dangerous foes against their land,
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Reached Rotorua's people; how in brief
That mighty tribe, of all the tribes the chief,
Far in the North, whom not their neighbours dread
Not even the great Waikato could withstand—
Such wealth of guns and powder could they boast,
(For with the white man's ships they trafficked most)
Were coming, an innumerable host
'Twas rumoured, by the famous Chieftain led
With whom the marriage treaty was begun
Which Amo when she swam the Lake had fled;
So much the picture of her beauty brought
By Kangapo had on his fancy wrought;
Such power had recently that rabid Priest—
(By careless Ranolf in contempt released
When after Tangi's death the warfare ceased)—
O'er the excited haughty Chieftain won;
And, mad with rancour and revengeful spite
He could not wreak on Ranolf, nor requite
That spurner of his supernatural might
Who laughed at necromantic spells and charms,
Except by tearing Amo from his arms—
Had roused the Chief's too ready sense of slight,
By representing Tangi in the light
Of an abettor of his daughter's flight;
And acquiescent in the wrong his pride
Endured from those who sought—then set aside—
The great alliance they would now deride.
So all this storm was brewing, it was plain,
And soon would ruin and destruction rain
Upon their tribe, one special end to gain,—
To force surrender of the proffered bride,
And vengeance on the Stranger so obtain.
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IV.

Before the tidings well were told, which filled
The eager-listening crowd with blank dismay,
The prescient heart of Amohia chilled;
And through her brain there shot a gloomy ray.
That Message seemed her secret Soul to seek;
Seemed to her inner consciousness to speak
Doomlike, before the story was got through;
Almost before she heard the half, she knew
Her hour was come, and all she had to do.
To foes like these resistance would be vain,
She would be captured, Ranolf would be slain.
This was the chance that she had prayed for still;
This was the moment when her heart should thrill
With joy, not terror, for the hope it gave—
Nay, all the certainty her heart could crave—
To prove her love and her adored one save!
Yes; she, ere it burst forth, that storm would stay,
Anticipate—prevent that dreadful day
And turn its terrors from one head away!
To save that dear one, she would go alone
And give herself to that resistless Chief;
The wrong, if done by Ranolf, so atone
And buy his life, O more than with her own!—
Her life were little—better could she bear
To give a thousand lives than seem to share
Another's love; that was the pain, the smart,
That was the sacrifice that wrung her heart;
Yet, worse than death, to make his life secure
This outrage to her love would she endure!
Yet life would still be given—for O with grief
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She soon would die, and death would be relief!
Or if it came not of itself—and here
Pale grew her solemn brow and more severe
Her eyes and firm prest lips—herself would rend
The life away that misery would not end.
But Ranolf would be saved—O he would know
How matchless, boundless was her love—and woe;
And feel, the best of those he vaunted so
Could not outdare her in devotion—make
Such sacrifice of self for his dear sake!
Then would he long for her again—and weep
Her loss, and ever in his bosom deep
His poor wild maiden's memory fondly keep!
But Ranolf, whose own cares too deeply weighed,
Not much attention to these tidings paid:
“It was their greed for marvels—nothing more;
Or if that doughty Chieftain and his men
Were bent upon invading them—what then?
They would be thrashed as Whetu was before.”
So he continued listless to explore
The forests for the footprints of the boar.
And Amo thought, “He does not know their power,
Nor half their evil deeds in victory's hour”—
And all the more determined it was right
Herself should save him in his own despite.

V.

And often had she fixed the day to start,
Yet could not bear from all life's light to part;
The project oft deferred, was still renewed
Whenever Ranolf's restlessness she viewed;
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Until one night arrived for her and him
That filled their cup of misery to the brim.
That day a precious letter from his home—
With slanting oval postmarks blue and red,
And scrawls “Try here—try there” all overspread—
Had (passed from tribe to tribe) to Ranolf come;
And with it, news that all the Chiefs who shared
The great proposed invasion were prepared
With countless guns and piles of packed-up food
And war-canoes and crowds of warriors good
To start in sanguinary, sanguine mood.—
And Amo all that eve had sate and gazed
With tearful looks, how fond! on Ranolf's face
And eyes so seldom from the letter raised,
Or fixed in sad abstraction far away,
While on his knees the fatal missive lay;
And fancied all his thoughts she well could trace—
With maddening hopelessness how they would run
Upon the Sister—Mother—long unseen;
And what a roar of Ocean—vast—unknown—
And obstacles far greater, stood between
Those loved ones and the Brother and lost Son;
And some sweet phantom Shape still dearer, she
Would fancy in his picture there must be!
'Twas then, and there, with burning—bursting heart
And choking throat—she bound herself, alone
Come what come might—next morning to depart.

VI.

So, when day broke, while Ranolf, half the night
Awake, was sleeping sadly by her side,
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She rose up—from her prostrate grief upright—
To take a last long gaze—heart-broken bride—
Upon that sleeping face—her life—her pride!
Then, in an agony of tenderness
With those fair golden curls she toyed awhile
That seemed to mock her with their sunny smile;
And lavished many a bitter-sweet caress
Upon the brow and cheeks and fast-closed eyes
She loved so—more than ever seemed to prize,
And thought more beautiful in this distress;
And hid at last her face upon his breast,
And wept a passionate flood of bitter tears—
“O could she there end all—joys, woes and fears—
Dead—dead at once—for ever there to rest!”—
And when at those fond touches Ranolf woke
And saw her grief and words of comfort spoke
Returning her caress, and sought to know
What sudden sorrow caused these tears to flow;
With quick-recovered firmness she replied—
“'Twas nothing—he was not to mind her—she
Was foolish—was ‘porangi’—and would be
Better directly—” and her tears she dried
And smiled in utter misery—and tried
Her deep despairing eyes from his to hide;
The while with more than usual busy zeal
It seemed, she went about the morning meal;
Then set it quietly before him—made
Some light excuse why he could not persuade
Herself to touch it—quietly received
His last caress, as, bidding her be cheered,
“For he would soon return, she might be sure!”—
And kissing her, he stroked her tresses black,
And with his dogs and gun, and heart sore-grieved
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Off to the hills, by her calm looks deceived,
As usual went; while she, with bosom seared
And brain that whirled confused upon a rack
Of thoughts and feelings she could scarce endure,
Till all that she was seeing, hearing—seemed
Something she heard not—saw not—only dreamed,
She stood there watching till he disappeared;—
Then flung herself upon her couch, and there
Gave full, wild vent to sobbings of despair.
Soon with set teeth she rises; from her eyes
Brushes the blinding tears that will arise;
And snatching up a small supply of food—
For life must last to make her purpose good—
Still in the clutch of that wild passion held
That from her tight grief-strangled bosom swelled
Up to her throbbing brow,—as if compelled
By outward force—she keeps her frenzied thought
As well as her despairing fevered glance
From resting on a single circumstance
Of past or recent happiness, or aught
About that dim—loved—lost—and torturing scene—
The hut—the room where she so blest had been!
But staggering as beneath a heavy load
Rushes straight forward on her blighted road.
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