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Ranolf and Amohia

A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised
Domett, Alfred (1811-1887)

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RANOLF AND AMOHIA:
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VOLUME I.
  
PRELUDE.
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BOOK THE FIRST. THE SAILOR-STUDENT.
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Canto the First. The Sea-boy.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
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Canto the Second. Will-o'-wisp-chasing.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
X.
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Canto the Third. From Wisp to Morass.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
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Canto the Fourth. Terra Firma.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
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VI.
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VII.
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VIII.
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IX.
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X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.
 XIII. 
XIII.
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Canto the Fifth. Cloud-blowing.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
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VI.
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VII.
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VIII.
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IX.
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X.
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XI.
 XII. 
XII.
 XIII. 
XIII.
 XIV. 
XIV.
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Canto the Sixth. Land-Life or Sea-Life?
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
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VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
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Canto the Seventh. The Shipwreck.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
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BOOK THE SECOND. THE SOUTH-SEA VILLAGERS.
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Canto the First. The Rescue.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
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Canto the Second. The ‘Sounding Sea.’
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
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Canto the Third. The Magician.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
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Canto the Fourth. A Woodland Jaunt.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
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VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
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Canto the Fifth. The Legend of Tawhaki.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
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Canto the Sixth. Mythical Cosmogonies.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
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Canto the Seventh. The Captive.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
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VI.
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VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
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BOOK THE THIRD. ALL IN A SUMMER NIGHT.
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Canto the First. Miroa's Tidings.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
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VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
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Canto the Second. The Song-cheered Swimming.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
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Canto the Third. The Star-lit Swimming.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
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VI.
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VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
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Canto the Fourth. Legends of the Spirit-Land.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
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Canto the Fifth. Amohia at the Fountain.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
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Canto the Sixth. Silence and Moonlight.
 I. 
I.
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II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
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Canto the Seventh. The Meeting.
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I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
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VOLUME II.
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BOOK THE FOURTH. A LATTER-DAY EDEN.
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Canto the First. Flight of the Lovers.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
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VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.
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Canto the Second. Miroa's Story.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
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VI.
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VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
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Canto the Third. Love and Nature luxuriant.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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VI.
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VII.
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Canto the Fourth. Trees and the Tree-God.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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Canto the Fifth. The Fountain-Terraces.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
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Canto the Sixth. A Geyser Yoked.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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VI.
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VII.
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Canto the Seventh. English Maidens.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
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VI.
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BOOK THE FIFTH. STILL IN EDEN.
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Canto the First. The Haunted Mountain.
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I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
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Canto the Second. Sports on the Lake.
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III.
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IV.
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VI.
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Canto the Third. The Cicada.
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VII.
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Canto the Fourth. A loving Questioner.
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I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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Canto the Fifth. A cheery Theorist.
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III.
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VII.
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VIII.
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IX.
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X.
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Canto the Sixth. Love beats Logic.
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I.
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II.
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III.
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VI.
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VII.
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Canto the Seventh. An airy Nest.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
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VI.
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VII.
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VIII.
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BOOK THE SIXTH WAR.
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Canto the First. The Beleaguered Fortress.
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I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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Canto the Second. War needs Idealizing.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
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VI.
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VII.
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Canto the Third. The grand Assault.
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I.
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II.
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IV.
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V.
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VI.
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VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
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Canto the Fourth. Fight between ‘Sounding Sea’ and ‘Angry Star.’
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
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VI.
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Canto the Fifth. Love fed by War.
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I.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
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Canto the Sixth. An old wrong avenged.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
  
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 VIII. 
VIII.
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Canto the Seventh. Death of the ‘Sounding Sea.’
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I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
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BOOK THE SEVENTH. SELF-SACRIFICE.
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Canto the First. Weariness.
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I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
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Canto the Second. A sad Resolve.
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I.
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II.
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III.
 IV. 
IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
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Canto the Third. Death of the Magician.
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
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Canto the Fourth. Where is Comfort?
 I. 
I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
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Canto the Fifth. A Vision.
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I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
 VI. 
VI.
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Canto the Sixth. The Departure.
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I.
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III.
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IV.
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V
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VI.
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VII.
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VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
X.
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Canto the Seventh. After-Experiences.
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I.
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II.
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III.
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IV.
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V.
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VI.
 VII. 
VII.
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VIII.
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IX.
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X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.

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121

Canto the First. The Rescue.

1. Ranolf, after a boar-hunt, his dog killed, fancies an after life for lower animals. 2. A new Italy. 3. His joyous and imaginative temperament. 4. A shriek. 5. Amohia. 6. A rescue. 7. Her story. 8. She returns to the Isle in the Lake. 9. His thoughts of her.

I.

“Glorious! this life of lake
And hill-top! toil and tug through tangled brake,
Dense fern, and smothering broom;
And then such rests as now I take
In sunflecked soft cathedral-gloom
Of forests immemorial! Noble sport
Boar-hunting! yet that furious charge, the last
Of the dead monster there had cut it short
For me, and once for all, belike,
Had not his headlong force impaled
The savage on my tough wood-pike
That, propped with planted knee and foot,
Its butt against a rata-root,
From chest to chine right through him passed
122

And nought his inch-thick hide availed,
Or ring-like tusks upthrusting through
The notches of his foaming lips,
By constant whetting planed away
To chisel-sharpness at their tips:
It weakened him—the knife-dig, too,
He caught when first commenced the fray;
When, as in haste I sprang astride
The narrowed gully—just a ditch
With flowering koromiko rich—
Between my feet the villain drove,
And fierce, with short indignant sniffs,
And grunts like muttering thunder, strove
To gain his haunts beyond the cliffs,
And foil the foes he fled from, yet defied.
“But Nim, my glorious bull-dog! Nim,
My mighty hunter of the boar,
Who never recked of life or limb
That old antagonist before!
That rip has finished his career—
His last boar-fight is fought; no more
He'll come to greet me as of yore,
Wriggling his lithe spine till his tail
Whipped his black muzzle in the excess
Of cringing canine happiness;
No more his genuine love express
With such dumb signs and tokens clear,
Mock bites and mouthings of the hand,
Easy as words to understand.
Strange, a mere dog should be so dear!
123

But he is dead, and—done with, must we say?
Poor victim of this universal demon-play
Of Life—my fate to-morrow, his to-day,
Which I, for sport, have sealed—as God (or no God, then
Say you?) that of his myriad worlds and men?
And ‘pluck’ like his, that nought could quail;
Good temper—honest humble love and truth—
These must not live again, forsooth!
No future for the Dog—but why?
Duty, our highest inborn feeling, who
Has stronger than this guardian true
To death? or can we in our own rejoice,
As sprung from self-determined choice?
That Self with so much bias made—
Our Will by strongest motive swayed?
Scarce higher than his, our claims, I fear,
To merit of our own appear.
Then compound, too, not simple, he,
A work complete no more than we,
(If stuff for hope therein may be),
Has not his nature, like our own,
Instincts at war, the lower with the high?
With trusts to be fulfilled, obedience shown—
The longing for the ramble, game forbidden,
Or bone, like miser's treasure, hidden?
And if, instead of eyes that often so
With solemn melancholy glow,
He had but tongue to speak with, who can show
He might not tell of hopes, and dim
Perceptions, yearnings, that no longer dumb,
He, too, may rise to human, and become
Erect some day, a ruler and a lord,
And, like his master, loved, adored,
124

A visible God and Providence to him—
Though swayed, no doubt, full oft, by rage, caprice and whim.
As good a faith or fancy 'twere
To think all conscious creatures—foul or fair,
One universal endless progress share;
In the procession headed by mankind,
Only a march or two behind;
Each rank of God's grand army onward bent
To higher states and stages—who knows where?—
Of free and fortunate development!”

II.

So mused young Ranolf as he lay at ease,
Profaning (must we needs confess?)
With chestnut-glossed pet meerschaum the pure breeze;
Enjoying in delicious cool no less
The mighty shade of old majestic trees,
Whose tops the skies beneath our feet immerse,
Far in the land, greenwaving, grand,
Upon our seeming world-medallion's rich reverse:
The ruder Italy laid bare
By that keen Searcher of the Seas
Whose tempest-battling, never-baffled keel,
Left half our planet little to reveal;
But restless roaming everywhere
Zigzagged the vast Pacific as he prest
With godlike patience his benignant quest;
True hero-god, who realized the notion
Its races feign of mythic Maui still,
125

And plucked up with a giant might of will
A hundred Islands from Oblivion's ocean!
Sea-king and sage—staunch huntsman of pure Fame,
Beating the waste of waters for his game,
Untrodden shores or tribes without a name;
That nothing in an island's shape,
Mist-muffled peak or faint cloud-cape
Might his determined thoughtful glance escape;
No virgin lands be left unknown,
Where future Englands might be sown,
And nations noble as his own!

III.

Loose-clad in careless sailor-guise,
But richly robed in that imperial dress
Of symmetry and suppleness
And sinewy strength that Nature's love supplies,
When at youth's prime, her work, superbly planned,
Takes the last touches from her Artist-hand,
Was our new roamer of the forest near
Calm Rotorúa's ferny strand.
To him was not denied, 'twas clear,
That best of boons at her command—
A joyous spirit sparkling like the day,
Set in well-tempered, finely-fashioned clay.
His fair complexion, slightly tanned
By central suns' and oceans' glare;
His eyes' gray gleams and amber hair,
Were such as brighten best where gloom and cold
And sombre clouds harsh northern skies enfold:
But curling locks and lip, and glance
Keen for all beauty everywhere;
126

The straight harmonious features—though perchance
Squarer than pure proportion asked, in cheek
And brow, more thought and firmness to bespeak—
Of southern fervour and quick feeling told.
His love of the mysterious—vast—whate'er
Of solemn and sublime could bear
The soul aloft on wings of thrilling awe;
The restless daring that his reason led
To question all he heard and read;
The senses potent to divine the springs
Of pleasure in a thousand things,
Seemed from each clime some elements to draw
Like Gothic metal run in Grecian mould.
In active body—vigorous mind,
Such seeming contrasts he combined;
Still, in his face whate'er expressions shone,
And to what moods soever he was prone,—
'Twas hardy gladness by strong will controlled—
A summer torrent bounding on incessant
Through rampart layers of glittering stone,
Seemed the habitual and abiding one.
Blithe Hope upon his forehead bold
Sate like a sunbeam on a gilt mosque-crescent;
And oft, in reverie, if he gazed apart,
His eye would kindle as in admiration
Of some past scene to fancy present,
Or glory glowing in the future distance;
As if one breaking morn of gold
Were round Life's whole horizon rolled
As if his pulse beat music, and his heart
Clashed cymbal-bursts of exultation
In the mere rapture of existence!
127

IV.

A shriek within the covert near,
A second, third, assailed his ear;
Straight for the sound at once he dashed;
Through tangled boughs and brushwood crashed,
And lopped and slashed the tangles black
Of looped and shining supplejack,
Till on a startling scene he came,
That filled his soul with rage and shame.
Her mantle flung upon the ground,
Her graceful arms behind her bound,
With shoulders bare, dishevelled hair,
There stood a Maiden of the land,
More stately fair than could elsewhere
Through all its ample range be found.
Two of his comrades, hired amid
The tribes whose chieftains held command
O'er all the vales those mountains hid—
Those western mountains forest-crowned—
Wild striplings, who, uncurbed from birth,
Deemed foulest wrong but food for mirth
So that their listless life it stirred,
Were basely busy on each hand,
With flax-blades binding to a tree
The Maid who strove her limbs to free.
They knew her—for they oft had heard
Of that surpassing form and face;
128

They knew the hate, concealed or shown,
Between her people and their own;
The feuds, when open war would cease,
That smouldered in precarious peace;
They knew the track by which the chase
Had lured them to that lonely place,
Was so unused, so tangled, rough,
They doubtless would have time enough,
And might without pursuit retrace
Their steps through mountain-woods, so dense,
No wrong would be suspected thence,
No outrage dreamt of. So they thought—
If such a thoughtless impulse wild
Of mischief can a thought be styled—
They fancied, when the Maid they caught
At that secluded spot, alone
With one slave-girl (who shrieking fled,
While after her a third accomplice sped
Lest she the alarm too soon should spread)
It was a chance to win a name,
Through many a tribe some facile fame—
Let but their foreign friend agree,
If such a captive to their chief they led,
At his behest, dispose, to be.

V.

Not more incensed—scarce lovelier in her wrath—
The silver-bow'd snow-Goddess seen
By rapt Actæon at her awful bath;
Not prouder looked—scarce fiercer in her pride,
The yellow-haired Icenian Queen,
Stung by the tortures she defied;
129

Than did that flaxen-kilted Maid—
A warmer Dian—at her russet rise
Dun-shining through autumnal mist;
A young Boadicea sunnier skies
Had into browner beauty kissed.
So flashed her eyes with scorn and ire,
They seemed, as deep in purple shade
The slanting sunbeams left the wood
And gloomy yew whereby she stood,
Two glowing gems of hazel fire.
And though a single sparkling tear—
Upon each lower eyelid checked,
Whose thick silk fringe, a coalblack streak,
So darkly decked her flushing cheek
In mellow contrast to its clear
Rich almond brown—alone confest
Some softer feelings lurked among
The passions that her bosom wrung;
Yet indignation's withering flame
So towered and triumphed o'er the rest,
Did so enkindle and inform
Her heaving breast, her writhing frame,
Just then, you would almost have deemed,
Her very tresses as they streamed,
With lightnings from that inner storm
And not with flecks of sunset, gleamed.
“Slaves!” she was saying: “this to me!
Me, Amohia! Know you not
The daughter of the ‘Sounding Sea?’
Is Tangi-möana forgot?
When he shall this vile outrage know,
Your homes shall blaze, your hearts'-blood flow;
130

A life for every hair shall pay
Of her you've dared insult this day!”

VI.

Swift to her aid our Wanderer sprung,
Aside those ruffians roughly flung;
Cut, tore away, the bonds that laced
Those tender arms, that slender waist;
Reproached, rebuked with sarcasm strong
The culprits for their coward wrong;
The Maid with soothing words addrest—
Regret and deep disgust expressed
At what disturbed her—so distrest;
By every gesture, look, declared
How much her grief and pain he shared;
Urged all that might with most effect
Her anger stay, her grief allay,
And smooth her ruffled self-respect.
And if, while thus the Maid he freed
With eager haste, and soon replaced
Her mantle, tagged with sable cords
Of silky flax in simple taste,
He could not choose but interfuse
Some looks amid his cheering words,
Keen admiration's natural meed
To one with so much beauty graced;
Think you, this stranger's form and mien
Could fail to make their influence felt;
Unconscious though she might have been
Of their magnetic power to melt,
Pierce, permeate her spirit's gloom,
131

And all her brightening breast illume,
Till docile, ductile, it became
To his persuasive voice's sway—
Mild breathings of discretion, reason's claim;
As on a summer day
The silent sunbeams sink into and fill
A snowy cloud, and make it lighter still
For gentlest breeze to bear away?
And pleased was he, surprised to mark
How swiftly vanished every trace
Of passion so tempestuous, dark;
Its shadow floating off a face
Where, sooth to say, at any time
It seemed as alien, out of place,
As some great prey-bird's, haply seen,
Not mid the awful regions where he breeds,
Sky-sweeping mountains, towering peaks sublime,
But in a land with daisied lawns and meads
And rippling seas of poppied corn serene.

VII.

And all her story soon was told;
How she had left Mokoia's isle
That central in the lake alone
Rose high—a bristling mountain-hold
With fort and fosse—a dark green boss
On that bright shield of azure-stone;
Had left the isle, the time to while
With one companion in her light canoe;
While in a larger came a fisher-crew
She wiselier should have kept in view.
132

But they two of the sport had soon
Grown weary in the glaring noon;
So landed, from the sun's attacks
Their splendour-puckered eyebrows to relax
In the refreshing grateful shade
A clump of trees not distant made.
Thence to a spot amid the level hills
Of Rangikáhu, where a hotspring fills,
Near a deserted settlement,
A square stone-tank ('twas Miroa's whim), they went
To boil some sweet roots which they found
As they expected in a patch
Of old abandoned garden-ground.
That done, they strolled the forest through,
And strolled to little purpose too;
Had tried a parrot for a pet to catch
In vain; had seen, by marshy glade
Or woodside brake, look where they might,
No tangle of convolvulus to twine
Into rich coronals of cups aglow
With deep rose-purple or delicate white
Pink-flushed as sunset-tinted snow;
No clematis, so lovely in decline,
Whose star-flowers when they cease to shine
Fade into feathery wreaths silk-bright
And silvery-curled, as beauteous. And they knew
The early season could not yet
Have ripened the alectryon's beads of jet,
Each on its scarlet strawberry set,
Whence sweet cosmetic oils they press
Their glittering blue-black hair to dress
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Or give the skin its velvet suppleness.
So they had loitered objectless,
And chaunting songs or chatting strayed
Till by his rude associates met.

VIII.

Her simple story told, the Maid
Asked in her turn the Wanderer's name;
Tried to pronounce it too; but still
With pretty looks of mock distress
And scorn at her own want of skill,
And tempting twisting lips no stain
Of tattoo had turned azure—found
“Ranolf” too strange and harsh a sound
For her harmonious speech to frame;
So after various efforts vain
“Ranóro” it at last became,
The nearest imitation plain
Her liquid accents could attain.
Thus, when at length they reached the shore,
Had found and freed and comforted
The damsel who at first had fled
(Poor little Miroa, weeping sore),
And launched the small canoe once more,
'Twas with a farewell kind and gay
She bade the stranger “Go his way;”
'Twas with her radiant ready smile
She started for the mountain-isle,
Which then, one mass of greenish gold,
Shone out in sharp relief and bold
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Against the further hills that lay
In solemn violet-gloom—grim, dark and cold.

IX.

So towards his tent his steps he bent;
Nor marvel if as home he went
His thoughts to her would still recur:—
“—But Amohia! what a glorious creature
In every gesture, every feature!
Such melting brilliant eyes! I swear
They cast a shadow from whate'er
They rest upon! I do believe they throw
Such shifting circlets of soft light
On what she looks at, as a sunbeam weaves
On the green darkness of the noonday woods
Through chinks in the transparent leaves!
And then her hair! to see it but unbound!
Such black abundant floods
Of tresses making midnight all around
For those twin stars to shine through! while between
In glimpses the fair neck was seen
Just as at night upon those white
And windheaped hummocks of glimmering sand—
Thickflowing sand—so finely sifted
By the gales whereby 'twas drifted—
Soft patches of pale moonlight stand
Beside their sable shadows. Then her teeth!
All things that most of whiteness boast
How dull and dim beside them! The far wreath
Of snow upon those peaks eternal—
The sea-foam creaming round the coast—
The wave-bleached shell upon it tost—
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No, none of these—perhaps the kernel
Of a young cocoanut when newly broken
Would best their blue-white purity betoken.
But these are graces to be left unspoken
Beside the soul—the spirit's charm
That from some well of witchery internal
Comes dancing up—confiding—warm,
All diamond dew of pure delight upspringing—
Such sparkling spray of kindliness outflinging!—
How frank and noble is her face!
And what a sunny pride and sweetness lies
In those open brilliant eyes!
Her voice chimes like a merry bird's;
How winning are her cheerful words!—
With what a blithe and stately grace
She drew her glistening flaxen mat,
With chequered border decked,
Into the hollows of her wavy form,
And stepped away erect!—
A maiden of a million that!—”
Strange power of beauty! in a moment's space
It photographs itself upon the brain,
And though with limnings soft as light, imprints—
Burns in, such deep encaustic tints,
The finest line, the tenderest stain,
No future impress can displace,
No wear and tear of Time efface!
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