 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
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TUA-TUA: or, ROSE-ROSE:
A Dramatic Poem,
IN THREE SCENES.
- Tua-Tua: or, Rose-Rose. A Dyak Maiden, living in an island adjacent to Borneo.
- Roco. A native of the island; in love with Tua-Tua.
- Robert Campbell. An Englishman, wrecked on the island; also in love with Tua-Tua.
- Chorus of Dyak Maidens, Chorus of Dyak Priests, English Sailors, etc.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
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Scene I.—In a Dell in the Forest.
—Sunset fading into night.—Roco, alone, singing to a strange discordant native instrument:[Roco]
We love: not like the whites:—
The delights
Of love, if they fail,
We assail.
The delights
Of love, if they fail,
We assail.
Lo! my lance
As the glance
Of a woman is bright:—
Lo! my sword
On the sward
I rest softly to-night.
As the glance
Of a woman is bright:—
Lo! my sword
On the sward
I rest softly to-night.
Lo! I wait
For my fate,
And my fate waits for me;
And the god
And his rod
Wait for some one; 'tis she.
For my fate,
And my fate waits for me;
And the god
And his rod
Wait for some one; 'tis she.
(The branches part, and Tua-Tua enters softly, coming down a woodside path slowly and carefully. She is pale, and trembles slightly. She looks round somewhat timidly, and, seeing Roco, advances.)
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You sent for me.
Roco.—
I did.
[A pause. He says no more.
(Tua-Tua stands before him, her hands hanging folded in front of her, her eyes looking down)—
[Tua-Tua]
You sent for me.
[Another pause—longer.
You sent for me.
[Another pause—longer still.
(She turns, as if to depart.)
Roco
(with voice gradually growing louder and fiercer)—
I sent for you; and you—you know the cause.
Have I not seen you with the Englishman?
Have I not seen him growing day by day
Dearer, and felt that as he dearer grew
I, Roco, grew perpetually less dear?
Did I not see you kiss him?—yes, last night—
(You never kissed me so. I am not blind!)
Did I not see you give him the white blossom
Fresh from your hair? (You never gave me one!
I am not mad: I mark, I understand.)
[Raising his voice somewhat—
Now, Tua-Tua, here am I to-night,
I, Roco, your old lover—your old slave!—
Yes, so it used to be in the happy days.
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Till you have given me burning kiss for kiss.
Kiss me—if you can love me, all the better;
If you are not so gifted, all the worse:
Kiss me, you shall!
(Tua-Tua glances round once; then meets his eyes once without flinching, and looks down again.)
Kiss me.
Well; kissing is too much. Give me your hand.
Tua-Tua.—
I will not.
Roco.—
Then you shall kiss me.
Tua-Tua.—
No, Roco. Don't be foolish. I remember
As well as you the early happy days—
Happy they were—the boyish girlish days
Among the gaudy blossoms, by the streams,
Upon the hills. Don't let us spoil those days.
I have not changed: I gave you all I could,
I give you all I can—I have not changed.
'Tis you have changed—you are not the old Roco.
Come, be the old true Roco—be to-night
The glad, old honest Roco.
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Kiss me, then.
Tua-Tua.—
Nay! that were not the glad old courteous Roco.
Roco.—
You do not know me, I have sworn an oath—
Vowed to the Fetish. Ah, you tremble now;
You know the nature of a Fetish oath.
Sworn to the Fetish either I will have
Your body living, or that he shall have
Your blood, your bones, your body—stabbed and dead.
By all our sacred gods the Englishman
Shall never have you; I will kill you first,
But through the Fetish—bloodier, fiercer death—
Kill myself—kill your lover—dye the world
In one broad, bitter, red, tremendous stream.
You do not know me; come, sweet lips, be wise.
Tua-Tua.—
You do not know me.
Roco.—
Yes, I know you well.
You are a bunch of flowers for man to kiss
And fondle with—No more, I think.
Tua-Tua.—
Just so.
Because I am a bunch of flowers—no more—
Why any gathered bunch will serve your need;
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Aye, there are girls who are indeed not more,
Some, perhaps, not quite as much. There's Hadiflèe,
Ashan, Floriflua, Tetua, Honnimel,—
Why one of these might suit you. Let me go.
Roco, dear Roco, will you let me go?
I'll always love—not love—but honour you—
Pray for you at the altar of the gods.
[She stoops and picks a flower.
Here is a blossom for you—let me go.
Roco.—
Do you love me? Say it, and I will let you go.
Tua-Tua.—
Not that, not that. Here, take the blossom, Roco.
See how the white is garlanded with green.
Roco.—
Do you love me? Say it, and I'll let you go.
Tua-Tua.—
You do not mean this, Roco?—you're in play?
Roco.—
Do you love me? Say it, or—I shall not ask
Again. Do you love me?
Tua-Tua.—
I love you not.
Roco.—
Then by the altar of our sacred god,
I curse you, curse you, curse you, Tua-Tua;
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I curse your bosom that the Englishman
Had kissed—and fondled too—if you had let him:
I curse your luring voice, so subtle-sweet;
I curse your whole smooth body—fragrant now
As this smooth, shining flower I pluck and place
Within my mouth, and spit out to the ground
As soon the god shall spit your body out;
Fragrant no more, a burnt and withered thing—
Black, bleeding, horrid, sickly, nauseous, foul
Disgusting—palpitating yet from death,
From knives, and from the embraces of the priests.
Ah, girl, you don't know all; nor will you know
Until the sacrifice is all fulfilled—
Until upon the altar, panting hard,
Bound for the torture, fragrant for the knife,
You look straight up once—you will not look twice—
And see the passion in the hot priest's eyes
(The priest whose lot has fallen to him to have
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The lust, and love, and fierce religion mixed.
Ah, flower—ah, fragrant flower—fragrant for whom?
Not for your English lover after all.
Him, too, I curse, and all his haughty ways;
His high disdain of us—his spotless flesh—
His glittering eyes—his ever-ready sword.
Tua-Tua.—
Love?
Yes this is love. Oh, fool, I know you now,
And soon shall you know Tua-Tua. Fool,
Now I am strong: I am a girl no more,
A woman brimming over with my sex.
I love the Englishman, yes—love him—love him.
I love, love him—love him, love him, love him—
And you; why you I hate. Do you hear my words?
[Drawing nearer.
I hate you, you are but a wretched coward.
I hate you, and for all you have to say,
For all your cries and curses dread you not.
I love my lover, love his golden hair,
Worship the sea within his sea-blue eyes,
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Of which he has taught me somewhat; every step
Of his fair feet upon our island grass
I follow in awe and worship; oh you fool!
Fool, wretched brainless heartless parrot-head
Ape-heart, and soul of shell-fish; go and seek
[Pointing sea-ward with her left hand.
Your like amid the coral and the weed
That shine beneath the sea there—go and search;
Do you hear me; go I say.
Or tarry here;
Yes, tarry here; it is the better thing,
Stay here and listen while a woman's voice
Laughs at you. Roco, do you hear me laugh?
Or are you deaf; struck deaf as well as fool?
You cannot hear me laugh—then see me laugh:
See the white, shining teeth I show at you—
I'll kiss you—kiss you with my pearl-white teeth.
Oh! I could grind them through your every bone
And laugh to see the blood spirt—foul thick blood,
Far, far too thick to spirt and splash, it must be;
But I am wild—am wicked; oh, blue eyes
Of my sweet lover, ye would now reprove!
For all my speech I've not forgotten you,
For all my wild and wayward speech, no whit,
No whit have I forgotten. Christ was calm,
They say; He answered not with anger thus;
Oh, help me, Christ! And as for you—you fly,
You fish, you Roco—I just simply hate you;
I spit you out as you spat out the flower.
Yes, tarry here; it is the better thing,
Stay here and listen while a woman's voice
Laughs at you. Roco, do you hear me laugh?
Or are you deaf; struck deaf as well as fool?
You cannot hear me laugh—then see me laugh:
See the white, shining teeth I show at you—
I'll kiss you—kiss you with my pearl-white teeth.
Oh! I could grind them through your every bone
And laugh to see the blood spirt—foul thick blood,
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But I am wild—am wicked; oh, blue eyes
Of my sweet lover, ye would now reprove!
For all my speech I've not forgotten you,
For all my wild and wayward speech, no whit,
No whit have I forgotten. Christ was calm,
They say; He answered not with anger thus;
Oh, help me, Christ! And as for you—you fly,
You fish, you Roco—I just simply hate you;
I spit you out as you spat out the flower.
Roco.—
And I, I curse you; go and talk of love
Now to your lover; kiss him gently—so.
[Picking another flower, and making believe to kiss it gently.
He only loves you for your beauty; when
The beauty's gone, the love will vanish too.
He'll fling you forth as I fling forth this flower,
And tread you, as I tread it, in the dust,
I go to bring to pass the Fetish doom.
Tua-Tua
(sinking down among the flowers, utterly exhausted).—
Ah, Robert! Christ! I do want to be good.
I have said too much.
[Then, half-rising.
I do so hate him! yet I love you more
Than I hate him; for you I could forgive him.
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Must even sleep, it may be, for a little.
What was the prayer you taught me, Robert—words
About forgiving even one's enemies—
And surely Roco is a deadly enemy.
[She falls asleep on the grass, wearied out, saying—
I hate you Roco; yet love, love is best;
To Robert and to Christ I leave the rest.
Good-night.
Scene 2.—In the forest.
Robert Campbell and Tua-Tua resting upon a bank overhung with flowers, in sight of the ocean.Robert.—
My dark-skinned beauty of the tropic wood
My “Tua-Tua,” “Rose-Rose,” flower of flowers,
Come nearer; lean a little closer—so.
Kiss me, sweetheart; nay, shrink not so away,
The seal of love in England is a kiss,
And all about my country you were once
Eager—on fire with eagerness—to learn.
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Has claimed you for a sweet voluptuous prey;
Your soft limbs, gathered on the altar dark,
In the grim austere valley of the god
Will shortly bleed beneath the bitter knife,
And all the priests who perpetrate the foul,
The foul, accursed superstitious rite,
Will laugh, and praise their high gods for the deed.
That black and grass-grown valley will be fair
With your warm, bounding, joyous, girlish blood;
And I—I shall return—or not return!
Pass home to England sadder, but more wise,
Having learned how superstition lingers yet
In these fair islands: how a priestly knife
At the instigation of a cowardly heart—
(For he is a coward; I must call him that!
Your lover, Tua-Tua, is a coward.
Coward he is, although his lifted hand
Smote the foul superstitious life away
From his own body, out of love for you—
What he calls love—in order to procure
The grievous Fetish vengeance; that, being dead,
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The Fetish curse upon your darling head,
He might, a spirit of spirits among the rocks,
A weird grey spirit among the weird dark rocks,
See all your red dear blood-drops trickling down,
Vowed for a pleasant offering to the god.
That was his vengeance! yea, that was his love!
His evil, dark-skinned love; the best that he,
Your lover and your servitor, could do!
Now what is English love; the fairer love,
Born under skies of which we used to talk,
And which I promised you should one day see?
Is it that piteous, self-seeking thing,
Which revels in the ruin of the soul
And body of the loved one, if her heart
Be given elsewhere—as your heart was given
Not to the pale self-murderer, but to me.
A man has died that you, my sweet, might die.
A man has died to kill. Can no one die
To bless and to deliver and to save?
White skin for dark—white heart for whiter heart,
Red blood for red blood—strength for supple power,
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Lily for Rose; Lily you used to call me—
Do you remember? In that all my face
Was fresh with English breezes, clear and fair!)
What was I saying about my home just now,
Before your cruel lover crossed my mind?
Oh! that your death being over I might pass
Home to my country sadder yet more wise,
Having learned how superstition lingers still
In many an island of this wondrous land,
This Bornese Archipelago—how God,
In cleansing sundry corners of the earth,
By His own thunderstroke, from time to time,
Left this still evil, merciless, impure.
This I should learn, I say, and carry home,
A lesson burnt upon my brain and heart.
But, sweet, I will not leave you; Tua-Tua,
Rose-Rose—there must be some far fitter way,
Some hope, some swift avoidance, some escape.
Oh, for a British vessel, for stout hands,
Brave hearts of England, if but four or five,
To bear the painter and his lady-love—
His dark-skinned, perfect-bosomed lady-love—
Out to the breezes of the briny sea!
Oh, dark-blue ocean, rolling sultry waves
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Oh, heaving, purple, pitiless broad sea,
Unintermittent with thy monstrous waves,
That climb for ever on this snowy shore,
Swelling in awful squadrons without wind—
Take thou my cry to England. Oh, calm sea—
Take thou her cry to England—take our cry—
Let England's daughters, fair and white and sweet,
Hear this their sister, fair and dark and sweet,
(And me their brother, English-born and strong)
As on this island in the strange far sea
We face the imminent approach of death!
A death most horrid—fork-tongued, devilish.
Yea, as we wait—for who am I, to leave
My gentle, sweet love-lady to herself?
I will not leave her. Oh, my English land,
Oh, white far cliffs of England—oh, high shores,
Sweet grass and clover scenting English fields,
And all pure thoughts and converse of the free;
Oh, women of England, who shall hear our tale,
For nothing now is hidden in the end,
And men of England who shall hear it too
And feel your brave hands tingle for a sword—
Judge me, if this be not my path of right.
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To some all-righteous and auspicious end,
But, if it be not blessed to worldly joy,
It shall be blessed to spirit-ecstasy.
For we shall die together, she and I,
Lips cling to lips upon the funeral pyre,
Breast cleave to breast beneath the heavy knife,
Spirit embracing spirit, seek the stars!
Oh, dear, far cliffs of England, fare ye well.
And welcome all ye valleys of fierce heat,
Ye tangled forests, strange and terrible,
Horrid with swamps, or grand with awful flowers,
Sweet as the centre of my Blossom's lips—
Welcome ye regions fathomless, wherein
My true love like some perfect butterfly
Gleamed first, a radiant shape, across my path;
Sweeter ye are to me because of her,
Fairer ye are to me because of her,
Than all the wind-swept, unscorched English glades.
Yea, Tua-Tua kiss me—art not thou
My sweet sea-breeze of England—my divine
Savour of clover, and the happy cliffs?
More art thou unto me than all these things;
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Thou hast; the blossoms of this gorgeous land
Are all made doubly fragrant in thine hair.
Something thou hast within thy wondrous eyes
Of those clear wondrous heavens that arch the sea;
And all thy voice is silver as the choirs
Who crowd at early morn thine echoing woods.
See—kissing this red blossom thou hast twined
Within thine unsurpassable loose hair,
I swear I will not leave thee, though I die.
Tua-Tua.—
My love, my true brave-hearted English lover,
It is no use, unless indeed—but nay!
It is no use. What can my sweetheart do
Against a whole fierce tribe of armed men?
For all our tribe, from immemorial time,
Has given support and honour to the priests.
My lover died—he killed himself, and, dying,
Invoked upon me the last curse of heaven,
Devoting me to the Fetish; so I die.
Ne'er yet has one soul so devoted fled
The wrath of priests and gods; it would be impious!
True, thou hast told me of a softer creed,
Of Christ (is that the name?) with tender eyes,
And tender ministry of upraised hands,
Blessing, not slaying—saving, not destroying—
But He is far away; His face is fair,
I know it is, like thy face: it is clear,
And strong, and calm, and kingly; yea, His eyes
Have surely the sweet colour of thine own;
Blue, like the blue sea—and His hair is soft,
And gold, and long and wavy—like thine own.
Perhaps thou art Christ! thou art the Christ, to me,
To Rose-Rose—Tua-Tua; thou art her Christ,
Her king, her lord, her saviour—yet, my sweet,
King, love, and lord, and saviour—me, thy poor
And humble dark-skinned love, thou canst not save!
To-day we are free; no single soul to-day
Will interrupt; it is the custom here,
Like all such customs, faithfully observed,
That the last day before a woman falls
Stricken on the blood-stained altar to the gods,
She is given perfect freedom—and 'tis thought
That whoso spies commits an impious act.
She comes and goes as her own heart ordains.
Therefore to-day is ours: to-morrow theirs.
Kiss me, oh, English lover—kiss me hard,
Yea, so—and so—now kiss me yet again.
See how I take the blossoms from my hair,
All loose, and pouring downward to my feet,
My black wild hair, that you, my lover, love—
See how I take the blossoms one by one,
And twine them in the bright gold of thine own.
There, they look better now; the black hair spoilt them!
They needed thy bright locks and thy bright eyes
To show them. Ah! you are so beautiful!
And there are girls in England, are there not?
One day—not long to wait, for I shall die
To-morrow, and a ship will shortly sail—
One day they'll see you, call you beautiful,
Caress you, kiss you. Will they kiss like this?
And they are white and fair, with golden hair
And sea-blue eyes, like yours; you will forget
Your dark-skinned maiden in their tender arms.
Oh, England! country of my true heart's love,
Dearly I love thee, love thee for his sake;
Yet never shall I see thy green, cool shore,
But here amid the burning island rocks
Must perish, perish, perish—and alone!
Ah, Christ!—ah, gods of my own tribe and race!
Help me—oh! help me—patiently to bear.
Now listen lover: nothing can avert
The vengeance of the Fetish; but to-day
Is ours, and love's, and life's; hear thou this song—
I made it for thee—if my English falters,
Laugh not but only smile—my dying gift.
But rest thy gold head first upon my bosom;
See, I uncover it alone for thee.
I take away, I daughter of a king,
The ancient Dyak monarch of this wild—
I tear away the brazen close cuirass
And press thee—thus—to the naked, heaving breast
No eye of living man till now has seen—
Only the maidens, the attendant girls,
Bathing me daily in the crystal stream
That flows beside the palace; in the pool
Guarded, and fenced, and watched. But now press close,
Oh sweet, oh king of men, oh Englishman!
Take all I have to give thee for thine own.
Press close and listen:—
It is no use, unless indeed—but nay!
It is no use. What can my sweetheart do
Against a whole fierce tribe of armed men?
For all our tribe, from immemorial time,
Has given support and honour to the priests.
My lover died—he killed himself, and, dying,
Invoked upon me the last curse of heaven,
Devoting me to the Fetish; so I die.
Ne'er yet has one soul so devoted fled
The wrath of priests and gods; it would be impious!
True, thou hast told me of a softer creed,
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And tender ministry of upraised hands,
Blessing, not slaying—saving, not destroying—
But He is far away; His face is fair,
I know it is, like thy face: it is clear,
And strong, and calm, and kingly; yea, His eyes
Have surely the sweet colour of thine own;
Blue, like the blue sea—and His hair is soft,
And gold, and long and wavy—like thine own.
Perhaps thou art Christ! thou art the Christ, to me,
To Rose-Rose—Tua-Tua; thou art her Christ,
Her king, her lord, her saviour—yet, my sweet,
King, love, and lord, and saviour—me, thy poor
And humble dark-skinned love, thou canst not save!
To-day we are free; no single soul to-day
Will interrupt; it is the custom here,
Like all such customs, faithfully observed,
That the last day before a woman falls
Stricken on the blood-stained altar to the gods,
She is given perfect freedom—and 'tis thought
That whoso spies commits an impious act.
She comes and goes as her own heart ordains.
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Kiss me, oh, English lover—kiss me hard,
Yea, so—and so—now kiss me yet again.
See how I take the blossoms from my hair,
All loose, and pouring downward to my feet,
My black wild hair, that you, my lover, love—
See how I take the blossoms one by one,
And twine them in the bright gold of thine own.
There, they look better now; the black hair spoilt them!
They needed thy bright locks and thy bright eyes
To show them. Ah! you are so beautiful!
And there are girls in England, are there not?
One day—not long to wait, for I shall die
To-morrow, and a ship will shortly sail—
One day they'll see you, call you beautiful,
Caress you, kiss you. Will they kiss like this?
And they are white and fair, with golden hair
And sea-blue eyes, like yours; you will forget
Your dark-skinned maiden in their tender arms.
Oh, England! country of my true heart's love,
Dearly I love thee, love thee for his sake;
Yet never shall I see thy green, cool shore,
But here amid the burning island rocks
Must perish, perish, perish—and alone!
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Help me—oh! help me—patiently to bear.
Now listen lover: nothing can avert
The vengeance of the Fetish; but to-day
Is ours, and love's, and life's; hear thou this song—
I made it for thee—if my English falters,
Laugh not but only smile—my dying gift.
But rest thy gold head first upon my bosom;
See, I uncover it alone for thee.
I take away, I daughter of a king,
The ancient Dyak monarch of this wild—
I tear away the brazen close cuirass
And press thee—thus—to the naked, heaving breast
No eye of living man till now has seen—
Only the maidens, the attendant girls,
Bathing me daily in the crystal stream
That flows beside the palace; in the pool
Guarded, and fenced, and watched. But now press close,
Oh sweet, oh king of men, oh Englishman!
Take all I have to give thee for thine own.
Press close and listen:—
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Leave, oh! leave me, lover dear,
Peril and swift death are here.
Kiss and leave me.
Blood-stained priests are on the track;
Swiftly fly and glance not back.
Heaven, receive me!
Peril and swift death are here.
Kiss and leave me.
Blood-stained priests are on the track;
Swiftly fly and glance not back.
Heaven, receive me!
How I love thee who can tell?
Other maids may kiss as well
In other lands;
But, oh! the beating, burning heart,
Thine in its inmost every part,
Who understands?
Other maids may kiss as well
In other lands;
But, oh! the beating, burning heart,
Thine in its inmost every part,
Who understands?
Ah, sweet, sweet! I give away
Thine eyes of blue to eyes of grey;
Thy golden hair
To golden locks or locks of brown;
The gift Christ gave I must put down—
It was too fair.
Thine eyes of blue to eyes of grey;
Thy golden hair
To golden locks or locks of brown;
The gift Christ gave I must put down—
It was too fair.
Too fair, too fair for dark-skinned maid,
And therefore up the black sad glade
I have to go.
Alone, alone, apart from thee—
A girl's blood for a penalty
Must flow.
And therefore up the black sad glade
I have to go.
Alone, alone, apart from thee—
A girl's blood for a penalty
Must flow.
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Farewell, farewell; but when you kiss
The next red mouth, remember this—
[Kisses him.
The next red mouth, remember this—
Remember me.
This lock of hair, this one red flower,
Give to thy maiden in that hour;
Give it with glee.
This lock of hair, this one red flower,
Give to thy maiden in that hour;
Give it with glee.
Robert.—
And I can sing. A painter though I am
By trade, I have the artist's general gift;
And I will turn it now to good account.
Listen, my Rose-Rose, how I answer thee.
He sings:—
By trade, I have the artist's general gift;
And I will turn it now to good account.
Listen, my Rose-Rose, how I answer thee.
Rose-Rose, fairest flower of mine!
In English meadows thou shalt shine—
Or I will die
With thee, with thee, sweet blossom, here,
And hold thee for that death more dear,
Hold thee more nigh.
In English meadows thou shalt shine—
Or I will die
With thee, with thee, sweet blossom, here,
And hold thee for that death more dear,
Hold thee more nigh.
The black death comes, the blue eyes shine—
They were not God's, they were not thine,
If they should swerve.
This bitter fate that tries us hard
The gates of love hath quite unbarred—
Made straight each curve.
They were not God's, they were not thine,
If they should swerve.
This bitter fate that tries us hard
The gates of love hath quite unbarred—
Made straight each curve.
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By God I swear, and by thine hair,
And by thy face so dark and fair,
And by thine eyes,
And by thy lips made mine for ever,
That death shall join, and shall not sever—
That death's mouth lies.
And by thy face so dark and fair,
And by thine eyes,
And by thy lips made mine for ever,
That death shall join, and shall not sever—
That death's mouth lies.
By Christ I swear, by His sun-bright hair,
And by the tides of English air
And English sea,
That I will hold thee to the last
As my own bride—thus—warm and fast;
Trust thou me.
And by the tides of English air
And English sea,
That I will hold thee to the last
As my own bride—thus—warm and fast;
Trust thou me.
By eyes of English women now
Fixed on my heart and on my brow,
Waiting to learn
What one lone Englishman can do
When love is strong and love is true,
I will not turn.
Fixed on my heart and on my brow,
Waiting to learn
What one lone Englishman can do
When love is strong and love is true,
I will not turn.
Scene III.—Chorus of attendant Dyak Maidens, bringing Tua-Tua bound towards the Altar of the Fetish in the black stony valley. Priests of the god, Soldiers, etc.
—Robert Campbell leaning against a rock, quiet but alert. The dead body of the lover exposed on a rock48
[The Dyak Maidens sing, leading Tua-Tua along:—
We are bringing a flower
To death's faint bower;
Hearken, O god!
O Fetish holy,
We lead her slowly
To thine abode:
A woman most fair,
With flower-filled hair;
Be gracious, O god!
Let thy vengeance as fire leap forth
From the east to west and the north.
To death's faint bower;
Hearken, O god!
O Fetish holy,
We lead her slowly
To thine abode:
A woman most fair,
With flower-filled hair;
Be gracious, O god!
Let thy vengeance as fire leap forth
From the east to west and the north.
Let her limbs be sweet,
And her naked feet.
Listen, O god!
O deity holy,
We drag her slowly
To thine abode:
A maiden most pure,
Her beauty secure
For thine arms for ever, O god.
Let thy fury as flame abound,
And this deed to thy glory redound.
And her naked feet.
Listen, O god!
O deity holy,
We drag her slowly
To thine abode:
A maiden most pure,
Her beauty secure
For thine arms for ever, O god.
49
And this deed to thy glory redound.
Let her maidenly glance
Flinch not for the lance.
Hear us, O god!
Let her maidenly look
Gaze full at the hook—
The bent steel goad—
That shall shortly impale
The flesh we unveil,
Singing All hail,
Greeting, O god!
Chorus of Priests:—
Flinch not for the lance.
Hear us, O god!
Let her maidenly look
Gaze full at the hook—
The bent steel goad—
That shall shortly impale
The flesh we unveil,
Singing All hail,
Greeting, O god!
Swiftly bring her to the flaming altar;
Let your lingering steps, oh maids, not falter:
Ready are the knife, the fire, the halter.
Let your lingering steps, oh maids, not falter:
Ready are the knife, the fire, the halter.
Bring the maiden most sweet
To the god's dear feet;
Bring the woman most fair
To the god's black lair;
That he
With ravenous hands
May hurry and tear;
And the sands
When she
Faints suddenly,
Tortured and smitten,
By the keen steel bitten,
May hide her forlorn, from all lands.
To the god's dear feet;
Bring the woman most fair
To the god's black lair;
That he
With ravenous hands
May hurry and tear;
50
When she
Faints suddenly,
Tortured and smitten,
By the keen steel bitten,
May hide her forlorn, from all lands.
So shall glory abound,
And the fame of our race
Resound
In every place.
And the fame of our race
Resound
In every place.
Swiftly bring her, maidens; falter not:—
Bear her towards the blood-stained, guarded plot:—
Let all hearts sing,
For a joyous thing
It is that the gods prepare
This body of maiden fair,
With beautiful loosened hair,
For their sacred feast.
Let each High Priest
In his happiness sing—
Till the far rocks ring.
Bear her towards the blood-stained, guarded plot:—
Let all hearts sing,
For a joyous thing
It is that the gods prepare
This body of maiden fair,
With beautiful loosened hair,
For their sacred feast.
Let each High Priest
In his happiness sing—
Till the far rocks ring.
For to-day the favour of God most high
Descends in a rain of blood from the sky,
And a glory of heaven and of pleasure is nigh.
Sing therefore:—
A stranger is leaning against the rocks,
Let him see no mortal the great god mocks:—
See wherefore
We bring an offering fairer than flocks,
Softer than flowers
From softest bowers;
More sweet, more fragrant, purer than these,
To the high god's temple, our great god's knees,—
Let the stranger, coming from strange, dim seas,
Mark how in the hot, delirious breeze
We dance round her
Whom our hands confer
On our god, our god to please.
Let him know that our gods are pure—
Let him feel that their laws are sure.
Let him see that our hands are firm—
That a life is a bud in the germ—
A broken shell on the shore,
A bubble of foam,—no more.
Bring the knife,
For her life.
Descends in a rain of blood from the sky,
51
Sing therefore:—
A stranger is leaning against the rocks,
Let him see no mortal the great god mocks:—
See wherefore
We bring an offering fairer than flocks,
Softer than flowers
From softest bowers;
More sweet, more fragrant, purer than these,
To the high god's temple, our great god's knees,—
Let the stranger, coming from strange, dim seas,
Mark how in the hot, delirious breeze
We dance round her
Whom our hands confer
On our god, our god to please.
Let him know that our gods are pure—
Let him feel that their laws are sure.
Let him see that our hands are firm—
That a life is a bud in the germ—
A broken shell on the shore,
A bubble of foam,—no more.
Bring the knife,
For her life.
52
(stepping forward, and addressing himself to the Chief Priest)—
Hold!
Is there no other way by which the oath
May be accomplished, and the maiden saved?
I know not all your customs, yet I feel
That in the subtle sacrificial rites
Which you observe, there must be holy means
By which the god at once may be appeased,
The maiden saved, the nation glorified.
Speak; is there aught that I, a stranger here,
Yet wishing welfare to the maid, can do?
Chief Priest.—
Nothing; for blood is spilt, and blood must flow.
Helpless, the maiden towards our god must go.
Maiden Chorus.—
Surely she must, with pang and wail and throe!
Priest Chorus.—
Which please the deities, laughing far below!
Robert.—
But in this godless gospel of despair
Is there no hope concealed—no latent flower
With seemly petals—though the petals be
Of livid texture, of smooth lustrous red?
A red plant better is than none at all!
53
Chanting this doleful litany i' the air!
Is there no hope? If blood must flow for blood
Why must the blood of this sweet maiden flow?
Are there no gifts that please the nether gods
Save maidens' bodies? Will not strength avail,
Power, vigour, manhood—are not these divine?
Are not divine things gracious gifts for gods?
Chief Priest.—
Yea, these are good; but woman is the flower
Chosen to deck the great god's holiest bower.
Maiden Chorus.—
Soon will arrive her last, yet glorious, hour!
Priest Chorus.—
Oh, great god, pity us; thy bounty shower!
Robert.—
It cannot be: speak priest; I see thy face
With something in it of relenting thought.
Chief Priest.—
A way there is; but never hath it been
Within the memory of our people used.
But yet 'tis written in our sacred books,
Which I have studied till my eyes grew blind
With patient poring o'er the lettered page.
54
(So it is written) patient to the death,
A maiden dedicate may be redeemed.
But bitter are the terms, the rules annexed!
Written it is that not by one straight blow
The man shall perish, as the mai den might
By one straight blow have perished—but that he
Shall linger three days, starving, tortured, hewn,
Stabbed—facing death in horrible mute ways,
Whereof the record tells not; and this rule
The god imposes in that no one man
Dying by common death, though he be strong,
Firm-sinewed, supple, agile, fearless, fair,
Can, like the tremulous and dying form
Of some delicious, panting, bright-browed maid—
(Praise to the god!—may all his altars gleam
With many a such auspicious sacrifice!
Praise to the god!—may his rule last for ever!)
No man can, like a quivering, slender maid
Glut the great-hearted frenzy of the god—
And stir to feverous fire of high delight,
Religious madness foaming at the lips,
His gladdened, patient-hearted worshippers.
Therefore, a maid being more than three times worth
55
A man must die three times, must die three days,
That is to say, must spend three days in dying.
Then shall the maid, if she have heart to kiss
The dead man's corpse, and heart to vow a vow
Solemn, firm-ratified by conscious heaven—
A vow to live and die unwed henceforth—
Then shall she, having vowed, be wholly free.
Robert.—
Ah! Now I know the meaning of her speech,
That short “unless:” she strangled on her tongue,
The “unless indeed:” she knew of this strange way,
She knew, but would not tell me—perfect heart.
Priest, I am English, I am not your own
To take, to bind, to do with as you will;
But yours I will be for this woman's sake.
What are three days in hell—for this is hell,
This rocky, sun-smit, devil-haunted glade—
What are three days in hell to years in heaven?
Gazing, perhaps towards the gold-haired Christ
My lady dreams of; gazing, perhaps, towards Him,
56
I see it all; this rock is Calvary;
I am Christ's deputy; He is not here
But I am here—or Christ is here in me—
And I am sent to plant the blood-stained cross
Of my own tortured body on this hill.
So be it.
Tua-Tua.—
Lily!
[He turns and meets her eyes straight. They are full of tears.
Robert.—
Yes, Rose-Rose.
Tua-Tua.—
Did you quite forget
That though the others knew your language not,
Me you have taught it—did you quite forget
That, bright-eyed Lily, when you spake aloud?
Ah, even if you had not uttered speech
So clear, so bold, your eyes so bold and clear
Would have made all your marvellous purpose plain.
But I am Tua-Tua—daughter fair
Of the great king. Lily, you shall not die.
Rather will I, by cursing the grim god
And all his priests—yes, sweet, for you I dare—
Bring down his utter vengeance falling now
57
Lily—you shall not do it.
Robert.—
Stay me not.
For all the wind of England in my hair
Is playing cool and sweet—'tis not the draught
From yon dark cavern fringed by emerald fern,
It is not that, but the cool, perfect breeze
Scented with July grass from English cliffs—
I see the cliffs, and all the cliffs are lined
With women watching how, beneath the sun,
I, English, for their sister-woman act.
Watching—I hear their voices silver-sweet,
I see their eyes of beautiful sea-grey,
Sea-blue, sea-green, or tender loveliest brown;
I hear their voices, and I see their eyes,
And all their waving, wondrous, lily-hands
Bowed gently to the English breeze that sweeps
The cliff, do point me one way—towards my death.
Oh, Tua-Tua, sweet, implore me not.
I could not look an Englishwoman, dear,
Not one true Englishwoman in the face,
If I, a coward, fled my proper doom.
These are the breezes where is duty high,
This is the cool wind; if I e'er returned
58
The sun, the scorching heaven, the hot wind there.
The breeze in summer would be hell's hot fume—
The smell of grass the savour of the fires
Of hell, and every woman's glance, unknowing,
Would stab me like hell's dagger to the bone.
For in their every glance, unconscious quite,
I should see that last glance of yours, O Rose,
Which, when the priests—if I shall give you up—
Drag you away, will o'er your shoulder seek—
Yes, love, you cannot help it—seek out mine,
And seek it with a last imploring look—
The look that only a woman can bestow,
And which once seen—be eyes that cast it dark—
Or light—yea, be the woman's body dark,
Or white and splendid—so it be but thrown
Into the eyes of some pale man behind,
Must haunt and scourge and purge him till his death—
And perhaps beyond death, through the meadows red
Of hell, or snow-white asphodel in heaven.
59
I feel all English, and I feel all love!
Now first I understand how love is fair,
And how the perfect English heart can speak.
Thou hast lifted me, my lover, by thy words,
In this short space of time unto a height
That all my girlish yearning never knew.
Alone I wandered through the lonely woods,
Amid the blossoms red and blossoms white,
Pining, desiring—through the early days
Before your face, a gleam of moonlight, came—
Pining for something, but I knew not what;
Desiring something, which I saw not how
To reach; the gift is now within my arms—
'Twas love I needed—lo! my love is here!
Now am I standing higher than e'er before
I, Dyak maid, the daughter of a king,
Have stood; for I have stood upon the hills
Of this our island—low, and topped by trees—
And watched the waving leagues of sultry blossoms
Stretched far before me—now I stand else-where—
I stand with thee upon an English cliff,
And gaze not over blossoms, but the sea;
I stand with thee upon an English cliff,
And feel the cool wind lifting all my hair,
60
Far, far before me stretches the grey sea
That thou hast told me of—the sweet grey sea,
Grey as the eyes of maidens thou hast loved
In England long before thy quick glance fell
On dark-eyed Tua-Tua; but I am English;
Lo! I am English; thou hast made me so!
And, being English, being loved besides
By thee, the English gold-haired ruddy Christ,
The chains of all these gods, though I am bound
In body, fall like snapped reeds off my heart
And off my leaping spirit. I hold the Christ
For lover now and king—I scorn these gods.
Chorus of Maidens—
She “hath spoken blasphemy;” drag her away
Beyond all blossoms, beyond the day.
Chorus of Priests—
To regions fetid, far from the ray
Of the light, where black fiends revel and stray.
Chief Priest.—
Hear us, O great god—hear us, I pray.
Tua-Tua.—
Before me stretches the wide sea's grey.
Robert.—
From a cliff we glance o'er an English bay.
Tua-Tua.—
But I am true.
If thou wilt die, why I will die,
61
Through the stars, through the sky
Of blue.
Robert
(To the Chief Priest)—
Take me lest she curse thy god—
Take me speedily.
Lo! thy deity lusts for blood,
Longeth greedily.
Flesh and bones I give thy god,
Give them readily.
Tua-Tua.—
Curse—
A shout—Enter English Sailor;—The Boatswain sings:
[Boatswain]
Strike the blackies right and left—strike them down;
Hit their god up in that cleft—smash his crown;
Take those jewels—'tis no theft: go it, Brown.
Chorus of Sailors.—
Hit them hard and scatter them, English tars—
Black backs shine better for crimson scars!
Boatswain.—
Come, my hearties, with a song—come along;
Loose the girl—have a care—give her air;
Seize the priest. How the blacks show their backs!
62
Hit them hard and scatter them, English tars—
Black backs shine better for crimson scars!
Boatswain.—
Hit them hard—damn their talk and their chatter
(Set the Captain free—is he free?—no matter!)
Now three cheers for the Queen, and the girl.
Wipe your faces—hottish work, Thomas Earl!
Chorus of Sailors.—
Hit them hard and scatter them, English tars—
Black backs shine better for crimson scars!
Tua-Tua.—
Tides from the English sea have reached us here.
Robert.—
Strange how rough voices can sound sweet and clear.
Tua-Tua.—
They are no voices, but thy sea's wild cheer—
Just as it breaks on thy wild cliff-sides sheer,
So hath it surged for our deliverance, dear,
Against the human rocks that hemmed us here.
Come near.
END OF SCENE.
This poem is founded on a superstition prevailing among certain savage tribes, to the effect that if one person considers himself to have been injured by another he may secure an inexorable vengeance by entering the house of the person he desires to punish, devoting him or her with solemn curses to the Fetish, and then, in the presence of the person so devoted, killing himself. After this, the unfortunate object of his vengeance has no possible mode of escape; she or he is handed over to the priests, taken to a lonely spot, and duly sacrificed with all the bitter and bloody rites of their abominable religion.
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