Ranolf and Amohia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ranolf and Amohia

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

Domett, Alfred (1811-1887)

BOOK THE FIRST. THE SAILOR-STUDENT.

Canto the First. The Sea-boy.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

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

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Third. From Wisp to Morass.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Fourth. Terra Firma.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

Canto the Fifth. Cloud-blowing.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

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

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Seventh. The Shipwreck.

II.

III.

IV.

BOOK THE SECOND. THE SOUTH-SEA VILLAGERS.

Canto the First. The Rescue.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Second. The ‘Sounding Sea.’

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Third. The Magician.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Fourth. A Woodland Jaunt.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Fifth. The Legend of Tawhaki.

II.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Sixth. Mythical Cosmogonies.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Seventh. The Captive.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

BOOK THE THIRD. ALL IN A SUMMER NIGHT.

Canto the First. Miroa's Tidings.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Second. The Song-cheered Swimming.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Third. The Star-lit Swimming.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Fourth. Legends of the Spirit-Land.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Fifth. Amohia at the Fountain.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Sixth. Silence and Moonlight.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Seventh. The Meeting.

II.

III.

IV.

II.

VOLUME II.

BOOK THE FOURTH. A LATTER-DAY EDEN.

Canto the First. Flight of the Lovers.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

Canto the Second. Miroa's Story.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Canto the Third. Love and Nature luxuriant.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fourth. Trees and the Tree-God.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Fifth. The Fountain-Terraces.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Sixth. A Geyser Yoked.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Seventh. English Maidens.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

BOOK THE FIFTH. STILL IN EDEN.

Canto the First. The Haunted Mountain.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Second. Sports on the Lake.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Third. The Cicada.

II.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fourth. A loving Questioner.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Fifth. A cheery Theorist.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Sixth. Love beats Logic.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Seventh. An airy Nest.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

BOOK THE SIXTH WAR.

Canto the First. The Beleaguered Fortress.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Second. War needs Idealizing.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Third. The grand Assault.

II.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

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

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Fifth. Love fed by War.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Sixth. An old wrong avenged.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

[section]

VIII.

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

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

BOOK THE SEVENTH. SELF-SACRIFICE.

Canto the First. Weariness.

II.

III.

IV.

Canto the Second. A sad Resolve.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Third. Death of the Magician.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fourth. Where is Comfort?

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

Canto the Fifth. A Vision.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Canto the Sixth. The Departure.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Canto the Seventh. After-Experiences.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

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161

BOOK THE SIXTH WAR.

163

Canto the First. The Beleaguered Fortress.

1. War song of Tribes attacking Tangi's fortress—Mokoia. 2. Who they were, and why there. 3. The Magician's motives: and proceedings of assailants and defendants. 4. Two assaults failing, a third prepared.

I.

1

The clashing of Tempests!
The tumult of Tempests!
To the West and the North
On their terrible path
They are rioting forth;
And they crash altogether in a whirlwind of wrath
Against the high fortress that bristles and towers
In the midst of the torn Rotorua. How cowers
The scared Lake!—how it shrieks—do you hear it?
As the lightnings spear it,
And savagely chase
In the race
Of affright
The mad-fleeing flakes of the wind-levelled spray;

164

Or shrivel, in flame-sheets how blindingly bright,
Black tangible night
To blue hideous day!—
O the clashing, the flashing, the tumult, the jar,
Of the gathered confederate tempests of War
Over Mókoi-ahía!

2

See, see you the glare,
O Riri, the glare?—
How the flames leap in air,
Bloodstaining the leaden-hued murkiness scowling
O'er the high Western hills where the tempests are howling,
Paparáta, Wainúku, with thunderclouds growling?—
—No fire, no flashes,
Erelong shall be there,
No life-spark or love-light on mountain—in vale;
Not a sound of despair,
Sorrow-breath,
Sob of wail—
But the blackness of ashes,
The silence of Death,
Over Mókoi-ahía.

3

Come forth, my Canoe,
My glorious Canoe!
Right over the war-boats of Tangi,
Right over their gunwales though fiercely they strive,
Thou shalt drive, thou shalt drive,
While the paddle-beat foam-waves enwreathe us, ha! ha!—

165

Resistless—remorseless—right onward—no check—
Thou shalt tread down and trample each plunging wreck!
Thou shalt ride
In thy pride
O'er its hollow inside,
While the hissing wave fills it beneath us, ha! ha!—
O my tearing, all-daring, unsparing Canoe—
O the might,
The delight
Of your conquering crew!—
What a tustle shall wait them,
A triumph elate them,
A blood-revel sate them,
At Mókoi-ahía!

4

Weave the great Chain—
The great living Chain!—
Over hill, over plain,
Round and round, high and low,
It shall go, it shall go,
The beleaguering Chain round the Fort of the foe!—
I-ará! I-ará!—
Firm shoulder to shoulder, every inch of the ground—
Strongly woven—well-knit—all the links true and sound—
Around and around shall the great Chain be wound!
High and low
It shall go
Round the fear-smitten foe!—
Soft-stealing—close-hemming—all-stemming—death-dealing—
O the leaguer of heroes
At Mókoi-ahía!

166

5

How fretful the cries,
The plaintive wild cries
Of crimson-billed terns when in bright azure weather
They flock wheeling in from all parts of the skies,
Confusedly fluttering and huddling together
To dabble and scramble for food in the water!—
Rotorua's proud islet shall see such a muster;
From the regions all round so our victims shall cluster!
So shall they
On that day
Crowd in helpless array,
So be gathered at once all together for slaughter!
Wild-crying—no flying—all dying—no trace
Of their race
Shall be left on earth's face!—
Thus our foes shall be crushed
And the battle-roar hushed
Over Mókoi-ahía!—

Such was the purport of the measured roar,
A warrior-crowd by Rotorua's shore
From time to time across its waters flung,
Their wild excitement growing as they sung.
The song foreshadowed vengeance long-desired;
Visions of victory hate and hope inspired—
But vengeance doubtful—victory yet to win.
One singer fierce in savage solo first,
Within the space the circling throng left clear,
Darting about with madly brandished spear,
The ranting wild war-ditty would begin;

167

Then as they all struck in, the chorus strong,
Now full and furious, with a sea-like burst
Of guttural thunder grandly rolled along;
Now at the war-chaunt's pauses, interspersed
Its short harsh sighs of deep-lunged expiration,
Such as a pavier in a London street
Gives when his ponderous hammer strikes the stones;—
All panting forth in unison complete
Hoarse harmony of heartfelt execration!
Crash after crash of deep earthshaking groans,
Whose echoes through the folded mountains tore—
Escaping monsters, plunging on to hide
In their recesses; nor even then forbore
But far and farther off faint bellowings plied.

II.

This storm of war by Kangapo was brewed:
'Twas he had roused this raging multitude
Of Uri-wéra, Nati-pórou—all
The restless spirits turbulent and rude
Amid the neighbouring tribes, South, East or West
He found, or made, obedient to his call:
For stung by Tangi's cool disdain—his breast
Black with foul bile that Amo could arrest
His schemes by flight; and worst, that such a prize
Should by this chance-sent Stranger be possessed—
One whom he would so heartily despise,
But that he hated him so much, and feared,—
Aye, feared!—he could no more endure those eyes
That met his own so calmly and appeared
To look right through his soul and life of lies,
So high and safe above his sorceries—

168

More than the hound the Moon's unmoving gaze
Fixed on him mutely till he howls—and feels,
How through his canine consciousness it steals—
The fascination of those searching rays,
That read his inmost thoughts, know all his ways,
And fix him all the more, the more he bays:—
Stung with such rabid jealousy and pain,
Less for his own loss than the other's gain:—
For he was of a nature Hate could move
More deeply even than successful love;
And even his Love burnt livid, like the flames
Of liquids lit for joy in Christmas games,
With bitter selfishness 'twas so imbued;
While Hate that could through Love's triumphant mood
Survive, on baffled Love would surely prey
And batten into boundless life and play:—
With all these feelings fuming thus, the Priest
Had sought out Tangi's many secret foes
And hollow friends; these—most in peace retained
By dread of Tangi, and as great at least
Of powers himself from his dark Atuas gained—
Were prompt to seize whatever chance arose,
That seemed to promise surety of success
Against a Chief, whose frank blunt haughtiness
Left many a rankling grudge, in hearts that owned
His chieftainship while backed by strength; and more
In neighbours not dependent; most of whom
Could always point, besides, to some heirloom
Of injury—ancient grievance safe in store
Kept to produce, parade as unatoned,
Harangue on and grow wild about, whene'er
Interest might prove a breach was worth their care.
And now that Priest's defection—proffered aid

169

To Tangi's foes, such tempting juncture made!
That sorcerer's help, to warn, foresee, foretell,
And ever keep at hand, whate'er befel,
The fresh reserve of some religious spell
The fiercest Atua's favour to compel—
With such ally what could against them be
The force or fortune of the ‘Sounding Sea’?—
And readier even than these for reckless raid
Was many a youth with jealous fury fired,
Who, when that liquid landslip set her free
From bonds the “tapu” had around her knit,
To Amo's hand had fruitlessly aspired.
So, mustering quick in arms—sharp lances fit
For thrust or whirl; flat spears with cleaving blade
Of iron-hard wood; smooth clublets of green jade
Whale's bone or black obsidian: and, though few,
The white man's lightning weapons dearly prized
For such death-dealing powers, swift, safe, and true
As made all slaughter's ruder tools despised:—
—Bearing of berries dried sufficient store,
Hínau—karaka; sun-cured fish and maize;
Their siege-provisions for not many days,
As trusting to catch Tangi unprepared
And take his fortress by surprise before
His distant friends could to the rescue pour:—
—Dragging—(by dint of desperate labour, shared
Among thick-crowding, oft-renewed relays—
A hundred straining limbs and voices timed
As one, by that wild chaunt in chorus chimed)—
Or carrying bodily—their big canoes,
O'er hill and dale, with fierce incessant toil,

170

And frantic ardour nothing could infuse
But rampant greed secure of blood and spoil:—
—Leaving the friends of Tangi as they passed—
Too weak alone, each hamlet, to withstand
The headlong progress of so large a band,—
Within their palisadoes shut up fast:—
Thus had the host with hopes of victory flushed,
Through Tangi's country unimpeded rushed;
And now were camped by Rotorua's Lake
In swarms resolved his island-fort to take,
Under the leadership of one, by far
The boldest, vainest that had joined the war—
And ‘Whetu-riri’ named—‘The Angry Star.’

III.

Nor deem that Priest had wholly laid aside
The object of his passion and his pride
So long—his native tribe's success and power.
Incensed to be so baffled and defied,
His aim in giving Tangi's foes their hour
Of partial triumph, was but to reduce
The Chieftain's haughtiness till he should be
More pliant to his own ascendancy.
These crowds were tools and creatures for his use;
For well he knew whenever he might please,
He could the tumult he had raised appease;
Upon their superstitious fears could play,
And fright his new adherents from the fray
With well-invented omens of dismay.
This crooked course to so concealed an end,
Did to his mind his project recommend;
'Twas doubly dear to him to win his will
By secret exercise of sinuous skill;

171

The consciousness of cunning mastery made
A guerdon of success almost as dear
As aught for which his cunning schemes were laid.
Yet would he not even then, with insight clear,
Deliberate purpose to himself confess,
With cool deceptive art to forge or feign
Omens and signs sinistrous, to restrain
The assailants at the height of their success;
But he had taught himself to think and feel
The Atuas ever favoured his appeal—
Could with a little management be brought
To give him mystic aid whenever sought.
And at the outset, glad was he to find,
Tangi's own acts to aid his plans inclined;
For the old Chief was so devoid of fear,
When rumours of invasion reached his ear
By foemen such as these, the thought he spurned,
A notion too absurd to entertain;
And still refused, when surer news he learned,
With obstinate and absolute disdain,
To sanction against danger threatening thence,
Any unwonted measures of defence.
So when the storm broke o'er him, and he found
The tide of War advancing all around,
He gathered hastily a sturdy band
Of staunch adherents readiest to his hand:
And on that island hill-cone, girt and swathed
In tiers, with terrace, ditch and smooth-scarped bank,
Where'er its natural slope less steeply sank;
Each terrace a successive fighting stage;
Behind each fosse, a bristling palisade
Of posts with carved and monstrous heads arrayed,
Red-ochred, grim, and grinning scorn and rage;—

172

There they ensconced themselves to wait unscathed
Till succours should be hurried up by sure
And faithful emissaries swift despatched;
There, in their fortress, as they felt, secure—
Withdrawing from each ditch its wooden bridge,
Lifting each terrace-ladder o'er its ridge,
Each gate closed fast,—there scornfully they watched,
Behind the walls, each movement of the foe;—
Or frantically darting in and out
The palisades, kept rushing to and fro
With wild-tossed limbs and yell and taunting shout;
Or wasting at long range a charge or two
Of precious ammunition, if it chanced,
Prowling about, a prying war-canoe
Close to the isle too temptingly advanced;
Or some marauding, reconnoitring band
Upon the garden-level dared to land.—
Thus, keeping ever at the boiling fret
The fury that could find scant outlet yet,
Thus did they shout, from morn to even-close,
Or dance defiance of their swarming foes.

IV.

Twice had the foe made fierce attack;
With slaughter twice been beaten back;
For Tangi's staunch and stalwart band—
The skill and valour far-renowned
That marked the veteran's cool command—
The lines that wound that hill around—
And last, not least, unknown before,
The dreaded weapon Ranolf bore
That through the press could swiftly hurl
A shower of deaths at every whirl,—

173

All these together made a sum
Of tough impediments no rush
Of Uri-wéra's hosts could crush,
Or arts, so far essayed, o'ercome.
Yet for a fresh assault, one more
Ere they should give the contest o'er,
They roused, revived their flagging force
And spirit dashed by ill-success;
Revolving every rude resource
Of savage war's ingeniousness:
Each tried, untried experiment
Old lore could teach, new craft invent;
And plying all the wild man's ways
Their forced factitious wrath to raise
And blow their fury to a blaze.

174

Canto the Second. War needs Idealizing.

1. War stripped of its splendour here. 2. It needs Genius to elevate it; such as Wellington's, Nelson's, Napier's; (3) Men fit for Empire— not to be won or kept by mere Utilitarianism; or the false Philanthrophy which would extinguish Patriotism and (4) ruin England. 5. A better fate for our worldwide Empire—of universal fellowship and mutual aid; no talk of ‘Self-help’ to colonies; obvious duty they recognize, as witness those killed in the war going on while this tale was being written. 6. Such deaths keep alive the spirit which will realize the Ideal of our British Empire—a crowned Federation centrally represented. 7. War a Worship.

I.

See now prepared for fresh assault
And every wild resource of War,
Both ‘Sounding Sea’ and ‘Angry Star’!

—But let us call a moment's halt;
For who can dwell with much delight
On details bare of barbarous fight?
War stripped of that superb disguise
Of splendour which to youthful eyes
Gives Terror more than Beauty's charms,

175

And o'er Death's revel scatters rife
Stern raptures of sublimest Life?
The marshalled ranks—far-glittering lines;
And square on square compact and dense—
Each layer-like slab of life intense
That firm as bristling rampart shines
In such high-drilled magnificence!
The single tramp and serried arms
Of myriads moved like one together!
The bayonet-blades—each row of steel
Soft waving like a brilliant feather
As in broad lines the regiments wheel—
How in the sun they flash and quiver!
The ponderous flying guns that cling
And clutch at every vantage ground
Like savage birds of heavy wing,
And with volcano smoke and sound
Exulting boom and blaze away;
Or flit when they no more may stay,
As vultures lagging leave their prey!—
Then Music's thrilling witchery,
From Matter's gross enthralment ever
Potent the spirit to deliver,
Fans all the Soul to fever-heat;
The big drum's distant windy beat,
Tumultuous-heaving stormy sea,
Over whose plunging waves alway
The fife's light notes dance up like spray!
And trumpets soar and bugles call:
Or loud in fits far rattling comes
The glorious long-resounding shiver
Of those impatient kettle-drums!—

176

II.

—But more than Music—more than all
Imperial pomps and prides that shine
To make Destruction's Art divine,
Is that display, the grandest still
To any human lot can fall,
When Genius with consummate skill
Wields the ennobling sword it draws
Resistless in a righteous cause:
Such as our wondrous Warrior drew,
He, Duty's great Archangel—true
The least or largest work to do
That shrineless God could set him to!
Whose Soul to that fast-zenithed Sun
Glowed consecrate—its Magian fire,
Kept burning ever, brighter, higher
For storms of State—War's cloudracks dun—
The wild vicissitude of things;
A soul, a mien—erect—serene—
'Mid tumbling thrones and trembling kings!—

—Or that high-passioned One—our loved
Sea-King—whose frail war-shattered frame
Seems, like the Sun's disc in its flame,
Lost in his Spirit's blaze of Fame!
That fiery soft great heart sublime,
Who with his stately white-winged crowd
Of lightning-bearing Sea-Swans, moved
Majestical from clime to clime,
And, wrapped in one sky-reaching shroud
Of dense white level-jetted cloud,
With grand sea-thunders swept away
His country's foes where'er they rose;—

177

Who, with such cool and crushing ease
Like chessmen used to place and play
His crowded floating fortresses;—
Who like a rushing Comet, prest
Across the World from East to West
And back, in that gigantic race
Of Warfleets o'er the Atlantic Main;
When wondering Europe saw him chase
Like doubling hares that scud in vain,
The navies of proud France and Spain!—

—Or He, whose dazzling deeds make pale
(As well says one who paints the fray)
Old marvellous times of casque and mail—
Dense arrow-flights through thronging knights
At Agincourt's and Cressy's fights;
Whose might on great Meánee's day
Wiped out again the Cábul stain,
That red retreat—one slaughter! he
Who that audacious victory
With his heroic handful tore
From twice as many thousand foes
As he had hundreds; so, dispersed
The hovering hundred thousand more
Of ruffian-hordes with razor-swords
Keen-panting on their prey to close;
Flung to the winds the sway accurst,
And rooted up no more to rise
The regal stews and robber sties
Of those Emeers whose quaking fears
Erelong through Asia's wide heart ran;

178

Till every turbaned Tyrant there
And bloodstained bandit in his lair
Shook at his very name—unscreened
Though wastes and mountains intervened,
Though round him raged a ruthless clan,
Against this terrible true Man,
This justice-wreaking holy fiend,
This demon ‘brother of Shay-tan’
Fighting God's battles!—

III.

Aye, indeed!
These men were the right genuine stuff
To rule a World—a hero-breed—
High minds, such as by instinct feed
On mighty tasks,—Souls large enough
For Empire!—Empire, never won
As never kept, beneath the Sun,
By slow hack-hearts that never knew
A spur beyond material greed!
The mere ‘utilitarian’ crew
Whose huckstering God is only Gold;
That ‘cheaply bought’ be ‘dearly sold,’
Their sordid creed and single heed;
Whose grovelling zeal,—their Altar still
The counter—and their Ark the till—
At that base shrine would sacrifice
Power, honour, Empire!—all the ties
That keep us one; whatever wakes
The patriot glow, the pride of race;—
All that, with love of Order, makes

179

A people of a populace,
And any people great! whate'er
Of quick and kindling sympathy
With England's children everywhere—
Our common claim to one great name,
One heritage of storied Fame,
It was our boast, our strength to share;—
That conscious thrill of kindred blood
Which false refinement feigns to raise,
Evaporating all its good,
Into a fine and feeble phase
Of vague and vain Philanthropy;
But kept alive,—yet none the less
Alert to let no furtherance slip
Of all-embracing comradeship
And generous great wide-heartedness,—
The more it can inspire, expand,
So much more glorious, powerful, grand,
Becomes each human brotherhood;
And ever, just as each has grown
To greatness or remained unknown,
Did each this genial warmth possess
Defective or in bright excess;
The savage, for his tribe alone,
The Roman for a World—his own!

IV.

But O thou Mother-Isle afar,
Whose fame Thyself alone couldst mar!
Should those mere sensuous saws indeed
(If good and true to clothe and feed)
Be idolized to supersede

180

The holiest duties, highest aims
Thy Rulers owe, thy welfare claims;
And they and Thou, in pride secure,
Be deaf to all the grand demands
The glorious Gift of world-wide lands—
Birthright of all thy swarming sons
Won by the mighty deathless dead,
Thy heroes' blood like water shed,—
Thunders upon Thee; then be sure,
England, my Country! nought avails
Thy wealth, thy commerce; he who runs
May read upon thy whited wall,
The ‘Mene, Tekel’ of thy fall!
Then hide thy head for shame—then say
And sigh—thy soaring Sun has past
Its zenith; own thyself at last—
Weighed in the fitting trader-scales,
Found wanting; then confess thy day
Of greatness done—thy glory gone—
Thy peddling kingdom passing fast away!—

V.

Ah no! such close shall ne'er await
The dawning day when Thou shalt be
To thy sublimest work awake!
Full many a streak begins to break
In purple promise of the fate
We hope—foresee—foretell for thee!
When such a sympathetic strain
Of loyal fellowship shall reign
Through all thy filial-federal train
Of States by mutual interests bound—

181

And Thy large heart, the long-renowned;
Touch one—and one inspiring sound
Of murmuring millions all alive
To all that makes their union thrive,
Shall thrill throughout the mighty hive!
And prove, if Right before them shine,
All lightning-like how prompt to strike,
Not for a poor ‘Self-help’ alone,
But Thou for theirs, and they for thine—
All for each others' as their own!

—‘Self-help’—but then the ungracious word
In cold reproach shall ne'er be heard!
If ever, as a shameless taunt
'Twas flung—ah, let the memory sink!
Unworthy those in lofty place
Who nobly rule a noble race,
Not apt from such ‘self-help’ to shrink!
Let that plain fact, no empty vaunt,
Their deaths, those gallant ones! attest
So oft struck down in wretched war
By savage pride upon us prest:—
Attest it his, among the rest—
(Be thus much said for kinship's sake)
Who sleeps the sleep no more to wake
On earth, 'mid loveliest scenes afar
Where Tonga-riro's snows disgorge
Their flames by blue Te Aira's lake—
Young, kindly, chivalrous St. George!
Whose honour-fired aspiring brain
Before that instant-blighting ball

182

Flashed into darkness without pain,
As in his wonted “dashing style”
(His comrades said) his men he led
Against the palisadoed wall
Of that last prophet-cannibal
Whose torturing tastes—impostures vile—
Into worst horrors back again
Of sickening savage life trepanned
A brutal duped benighted band.—
So swiftly his bold course was run,
That daring Spirit's duties done,
To whom the night and day were one,
As through dense forest-glooms he crashed,
Through flooded rivers dauntless dashed,
Or galloped past thick fern, close by
Where murderous scouts would lurking lie;
To keep our friends in heart, disclose
The machinations of our foes,—
With cool clear-sighted fiery zeal
Unceasing!—Ah, too soon the seal
Was set upon that life unknown,
That bud of promise nipt unblown!
The making of a hero marred,
If ever, then, when evil-starred
That young career by death was barred!

VI.

But not in vain—not void of gain
Devoted deaths so nobly dared!
Deaths that keep living unimpaired
The spirit to raise into the Real
Our English Empire's grand Ideal!

183

To build up, and from clime to clime
Extend that civil fabric sound
Of balanced social forces Time
Has their securest safeguard found;
Which, best for ordered Freedom still,
Still leaves the changeful Public Will
Unchangeably imperial-crowned!
That Empire—for the wisely free
A kindred haunt, a kindly home!
No poison-spreading Upas-Tree;
No Rata-Myrtle, pressing down
The life it wrecks to raise its own;
Nor e'er while sheltering like old Rome
Perhaps half-stifling—realm or race
In baneful shade—too strict embrace!
Rather some bounteous-burgeoning Vine,
Strong-stemmed—tough-jointed—rooted fast,
About whose purple-clustered vast
Luxuriance beauteous runners blow,
And rich strange blossoms interlace;
All round about each other curled
To swathe and wreathe the rotund World
With flowers of Freedom; petals fine
Of peaceful Glory; fruits that shine
'Mid equal rights and laws and grow
To mellowest richness in the glow
Of Reverence for all duties clear,
And all emotions—deep—divine!
All for the common strength and good
Enringed with many a tendril-twine
Of mutual help and brotherhood:
And woven from them all perchance—
Of fittest growths and finest blent,

184

From many a region far and near,
Their central garland of supreme
Impartial earnest governance!
And for the sovran ornament
Of that majestic anademe—
Climax and star that world-cymar
To crown—a world-wide cynosure—
Some peerless Lily, say, or pure
Camellia breathing the sweet power
White goodness has to sway—allure!—
—Nay, waive weak metaphors! What flower
Were emblem worthy to recall
The full deserts most favouring fate
May on such culmination shower!
—The life-long loyalty to all
The limits of that high estate;
All duties with a genial charm
Of gentle dignity fulfilled—
Grace by a Mind for ever warm
With clear exalted aims instilled;
The lofty courage, and no less
True woman's lively tenderness
And sympathy unerring, wide,
For suffering hearts where'er descried—
Right wisdom!—all the worth we see,
And seeing, love, revere and bless—
Victoria—Queen who dost possess
All worth this Age's Best confess
Best fits this Age's Queen—in Thee!

185

VII.

But this is from our theme remote,
(A respite brief from ruder life!)
Where present need was but to note
How poor a thing is human strife
Deprived of aids that seem designed
To make even War a Worship! make
Its mad turmoil the semblance take
Of some ennobling rite where Mind
Lords it o'er Matter—Soul o'er clay—
With absolute predominance
And solemn deep significance;
Until the very Battlefield
Becomes a Temple for display
Of spirit-proving deeds death-sealed
Of high Self-sacrifice—sublime
Devotion; and the bloody sod
Grows eloquent of something more
Than Duty—something beyond Time—
In recompense of Life and Soul
Flung freely down, unstinted, whole,
To magnify, uphold, restore
The cause of Good—and therefore God!

But War in this stark savage way
Looked too much like mere lust to slay;
Of its resplendent mask laid bare
The face of naked Murder seemed to wear;
Its hateful visage tempered by no glance
Of lofty purpose or superb Romance.

186

Canto the Third. The grand Assault.

1. War-speeches and War-dances. 2. The ‘Angry Star's’ host cross the Lake and challenge the Fort in chorus. 3. Tangi's contemptuous answer. 4. Attempt to fire the Fort. 5. The ‘Angry Star’ battering the palisade. 6. Tangi charging; heading a sally. 7. Ranolf (8) meets the ‘Angry Star.’ 9. A stratagem.

I.

Well—all the warrior-speeches had been made;
Now, with a coarsely classic dignity
Of grave debate and stern; and full parade
Of flowing dog-furred mantle, and blunt spear
With head tongue-shaped and feathery-ruffed, inlaid
With glistening shelly eyelets pearly-clear;
Now in rank virulence of savagery
Complete—each naked speaker as he shrieked
In hoarse harsh tones of mad complaint and rage,
Impatient, like a wild-beast in its cage,
To and fro fretting at a short quick run,
With which each fragmentary fierce appeal,
Each furious burst was ended and begun;
And every time he turned his angry heel
Slapping his tattoed thigh; until he reeked

187

And foamed; and breathless, voiceless, faint,
Was forced at last to yield the task, to paint
And passionate his griefs, to younger tongues,
Less wearied limbs and unexhausted lungs.

And then they danced their last war-dance to gain
The physical fever of the blood and brain
That might their dashed and drooping spirit sustain,
Nor let their flagging courage fail or flinch.
Then formal frenzy in full play was seen;
The dancers seemed a mob of maniacs, swayed
By one insane volition, all obeyed,
Their mad gesticulations to enact
With frantic uniformity, exact
As some innumerably-limbed machine,
With rows of corresponding joints compact
All one way working from a single winch:
The leaping, dense, conglomerate mass of men
Now all together off the ground—in air—
Like some vast bird a moment's space—and then
Down, with a single ponderous shock, again
Down thundering on the groaning, trembling plain!
And every gesture fury could devise
And practice regulate, was rampant there;
The loud slaps sounding on five hundred thighs;
Five hundred hideous faces drawn aside,
Distorted with one paroxysm wide;
Five hundred tongues like one, protruding red,
Thrust straining out to taunt, defy, deride;
And the cold glitter of a thousand eyes
Upturning white far back into the head;
The heads from side to side with scorn all jerking
And demon-spite, as if the wearers tried

188

To jerk them off those frantic bodies working
With such convulsive energy the while!
—Thus—and with grinding gnashing teeth, and fierce
Explosions deep in oft-narrated style,
Those vollied pants of heartfelt execration;
Or showers of shuddering hissing groans that pierce
The air with harsh accordance, like the crash
When regiments their returning ramrods dash
Sharp down the barrel-grooves with quivering clang
In myriad-ringing unison—they lash
Their maddened Souls to madder desperation!—
Thus all the day their fury hissed and rang;
So groaned, leapt, foamed, grimaced they o'er and o'er;
Till all were burning, ere the sun should soar,
Against that stubborn Fort to fling themselves once more.

II.

Before the faint wide smile of dawn, so wan
And grey, to steal up Night's sad face began,
Crammed in canoes bold Whetu-riri's host
With favouring breeze had to Mokoia crossed.
With hearts high-beating to the strand they spring,
Each band behind its Chief; without a check
Hasten through grove and garden—many a bed
That late in such luxuriant neatness spread,
Of melons, maize and taro—now a wreck.
The outer palisades the foremost reach;
Take the positions prearranged for each;
And close around the Fort, a swarming ring:—
Then—as no challenge came—no warrior stirred,
And not a sound about the Fort was heard;

189

At once, like one—six hundred throats or more
Sent thundering skyward such a sea-like roar
As old Mokoia never heard before:

“How long, how long
Will your courage sleep?
When will it wake from its slumber deep,
When will your fury be fierce and strong?—
O but the tide it murmurs low,
Low and slow
Beginning to creep;
'Twill be long
'Twill be long
Ere it roar on the shore
In the strength of its flow!

Take with spirits heavy-laden,
Take your leave of wife and maiden;
Press, ha! press in last embraces
To your own their weeping faces!
Press them paling,
Weeping, wailing—
All your efforts unavailing!
For see, for see,
The brave and the strong
At your gateways throng!
See, see, how advancing in lines victorious
All your efforts scouting, scorning,
To the fort you lurk dismayed in,
Brave and strong
We tramp along!
Ha! we come! exulting, glorious
As those mountain-summits hoary!

190

Proud as mountain-peaks arrayed in
The magnificence of Morning
We come for glory—glory—glory!
We come! we come!—”

Stern—silent—in determined mood
Within those loop-holed walls of wood,
Alert, be sure, old Tangi stood;
He and his stalwart warriors true,
Alert, well-armed and watchful too!
Each short sharp-edged batoon of stone
Grass-green, or white of polished bone,—
That from the hand no foe might wring
The weapon at close grips—was bound
With thongs each sinewy wrist around;
But loose the long-armed axe was left,
Both hardwood blade and pointed heft—
A dagger, or an axe to swing,
Just as the warrior thrust or cleft.
The precious muskets, rude and few,
Their blunted flints well-chipped anew,
All primed and cocked, were pointing through
The palisades, behind whose breast
Keen, eager, fierce, the clansmen pressed,
Like wild-beasts waiting for a spring.
But yet no tongue the stillness broke,
No shout of wild defiance woke;
For to that threatening, thundering strain,
The sole reply the Chief would deign
Was one brief proverb, as his hand
Waved silence to his eager band:

191

And that firm lip, comprest before,
A haughty smile contemptuous wore;
“Ay, come!” he growled—“come on to shell
Cockles on Kátikáti's shore!”
That long-disputed dangerous land,
As every Maori knew so well,
Fit for no tool but spear and brand;
On whose contested sands and rocks,
Who came got nothing but hard knocks;
For, plucked from that long home of strife
A limpet might have cost a life!
Hence grown a gibe for all who set
Their hearts on gain they ne'er would get.

IV.

But soon as Tangi's taunt was flung,
And while the roar redoubled rung,
The assailing ranks disparting wide,—
There forward rushed—a gloomy wood
It seemed, or some great tidal wave,
In doubtful light the dawning gave!
A hundred of the bravest brave
Swept darkling up in order good;
Each in his left hand holding high
A bundle huge of brushwood dry
And withered fern that hid him quite—
Him and the fire-brand in his right.
Against the fort their heaps they piled,
And soon the flames were raging wild;
For still the breeze that brought them o'er
Blew freshly from the further shore.
It lighted up, that sudden glare,
The fort—the shore—the swarming, bold,

192

Blue, ghastly faces writhing there
With wrath and frenzy uncontrolled!
The fern became a mass of fire,
A brilliant yeast of surging gold;
And whirling darkly from the pyre
The smoke in russet volumes rolled
With showers of sparks and frond and spray
Red-hot, or floating filmy-grey.
Old Tangi, Ranolf, and his train
Of warriors strove, and strove in vain
To heave the blazing heaps aside;
No naked limbs or clothed could bide
That heat—no lungs could long sustain
The smoke that, blinding, stifling, dense,
Drove ever thicker through the fence.
So forced from that first outwork, they
With teeth that gnashed in scornful rage,
And shouts of fury burst away
Leaping and clambering up to wage
The fight upon a higher stage;
Headlong as alligators bounce
With water-snakes and bull-frogs harsh,
Out of some rank rush-covered marsh,
In river-depths to plunge and flounce—
In Hayti or the Isle made glad
With springs perennial crystal-fed—
When some crab-hunting negro-lad
Has fired their reedy crackling bed.

V.

Then wild with joy the ‘Angry Star,’
At this success—the first the war

193

Vouchsafed his arms—let loose again
His rampant pride, his boastful vein.
By fear, by prudence undebarred,
Up to the fence, black, tottering, charred—
(His feet,—with green flax-sandals shod
Prepared for this, the reeking sod
And glowing embers safely trod)
He bounded; took his dauntless stand
With granite-headed axe in hand
Beneath it, and began to rain
A shower of blows with might and main,
As each had been his last for life,
On crumbling post and crashing stake,
Broad entrance for his band to make.
There,—bellowing loud his battle-song,
His favourite song in such a strife,
While all the less adventurous throng
(Save six or eight who lent their aid)
Until the breach might be essayed
A more respectful distance kept,—
Less man than frenzied fiend of hell
He raved and roared and danced and leapt
And right and left his weapon swept—
A blow at every leap and yell
Against that smoking citadel:

“Hit out, hit out
My battle-axe stout!
Ha, ha! you should tell
The sound of it well,
How it played
Long ago
On your crashing stockade!

194

Do you know,
Do you know
Who your foe may be?
Prick your ears up and hark!
Or come if you dare,
I-ará! if you dare
Come out and see!
Whetu-riri!—'tis he,
Whose eyeballs glare
Red stars in the dark!
'Tis he! 'tis he!—
Hit away—hit away,
My battle-axe gay!
Hit out—hit out,
My warriors stout!
The dastards rout
And Victory shout—
I-ará! I-ará!”

VI.

Now all upon that windward side
The fallen fence left passage wide,
And Whetu-riri's raging host
The ditch and barrier swiftly crossed;
While Tangi's men retreating, threw
Themselves inside the rampart new;
And as the palisades they passed
Made every sliding panel fast,
Till round the fort the assailant horde
Upon the second platform poured.
Then out—unable to restrain

195

His pent-up wrath, his fierce disdain,
Or patient wait his foes' attack;
With all his bravest at his back,—
Just as the glorious Sun again
Slipped silvery from the mountains black
With panting disc upfloating free—
Out rushed at last the ‘Sounding Sea’
In wild ferocious majesty,
His battle-cry resounding loud
Above the tumult of the crowd!
“Now, forward, now, my Sons with me—
Now forward to the Land of Death!—”
That shout o'er all the hubbub swelled
Of casual shots and bulwarks felled
And stakes that crashed and fiends that yelled,
Distinct as—from the midnight's core
Where leaps the blue sheet-lightning's blaze
And hissing rains in torrents pour,
The dread Caffrarian lion's roar
That shakes the earth to which he lays
His head and thunders—rises o'er
And deeper-volumed rolls beneath
The angry bellowings that disclose
Where stamp, upstarting from repose
Whole herds of snorting buffaloes!
Where'er that Chieftain charged, dismayed
His foes fell back like huddling sheep
The wild-dog drives into a heap;
Or brief the fight the brave essayed:
So deadly swept as on he rushed
His ponderous battle-axe's blade;
Each chief who his encounter stayed
Just met him, and with right arm crushed

196

Disabled from the contest slunk;
Or down at once scarce groaning sunk
With cloven skull and quivering trunk.
—The ‘Angry Star,’ for all his boast,
Not yet the veteran's path had crossed,
But, as it seemed, preferred to close
With less renowned, less dangerous foes;
Or had a craftier game to play
More sure than such a doubtful fray.
So still resistless through the fight
Old Tangi raged; still rose on high
O'er all the noise that battle-cry,
“Now forward to the realms of Night!”—
Yet still for numbers beaten back
Fresh numbers pressed the fierce attack;
The platform mounted—haply dared
To charge the very gates across
The bridges left upon the fosse
By Tangi, for retreat prepared.
But vain their toil—their fury vain;
No hold, no entrance could they gain—
Resisted all—repulsed or slain.

VII.

Meanwhile upon another side
Young Ranolf with a trusty band
Had sallied,—when his anxious bride
Fair Amo,—who whate'er her fears
Gave no weak way to sighs and tears
But o'er her heart kept brave command,
Had to her serious brow and breast
Her hero—husband—lover prest;

197

And prayed him, only for her sake
Be careful, or her heart would break!
But he, although his own beat fast
With strange excitement at this new
Experience, reassuring smiled
On the devoted desert-child:
And with that confidence, the glow
Of burning blood, and nerves high-strung
And braced by hardy life, bestow
On those born brave, in health, and young,—
Till death, disaster, they contemn
As things not meant, not made for them!
And hold their fortune, fate so high,
All danger they may well defy,—
He bade her, laughingly, rely
Upon his luck, too good by far
For him to fall in such a war!
Then sallied with his friends where they
As older warriors led the way.

With no ferocious wish to slay,
No savage thirst for blood, at first
Our generous youngster only chose
To use his deadlier weapon more
To save his friends than harm his foes.
And when increased the wild uproar,
And more intense the tussle grew,
Himself with wild delight he threw
Into the press as it had been
Some headlong, jovial, schoolboy scene,
‘King-seal-ye!’—football—any game
Might more than usual daring claim.

198

VIII.

While thus engaged, it chanced the youth
Full upon Whetu-riri came;
And with a moment's shock in truth
That back his blood's quick current sent,
Found his revolver's barrels spent!
Himself in fact unarmed before
The Chief who down upon him bore,
But paused until he joyful saw
The pistol never raised to fire;
Then out his tongue was thrust—his jaw
Aside—his eyes turned back—his face
Distorted with the grim grimace,
His sign of hate, defiance, ire;
High whirled his axe for one sure blow
To lay his helpless victim low.
But Ranolf rallying swift as light
Or lightning, leaping forward, dashed
(Before the axe could downward sweep)
His clenched right hand with all his might
And the momentum of his leap,
Full into that grimacing grin;
And made the astonished savage spin—
While fast his rolling eyeballs flashed
With other gleams than fury lent—
Clean o'er the ditch's sheer descent
Amid the smouldering stakes that crashed
Beneath him as he headlong went,
Wondering what demon could assist
The weight of that hard English fist.—
“Kapai! ka nui pai!—Well done!
O right well done!” a hoarse voice cried—

199

Old Tangi's—at his topmost run
As rushing round the palisade
That brief encounter he espied
And hastened to the young man's aid.

IX.

—A grisly sight in sooth was he
That huge exulting Chief to see,
As there with lowered axe he stood
And Whetu's smashing fall surveyed!
From his broad axe-blade dripped and drained
The blood; and all with hostile blood
His hoary hair and beard were stained;
With drops of fierce exertion rained
His brow; his chest—so rugged, vast,
And muscle-woven like the twist
Of cable-cords some olive rears,
Some mighty trunk eight hundred years
Have seen in rocky strength resist
Their rending frost and raging heat;—
Like some great engine working fast,
That knotty chest quick-heaving beat:
So stood the Giant in his glee
In friendly hideous ecstasy!
But scarce could toil or triumph check
His course an instant; on he went
(As Ranolf leaving clear his road
Back to the barrier stepped to load)
On towards his prostrate breathless prey,—
That fallen ‘Star,’—with fell intent
To dash his life out where he lay.
But ere he reached him, to his feet
Up sprung Te Whetu, bold, erect—

200

Though still his blue-lined face streamed red
With that well-planted blow's effect;
At first prepared his foe to meet;
But seemed an instant to reflect;
The tough encounter seemed to dread:
Then shouting bade his men retreat,
And o'er the flat deliberate fled.
Swift passed the word from man to man,
And swiftly leaping down they ran
On all sides from the leaguered fort.
Three steps to follow, Tangi took,
With glad but half-astonished look;
And then in full career stopped short;
Smiled sternly with disdainful lip;
And pulling with his finger-tip
His under eyelid down in scorn—
“Is this your mutton-fish! Am I
Your greenhorn!” was his haughty cry;
For all the plan was patent then,—
To draw him to the open plain,
Where his slight force though stanch and good,
No chance against their numbers stood.
So, with the crowd though onward borne
A moment, back he forced his men;
Bade them for very shame restrain
Their shouts of ‘Victory,’ yet to gain;
And soon had all except the slain
Safe in the fort, to counsel there
How best they might the wall repair—
How best to meet—forestall—defeat,
The next assault their foes might dare.

201

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

1. The assault renewed. 2. A new device. 3. Amohia in the flames. 4. The ‘Angry Star’ and ‘Sounding Sea’—hand to hand. Ranolf to the rescue. 5. The ‘Striker-in-the-Dark.’ Tangi wounded. 6. The ‘Gourd.’

I.

Short breathing time the ‘Angry Star’
Gave Tangi, nor retreated far.
Soon as he saw his feint to draw
The veteran from his Fort had failed,
Again he marshalled all his band
Upon the flat beside the shore.
Then with a new device though planned
Before, with hearts and hopes new-fanned
And by the cunning Priest beguiled
With omens sure and safe, once more
The stubborn stronghold they assailed.
With songs and yells and gestures wild
In swarms across the ditch they swept;
In swarms the broken barrier leapt;
Once more by casual shots annoyed
Around the platform swift deployed.

202

Again—scarce waiting their attack—
The fiery Chief, whom neither age
Nor odds nor toil made slow or slack,
Had sallied forth to force them back,
Or hand-to-hand at least engage
The first who scaled that fighting-stage.
So all the terrace circling round
The ramparts, as before, was crowned
With thronging men in deadly broil
O'erthrown—o'erthrowing; a dark coil
Convulsive, fluctuating, dense,
Of agonizing forms confused,
In every violent posture used
In mad attack or tough defence!
A mass of spears and clubs that crossed
And clashed, and limbs that twined and tossed,
As leathery links of seaweed lithe
At ebbing tide on rock-reefs writhe:
And all the forms and limbs exact
In statuesque proportions cast—
Dark symmetry of strength compact,
Where working muscles rose and fell
With shifting undulations fast
As poppling wavelets when the breeze
The tiderip grates in narrow seas!
Till all that ring of wrestlings rife,
Continuous knots of naked strife,
Had seemed, to looker-on at ease,
Some crowded Phigaleian frieze
Or Parthenaic miracle
Of Art awaked to sudden life—
Or worked in terra-cotta, say,
Brown Lapithæ in deadly fray;

203

Large-limbed Theseian heroes old,
But darkly dyed, of kindred race,
Whose naked forms of classic mould
In one wide-raging death-embrace
Their naked struggling foes enfold.

II.

But when the fight was at its height
His new device Te Whetu tried.
Up-rushed a shouting band outside
The black-charred fence before laid low.
In order good, a double row
They came; each warrior of the first
Poising a platted green-flax sling
Well wetted in the nearest spring;
And in the sling a red-hot stone,
Which, high above the ramparts thrown
Should soon make such a blaze outburst
From walls of rush and roofs of thatch
As might the whole defences catch,
And force the stifled foe to fly
The Fort he held so stubbornly.
The second rank bore, close behind,
In baskets green with earth safe-lined,
Of heated stones a fresh supply.
Then, at a signal given they hurl
A burning volley, thick and hot
As soft red lumps of scoria whirl,
In showers from dark abysses shot
By old Vesuvius in his play,
His common freaks of every day,
When all his lava floods repose:

204

Or such as o'er his creviced snows
The grander Tongaríro throws—
While dread reverberations round
His sulphurous crater-depths resound—
When all the solemn midnight skies
With that red beacon of surprise
He startles—seeming from afar
Though low upon the horizon's bound
Sole object in the vault profound!
So baleful glares its fiery shine,
To all the tribes an ominous sign
Of death and wide disastrous war.
—Now, now, alert and active be,
Ye children of the ‘Sounding Sea!’
Your shifty foes will else make good
The threats erelong that boastful song
Sent echoing late o'er vale and wood!—

Not wholly unprepared they speed
To baulk and baffle if they may
Their fierce assailant's fresh essay.
For they had seen above the green
The smoke of fires lit up when need
Was none of fires for warmth or food;
And soon the project understood.
So all the gourds they could provide
Were ready, every house beside;
And even a large canoe to be
Their tank in this extremity
Hauled up and fitly placed;—all filled
With water from a well, supplied

205

Itself by channels issuing through
The rock upon the Lake, below
Its surface cut; their outlet so
From keenest-eyed besiegers' view
Well-hidden by its waters blue.
And when that shower of firestones red
Came whirling, whizzing overhead,
For this vocation primed and drilled,
All those whom duty did not call
To watch the gates, defend the wall—
The old by age outworn, the young
With sinews yet for fight unstrung—
And young or old, the women too,
With Amohia first of all,—
Quick to the calabashes flew
Or tottered as they best could do.
And when the slightest whiff of smoke
From any roof or rush-wall broke,
Some hand was prompt the place to drench
And ere it spread, the burning quench.

III.

But Amo, first among the crowd,
With cheery accents, low not loud,
As if at once their hearts to warm
To effort, yet repress alarm—
With smiles upon her face—howe'er
Her heart might throb with secret care—
Seemed ever everywhere at hand,
To guide, encourage, cheer, command!
And once when fire broke out indeed
And none just then appeared to heed,

206

Nor quick enough the water came—
Up to the roof she leapt, she sprung,
And o'er the thatch her mantle flung,
And trampled out the mounting flame.—
With arms and that firm bosom bare,
In skirt of glossy flax, as there
Aloft in such excited mood
Hurrying her hastening handmaids, stood
The dauntless Girl—she looked as rare
For spirit, grace, commanding mien,
As loveliest Amazonian Queen
In those surpassing friezes seen!

IV.

But while this passed upon the hill
The fight below was raging still;
And that resistless ‘Sounding Sea’
At last had met the enemy
Whose death the most, of all the heap
Of slaughter his remorseless blade
That day, a bloody harvest, made,
The haughty Veteran cared to reap.
With satisfaction stern and deep
To feel his foe within his power,
He hurled—through clenching teeth that ground
As if with grim resolve that hour
Should be the last of both or one
And see the hateful contest done—
Defiance at “the slave—the hound!”
Then rushed upon him with a shower
Of blows of such terrific power
And weight and swiftness, left and right—

207

The ‘Angry Star,’ who tried in vain
The pelting tempest to sustain,
Was backward borne in self-despite,
Parrying the blows as best he might;
Ducking his head from side to side
Like tortured tree that scarce can bide
The beating of a gusty gale.
But Tangi's breath begins to fail,
The driving blows at length relax;
Less swiftly whirls his battle-axe;
And Whetu in his turn attacks;
But stalking round and round his foe
And watching where a blow to plant,
As runs a Tiger crouching low
Around some wary Elephant,
For chance, with viewless lightning-spring
His weight to launch upon the haunch
Of the dread monster and escape
The white destruction that in shape
Of those impaling tusks still gleams
Before him—still to face him seems
Turn where his eyes' green lustres may!
So watched Te Whetu when to fling
Himself upon that warrior grey—
So round him plied his swinging stride;
Then flew at him with yell and blow
'Twas well for Tangi, eye and hand
Were quick enough to slant aside—
And tough enough his battle-brand
Its sweeping fury to withstand.
Then such a whirling maze began
Of clattering weapons—stroke and guard
And feint and parry, thrust and ward,

208

As up and down the axes ran
Together, that no sharpest eye
Could follow their rapidity!
But Tangi, see! has clutched at last
Te Whetu by a necklace fast
The boastful savage ever wore
Of warriors' teeth, a ghastly wreath—
And twists it hard his foe to choke,
And shortens for a final stroke
His axe's hold—but fails once more—
The treacherous chain beneath the strain
Breaks, scattering wide the hideous beads.
Back springs Te Whetu—free again,
The deadly strife may still maintain:
Close follows Tangi; mad to be
Baulked of so sure a victory,
The road beneath him little heeds:
His step upon a spot is set
Where the hard clay is slippery wet
With gore; he slips—he stumbles o'er
A wounded wretch unseen who lies
Right in his path, on crimsoned stones
And dust that chokes a ruddy rill
Slow-creeping but increasing still—
Lies in the pathway there—with eyes
That anguished roll, heartrending groans,
And writhings like a centipede's
Caught in a burning log—and bleeds.
Down, down the Giant goes before
His Foe, who now began to rave
With joy at this unwonted run
Of luck his favouring Atuas gave!
Ere Tangi—old—with toil o'erdone—

209

Could raise him from his heavy fall,
He whirled his poleaxe high to end
Him and his triumphs, once for all.—

The blow was never to descend;
For at that instant at full speed
Up Ranolf ran to save his friend:
There was no time for thought, nor need:
Three balls in swift succession sent
Through Whetu's body crashing went,
Down drops his axe—his arms upthrown—
His eyes a moment wildly glare,
Then glaze with fixed and ghastly stare;
His staggering knees give way,—and there
He lies a corpse without a groan!
A pang smote Ranolf—though he knew
There was nought else for him to do.
Slowly rose Tangi; dauntless still;
And half-disposed to take it ill
That Ranolf's shot his debt should pay
And from his clutches snatch his prey.

V.

But when Te Whetu's men beheld
Their ‘Angry Star,’ their hero, slain;
And Tangi up again, unquelled,
With such triumphant fierce disdain
Looking where next to dash among
The thickest of the wavering throng;—
Beheld that Stranger's bearing bold,
And in his firm determined hold
His life-devouring weapon raised;
A terror seized the nearest band—

210

Who since the duel first began
Had breathless stood on either hand,
Inactive; wondering, half-amazed
What would the conflict's issue be
'Twixt ‘Angry Star’ and ‘Sounding Sea.’—
Through all the host the panic ran:
Down from the platform headlong leapt
The foremost fighting-men, and swept
Along with them the slingers too
And all the pebble-carrying crew!
Then Tangi, for he saw the rout
Was real this time, began to shout
To all his clansmen to come out,
Pursue and press the flying foe,
And smite and spare not high or low—
No glut of dear revenge forego!

But short his course—his triumph short;
For as he turned him—and addrest
To those behind a brief behest
That some should stay to guard the Fort,
A bullet pierced his rugged breast,
Out of a near plantation fired
By some obscure assailant hid
Behind a fence—ensconced amid
The rattling stems of withered maize—
A parting gift ere he retired;
'Twas Márupo, so named to mark
His ways—the ‘Striker-in-the-Dark.’—
Down sinks the Chieftain—to the ground
Bowed down by that slight-seeming wound;
Yet makes fierce efforts still to raise
The fainting form one elbow stays:

211

Still keeps erect that dizzying head,
And lifts the arm that weighs like lead,
And feebly cries a battle-cry
Of Vengeance and of Victory!
Still cheers with broken words and brief
His men, with horror struck and grief
To see thus fall'n their honoured Chief;
But most exhausts his gasping breath
In bidding them avenge his death
By such a havoc of his foes
As shall illume where'er it goes
The tale of his inglorious close.—
His life-blood ebbing, thus he steeled
His old brave heart, nor yet would yield
To be transported from the field;
Less heeding death than this disgrace
To fall by hand obscure or base:
Cursing the coward tools that gave
Such easy power to every slave
To slay the foe he durst not face!—
But while the most his hest obeyed,
With Ranolf some about him stayed;
And with their sturdy tender aid,
The Chief whom nothing could persuade,
But senseless could resist no more,
Into the nearest house he bore.

VI.

Meantime among the host that fled
And few that followed, quickly spread
The rumour Tangi too was dead;
And of the fugitives ahead

212

The foremost and least scared began
To make their comrades as they ran
Note their pursuers—far and few—
Their own o'erwhelming numbers too.
They pause—they turn; collect in knots
About the ruined garden-plots;
Not unobserved of him, in place
Of Tangi now who led the chase,
A wary warrior ‘Máwai’ named;—
‘Máwai—the Gourd’—because far-famed
For many a crafty deep design
By sap and trench and secret mine
For creeping into forts—unstayed
By tallest post and palisade;
As sure, though unperceived and slow,
As over fences high or low
That creeping climbing gourd will grow;—
Máwai amid the shrubs and trees
The foe in clusters rallying sees:
So shouts the danger out to all
His headlong comrades within call;
Rates—reasons—threats—entreats and makes
All whom his step or voice o'ertakes
Keep more together—rest content
Just now at least with what was done,
The vengeance taken—victory won.
And thus, with caution, by degrees,
And often turning as they went
As if to ferret out and slay
Chance fugitives that hiding lay—
So that a front they still present

213

To that recovering enemy
In crowds tumultuous hovering nigh,
And make him doubt their true intent,—
The scanty band of victors back
To their intrenchments take their way;
Their Fort unconquered still, though black
And reeking from the late attack.

214

Canto the Fifth. Love fed by War.

1. Amo tending her father. 2. Good springs from Evil. What if power to resist Evil have to be acquired; so a reason for its existence here? 3. Are Good and Evil opposite forces of one Power? True perhaps that Evil must exist, or only God. 4. Which better, stationary limited completeness; or imperfection with unlimited progress? Speculation idle. Action cures Doubt—how? 5. The enemy crest-fallen.

I.

But ere with Tangi Ranolf reached
The Fort, the anxious Amo came—
With more than one deep-wrinkled dame
Of reputation unimpeached
For skill medicinal—supplied
With best resources from their store
Kept ready and prepared before—
Lint, splints and bands and simples dried—
Came hasting to her Father's side.
Soon as his dangerous state appears,
She dashes off the starting tears;
And sets to work the whimpering crones,
And checks their loud untimely moans.
Thus schooled, with old experienced eye

215

And gentle hand, the nurses pry
Into the wound, and probe, and try
With styptic herbs well understood
To check and stanch the oozing blood;
With many a mild restorative
And crooning incantation, strive
His pausing pulses to revive;
And back the flitting life allure
With all they know to charm and cure!
With anodynes they soothe his pains;
And many a cooling drink restrains
The fever in his feeble veins.
By Amo's self, sad loving Child,
The thick elastic mats are piled
Whereon the helpless Chief they lay;
By Amo's hands are softly spread
The silkiest, for that poor grand head!
Her tender hands alone essay
To wash the battle-stains away;
And smooth and comb with fondest care,
His snowy beard and matted hair:
While from her heart to those still skies,
Sincere and fervent yearnings rise
For aid, where'er it lives or lies,
With any pitying deities!—
For she to Ranolf's Gods will pray—
Her father's—any Gods that may
Save that dear life, that pain allay!
And must not heartfelt wishes pure,
Deep-breathings of a daughter's love,
Be grateful to the Powers above,

216

And of benignant hearing sure,
As any prayers howe'er exprest,
And to whate'er enlightened, best
Ideal of Infinite God addrest?—

II.

And Ranolf, wondering, watched her glide—
Mid all that carnage sanguine-dyed,
And brutal savage homicide,
And murderous passions raging wide—
A Seraph of bright tenderness,
A healing Angel, in distress
Sent down to soothe—console and bless!
And felt, to see her there and thus,—
“How sad and beautiful a thing,
How sordid, sad, and glorious,
This human Nature is! where spring
Out of each other, linked by fate,
Such heavenly love, such hellish hate;
What bred this vermin Hate?—Love's rose!
Now, Love in Hate's vile hotbed blows!—
If Evil root itself in Good,
And Good must be evolved from Ill,
Must not the Author of the Good
Be Author of the Evil still?
And we, to work his ends, must we
For love of Good, the Evil flee,
That without which it could not be?—
Aye truly! if to be the seed
Of Good, is Evil's end decreed,
Enough, be sure, will still remain
To raise the plant, howe'er we strain

217

The seed's destruction to attain.
Say, by the great Soul-Shaper's plan
(Not quite a maze, not wholly dim)
'Tis Evil, tried and conquered, can
Alone exalt ascending Man;—
That just to win his way therein
Unsoiled, unquelled, is asked of him;
The very power, from this life freed,
In loftier life he most may need!
Then Evil's gauntlet he must run—
Be plunged o'erhead in it, as one
In water who would learn to swim;
And stumbling often—oft o'erthrown
Must risk it, as the Child ungrown
Must risk the fall to go alone;
Held ever by its Mother's hand,
How should it learn to walk or stand?
‘'Twere better it were born complete,
Set up at once on steady feet,’
Say you—‘could walk, swim, run at first—
No need to have those weak limbs nurst!’
Nay, then the holiest ties that bless
Our Nature you remove, repress—
The Infant's love and soft caress,
The Mother's depth of tenderness.

III.

So haply through all Being's round
To this condition Good is bound,
Evil in this alliance found;
That each must to the other lead,
And from the other each proceed.

218

And are they then each other's dower,
Two opposite forces of one Power,
Indifferent, central? must we give
Credence to that about the poles
The positive and negative?
Think that the still-contending twain
(Magnetic double-acting vein)
Ever towards equilibrium strain;
Each when it finds a yielded space,
Pressing to take the other's place?
While to their union would we mount
The ever mystic marvellous Fount
Of Good and Evil, where they live
In unimagined Essence bright
Of Perfect, Necessary, Right,
We come but to the Soul of Souls
Unknowable, for aye unknown
The Centre—God? whence issuing, still
Is issuing into Good and Ill?—
Who knows? but one thing might be shown:
Some Evil there must be where'er
Is Imperfection, foul or fair:
Perfection by a hairbreadth missed
Is Imperfection; you must say
The One Allperfect every way
Is God alone—what else but He?—
It follows—Evil must exist
Or God's the sole Existence be.

IV.

But say the Imperfect might be made
Complete within its bounds—its grade—

219

From every possible degree
Of Evil done or suffered free—
(Which none can prove)—with no desire
As no conception of the higher:
Would that a loftier lot have been?
To rest, a faultless mere machine
Bound down to automatic bliss
Of stagnant Being—that, or this
Which works through Darkness to the Light,
Still struggling towards the highest height
Perhaps in progress infinite?—
Pooh—pooh!” within himself he said
Breaking the speculative thread
Short off;—for that tumultuous fight,
His own exertions—and the sight
Of Amo by her father's bed
Working in strong affection's might
To soothe and cheer his evil plight—
Most keenly made him feel how vain,
How sickly all the sceptic train
Of thoughts on God, Man's doom or chance,
And Nature's mystic governance:
How true is Goethe's word—‘the cure
For Doubt is Action;’ not indeed
As making speculation sure—
As solving any special doubt,
Or settling any special creed,
But making Doubt itself appear
A thing impertinent and out
Of place in this bright work-day sphere;
And all that Speculation seem
The maundering of a feverish dream;
An idle growth, deficient both

220

In fragrant flower and wholesome fruit;
Like some white straggling ivy-sprout,
Or sickly honeysuckle-shoot,
That thrusts a pale and feeble trail
Inside a darksome building's wall;
But kept without, in light and heat,
Had spread a green and graceful pall
With feathery blossoms luscious-sweet
O'er many a dreary blank or stain
And blotch that else the eye would pain—
Nor should have been allowed to crawl
Into the inner dark at all.

V.

Crest-fallen—sullen at their ill-success,
Across the Lake the sad assailants go;
With murmurs, not even fear can quite suppress,
Against the Priest—for omens so belied—
And each against the other, as the first
Who after such defeats new hopes had nursed,
And on such omens would fresh faith bestow.
With smooth cajolings Kangapo replied,
Though deep chagrin and rage he scarce could hide;
Showed how, the Fort half-burnt and Tangi killed,
His prophecies had been wellnigh fulfilled;
And if at last on any point they failed
'Twas that the white man's Atuas had prevailed
O'er his—who shameless had their cause betrayed.
But there were stronger Spirits to his aid
He might have summoned had he been so willed;
Had not too great contempt his bosom swayed

221

For those strange Gods, and want of caution bred
In one those Gods should yet be taught to dread!
Thus much he owned; but this would soon repair;
Only let not his faithful sons despair:
By mightier Powers they soon should see o'erthrown
His foes in spirit, and in flesh their own.
But with his Atuas let him work alone
That night;—when daybreak glimmered should be shown
What they must do; how best this juncture meet,
And make their partial victory complete.

So urged the glozing Priest, his only aim
To gain more time to patch his tattered Fame;
Or find an opportunity to leave
Those he scarce hoped much longer to deceive.
They seemed to listen—feigned their fear dispelled;
Then their own agitated councils held;
Some to contrive new measures to achieve
The Priest's designs and their defeat retrieve;
Most to devise safe means without delay
To get themselves and their canoes away
From the increasing dangers of their stay.

222

Canto the Sixth. An old wrong avenged.

1. Enemy retreating. 2. Night. 3. Watch-song. 4. Ranolf's expedition. 5–6. A capture. 7. Daylight watch-song. 8. Tangi's ire.

I.

That eve a thought struck Ranolf, as he stood
Watching the foe retreat in sullen mood—
Brown barebacked bending crowds, and each canoe
Its ruddy sides white-spotted with a row
Of tufted feathers, paddling, silent, slow,
With wake wide-rippling, o'er the Lake—light-blue
As silver-shining skin of fish new-caught—
Towards hills, of burnished copper cauldron's hue
With the departing sunset; landing then,
How, like dispirited, distracted men,
In huddling knots they flocked and flitted—used
Gesticulations, violent, confused,
Conflicting, undetermined; while alone
The Priest to his secluded cot had gone,
How meditative, silent!—then a thought
Struck Ranolf, of a deed that might be done
Would yield rich harvest with the morning sun.

223

Oft through the pocket spy-glass thrown ashore
When he was wrecked and which just now he wore,
He from the island had observed before
How Kangapo from motives quickly guessed
Had made his temporary place of rest
Apart from all the crowd and tumult; screened
By the low spur of hill that intervened
From that familiarity which breeds
Contempt—(for hollow-glittering men and deeds!)
And knowing well their superstitious fear
From friends or foes would keep him safe and clear.
Thus by the waterside alone he dwelt,
Nor any fear of their annoyance felt.

II.

'Twas dead of night; the stars with clouds were blurred:
Within the fort the wearied warriors lay
And slept or still discussed the deadly fray.
As noiselessly as Sunbeams on the plain
That shine and shift and fade and shine again,
Bright Amo tended Tangi's fevered pain.
Solemn and deep—distinct in every word,
The intermittent watch-song might be heard
O'er the monotonous, moaning, plaintive strain
Of women wailing for their kinsmen slain,
In groups, with heads down-bent upon their knees—
A musical low tremulous hum like bees—
Or swelling high like far-off murmuring seas;
But o'er it rose the watch-song clear and plain:
For even the sentinels as round and round
With frequent pause they paced the higher ground,

224

Had many a chaunt and metaphoric snatch
Of verse, to while the tedium of their watch;
(Say ye, the wise, O worthy of all praise,
Who toil, with tokens from forgotten days
The veil from that grand mystery to raise
The origin of Man and all his ways—
Say through what inborn need, what instinct strong,
These savage races are such slaves to Song!)
But these, the watchers round Mokoia's fort
Were sounding through the gloom, in phrases short
By snatches given, a song against surprise,—
Half chaunt—half shouts, deep melancholy cries
Whose purport feebler paraphrase alone
Can give—the sense that to themselves it gave;
For the simplicity of that rude stave
Was so severe, its literal words made known
Were almost gibberish in their brevity:
Only dilution can lend any zest
Or nutriment a stranger could digest
To song in short-hand, verse so cramped—comprest,
The very pemmican of poetry:

III.

“Be wakeful—O be watchful! men at every post around;
Lest on a barren rock hemmed in at morning ye be found!

Hemmed in—blocked up—cut off, by the advancing tide;
O watchful, wakeful be—sharp-eared and lightning-eyed!

By Hari-hari's shore the beetling cliffs (O wakeful be!)
Are at all times and tides beset by the beleaguering Sea.

225

O watchful, wakeful be! when women wail for warriors lost,
'Tis like the high-complaining surf on Mokau's sounding coast.—

Ay me! Ay me! still creeping nigher—still swarming up and trying
Each ledge where seamews light—where'er their young ones nestle, prying!—

Not so—not so, on us the foe shall steal—yet wakeful be—
O watchful, wakeful till the Sun spring glorious from the Sea!”—

IV.

So rolled the solemn Song the darkness through,
As Ranolf with two lads—his trustiest two,
Whose faith was greatest in himself, he knew;
From all the rest dissembling his design
Nor letting even these two its end divine,
Stole from the fort and launched a light canoe;
Then softly paddled o'er the Lake until
They dimly could discern the looming hill
Where Kangapo resided; there they paused
Intently listening—paddled on once more—
(A low wind sighing scarce a ripple caused)
Then cautiously approached the darksome shore,
Some distance from the glen; the keelless prore
Slid smoothly up the pumice-sandy marge:
Then out stepped Ranolf, giving strictest charge
The two should wait there till his quick return,
When they the object of their voyage should learn.

226

V.

So Ranolf stepped upon the strand;
His foot scarce craunched the gritty sand;
A flax-rope wound his waist around—
Revolver ready in his hand.
With eye and ear alert and keen
For dimmest sight or faintest sound,
In that lone, dark and silent scene
His stealthy way he quickly found:
That way he oft before had been;
That cottage lone had been his own;
Each woody rolling spur and dell
And wavy cliff to which they fell,
Cut off below,—he knew full well.
With noiseless pace he neared the place—
Stood listening hid by shrubs thick-grown.
No sign of life he saw or heard
But distant murmurs; nothing stirred.
On tiptoe to the hut he went;
Close to the wall his ear he leant,
And while his own light breathing ceased
Could hear the breathing of the Priest;
Could hear his sighs—his mutterings low
And restless shiftings to and fro.—
“Awake—then; and too dark 'twould be
Inside for me my work to see!”
Thought Ranolf—“how to bring him out?
The foe so near, their noise I hear;
He must be left no time to shout.”
A rustling noise along the thatch
Like stealthy rats that creep and scratch,

227

He made—“his ear 'twill surely catch!
With sounds like these along the wall
The Atuas come at priestly call.”—
Small notice seemed the Priest to take:—
The muttering voice a moment dropped;
The train of sad reflections stopped;
He listened—then the gloomy train
Of muttered thoughts began again;
More certain sign the Gods must make
Their votary's dull regard to wake!
His pistol stuck in that rope-belt,—
Then Ranolf lifted up with care
A heavy cooking-stone he felt
About his feet—left always there—
And pitched it full upon the roof;
The stealthy rustling noise renewed;
His pistol drew, and ready stood:
“Against a summons so divine,
Of present Gods so sure a sign,
His priestly ear will ne'er be proof!—”
—Bewildered—wondering—all subdued
By strange and superstitious fright,
Out rushed the Priest into the night—
Rushed into Ranolf's gripe that clutched
About his throat his mat so tight
While his scared brow the pistol touched—
Of Ranolf's threat was little need:
“Hist, wretch! the pistol's at your head—
The slightest noise—and you are dead!”
He could not speak, scarce breathe indeed,
Till from that rivet somewhat freed.

228

VI.

Thus grappled, to the beach below,
Till out of hearing of the foe,
Ranolf his cowering captive led;
Then on a sudden, turning round,
Tripped up and threw him on the ground;
While the poor Sorcerer, sore dismayed,
Believing his last moment come,
For life, for mercy, whimpering prayed.
Nought answered Ranolf; stern and dumb,
His knee upon his chest he placed;
Unwound the cord about his waist;
And quick the Sorcerer's mantle rolled,
Leaving enough for breathing loose,
About his head and frightened face:
Then, from his sea-experience old,
Expert at every tie and noose,
In briefest space contrived to lace
And truss his victim up from nape
Of neck to sole of foot compact;
Till chance was none of his escape.
“There, friend! for that kind trick you played
Me once, I think you're well repaid.”—
Then to the hut again he tracked
His hasty steps; against the door
A sketch-book-leaf prepared before
He stuck, with this inscription fit,
In letters large in Maori writ:
“Kua kawakína—e—te Tóhunga;
Kia túpato apópo, mo te há—te há!”
“Your sorcerer from your side is torn;
Beware, beware to-morrow morn!”

229

Beneath was sketched for signature
The dreaded pistol—token sure
To all the foe, if none could read,
Whence came the message—whose the deed.
Then back to where his helpless prey
With muffled moanings writhing lay,
Just like a chrysalis that works
Its head and tail with useless jerks
Cramped by the sheath wherein it lurks—
He sped; hailed softly through the dark
The lads expectant with their bark;
And helped by these, who little knew
Their gruesome captive, packed him safe,
Nor daring now to moan or chafe,
Beneath the thwarts of the canoe;
And to the isle, all danger past,
In triumph soon was paddling fast.

VII.

But when with quickened stroke they strove,
And up the beach the vessel drove
With many a cheer—they just could hear
On high the sentries' livelier lay
Begin to greet the breaking day:

“Stars are fleeting;
Night retreating—
Yellow-stealing Dawn begun!
Slowly, mark!
Uplifts the dark—
See, first a spark—then all the Sun!

230

Birds are singing,
Forests ringing,
Hark, O hark!
Danger flies with daylight springing;
O rejoice—your watch is done!”—

But when the invading host next day
Found their great bulwark, guide and stay
Borne off in this mysterious way,
A panic seized them, one and all!
No further councils would they call;
Their planned retreat became a flight,
And all had disappeared ere night.

VIII.

Much trouble it cost Ranolf when 'twas known
What captive thus into their hands was thrown,
To save his forfeit life; for Tangi's ire
Against the scheming traitor burnt like fire.
But generous still, and holding hardly worth
His vengeance, one who never from his birth
Had been a warrior, he at last gave way,
Much wondering at the stranger's strange desire
To save the victim he had power to slay.
So, hiding all his hatred, much increased
By Ranolf's kindly act, the dangerous Priest,
Scarce seeming sullen, spiteful or morose,
Was for the present kept a prisoner close.

231

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

1. Tangi wastes away. 2. Defies death. 3. Ceremonies at his decease. 4. His idea of ‘Heaven’ and (5) ‘Trust in God.’ 6. His burial.

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;

232

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!

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.

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II.

—Thus, all his Soul, in gesture, word and thought,
One blaze of high defiance of the power
Of Death to quell or quench it—thus he fought
The grisly Tyrant to his latest hour;
As Tongariro's fires flare upward red
And fierce, against the blackest clouds that shed
Their stormy torrents on his shrouded head!—
The Priest, in place of Kangapo supplied,
Sung ceaseless incantations at his side;
On him or them but little he relied.
And when the inevitable talons fast
Clutched his old heathen hero-heart at last;
When life's large flame slow-flickering fell and rose,
Death's shadows flapping closer and more close,
Still his unconquered Spirit strove to wave
Its fluttering standard of defiance high;
And “Kia tóa—kia tóa! O be brave,
Be brave, my Sons!”—he gasped with broken cry!
Then as the rattling throat and back-turned eye
Told his last moment come, the restless Priest,
With zeal to frenzy at the sight increased,
Seizing his shoulders, shook him to set free
His Spirit in its parting agony;
And bending o'er that dying head down-bowed,
Into its heedless ear kept shouting loud:
“Now, now, be one with the wide Light, the Sun!
With Night and Darkness, O be one, be one!”—

234

III.

Then rushed the men about with furious yells;
Then clubs were brandished—every musket fired;
The women shrilled, and as stern use required
Their bosoms gashed with sharpened flints and shells;
Dogs barked and howled, the more the warriors leapt;
The Priest, like one mad-raving or inspired,
Still shouting his viaticum untired!
So while both men and women, old and young
Seemed by some demon to distraction stung—
Though Amo, better taught by Ranolf, kept
More self-command and only moaned and wept,—
So while this stormy hubbub round him swept,
The mighty Chief—the ‘Sounding Sea,’ expired.

IV.

Thus Tangi died;—not vastly grieved or vexed
To leave this world—or grave about the next.
He had his Heaven, be sure; where warriors brave
Found all the luxuries their rude tastes would crave;
Transparent greenstone glorious, in excess,
And lovelier-streaked than language could express;
Fair-tinted feathercrests of stateliest plume;
Rare flaxen robes of silkiest glossiness;
Roots of the richest succulence, perfume
And flavour, more than famine could consume;
And beauteous women of unwithering bloom!
All this would lure them, lapt in skies, serene
As on the long sweet summer-days are seen
When silver-cradled clouds soft-piled upturn

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Their innocent white faces to the Sun;
Or spread o'er all the abyss of light a screen
Snowy and delicate and overrun
With little cracks, unequal network fine,
Like those through which the firelogs' red hearts shine
While at the surface ashenwhite they burn.—

Of Paradise no lofty notion this—
Yet their ideal no less, of perfect bliss.
And whose is more?—Of all the heavens divulged,
Is there not still one staple, worst and best?
Sense, mental powers or moral, all indulged
And exercised with mightier sway and zest:
On infinite Perfection, say, entranced
In rapturous rest to dwell; or work its will,
With nobler strengths, aims evermore advanced:—
'Tis but your highest bliss you look for still!
You wish for the best state you can conceive,
Or something better which to God you leave;
To self-denying selfishness hold fast—
Denying Self as best for Self at last:
Who so unselfish as consent to fall
At last to lower life or none at all?
So 'tis for Happiness you press and pray—
The state most blest, define it how you may.

Are then your motives less by interest marred—
Your self-devotion greater, self regard
Much less than his—the heathen's—who so true,
So stanch and faithful to his simple creed
Of Courage for his Tribe's well-being, threw
His life away to win it, nor would deign
To waste a sigh upon his loss or pain;

236

And self-forgetful still, no more would heed
His gain—his not exceeding great reward,
That heaven of sweet potatoes?—yet confess
The merit greater as the meed was less.

V.

Nor haply should his “trust in God” be scorned,
Because, not naming Him whom none can name,
It was but Confidence, upheld the same,
By praises, prayers, professions unadorned,
In what was Right, his Duty, so he felt;
Because in that unconsciousness he dwelt
Much more upon the Duty to be done
To win it, than the guerdon to be won;
So did the Duty; cared for nought beside;
And let his Gods for all the rest provide.

VI.

Two days in state the Chieftain's body lay,
In arms, mats, feathers, all his best array;
And women wailed and musket-volleys rung
And funeral dirges were in chorus sung,
Which likened him to things below—above—
Best worth their admiration, pride and love;
Most precious trinkets of the greenstone jade—
Canoe-prows carved with most elaborate blade,
And trees of stateliest height—most sheltering shade;—
Bade fiery mountains open to admit
Their hero to the Reinga's gloomy pit;—

237

Made breezes sigh and boiling geysers groan
In cavernous depths for their great Warrior gone;
Bade Tu, the God of War, look favouring down;
And all the mighty Shades of old renown
Welcome a Spirit who among them came
Proud as themselves, and of congenial fame!
Then to some secret cave and catacomb,
Of all their nobly born the ancient tomb,
In long procession slow, with chaplets crowned
Of fresh-plucked leaves, their dirge-timed way they wound:
There left the dead Form couched in lonely state,
The annual-rounding Sun's return to wait;
Then to be taken out with reverent care,
And the dry bones, corruption-clogged—laid bare—
With songs and savage rites and dances wild,
Cleansed from all fleshly fragments of decay;
And 'mid white skulls and skeletons up-piled,
In that most dreaded Sanctuary laid away.