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
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;
page 399 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,
And of benignant hearing sure,
As any prayers howe'er exprest,
And to whate'er enlightened, best
Ideal of Infinite God addrest?—

And Ranolf, wondering, watched her glide—
Mid all that carnage sanguine-dyed,
And brutal savage homicide,
And murderous passions raging wide—
page 400 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
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
page 401 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.
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.
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?
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?—
26
page 402 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
But say the Imperfect might be made
Complete within its bounds—its grade—
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 skeptic train
Of thoughts on God, Man's doom or chance,
And Nature's mystic governance:
page 403 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
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.

II.

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,
page 404 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
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.

III.

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.

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.

IV.

'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 theiT 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,
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
page 407 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:

• "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-hart's shore the beetling cliffs (O wakeful be!)
• Arc at all times and tides beset by the beleaguering Sea.
• 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!—page 408
• Not so—not so, on us the foe shall steal—yet wakeful be—
• O watchful, wakeful till the Sun spring glorious from the Sea!"—

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 lean.

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;
page 409 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—
Behind some bushes listening stood.
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,
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 fell
page 410 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.
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: stem 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,
page 411 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 1 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 kawakina—e—te—Tbhunga;
Kia túpato apópo, mo te há—te há!"
"Your sokceher prom your side is turn;
Beware, bewarve to-morrow morn!"
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 meanings 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.
page 412 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, there a spark—then all the Sun!
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

V.

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
page 413 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 haired, much increased By
Ranolf's kindly act, the dangerous Priest,
Scarce seeming sullen, spiteful or morose,
Was for the present kept a prisoner close.

VI.

Wasting and weakening ever, day by day,
The 'Wailing 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 where'er the gasping Chieftain drew
A labouring breath, the air came hissing through
At which in pure self-scorn he oft would jest,
Laugh a faint echo of his old great laugh,
And say he was already more than half
A ghost, and talked the language of the dead,
The whistling tones of spirits that have fled;
And Kangapo had best beware, or he
Would worry him, for all his witchery!
—But most he loved to spend his scanty breath
In urging all who stood his couch beside
To hold their own, whatever might betide;
Whate'er the odds, the arms, the Chiefs renowned
Assailed them, still unblenched to keep their ground.
And never, never yield—but fight till death!
page 414 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 hright 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 musquets 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.
—Thus all his Soul, in gesture, word and thought,
One blaze of high defiance of the Quiver
Of Death to quell or quench it—thus he fought
The gviesly 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
page 415 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 tòa—kia tòa I 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!"—
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 madraving 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 'Wailing Sea,' expired.

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;
page 416 Transparent greenstone glorious, in excess,
And lovelier-streaked than language could express;
Fairtinted 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
Their innocent white faces to the Sun;
Or spread o'er all the abyss of light a screen
With little cracks, unequal network, fine,
Like those-through which the firelogs' red hearts shine
While at the surface ashenwhite they bum.—
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.
page 417 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;
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.
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.

Two days in state the Chieftain's body lay,
In arms, mats, feathers, all his best array;
And women wailed and musquet-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 Irees of stateliest height—most sheltering shade;
Bade fiery mountains open to admit
Their hero to the Reinga's gloomy pit;—
page 418 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.