IV.

A thunderstorm was sweeping o'er the Like,
The hills had whitened off in sudden mist
That soon grew leaden-livid; flake on flake
The fine spray smoked along the watery floor—
Till plumb-down rushed the rain's impetuous pour;
A thousand claps of thunder seemed to break
Confusedly all at once—with clattering roar
Tumbled about the air or groaning rolled,
As if some race Titanic, storming Heaven
From ponderous unimaginable wains
On rocky grating causeways headlong driven,
Shot crashing mountains on the skiey plains;
Or if the tumult for a moment stopped
You he aid the torrent rain how loud it hissed.
As if a hecatomb of bulls at least
Were broiling for some sacrificial feast;
And all about the liquid lightnings dropped
In points like grap estones shaped, of molten gold.
But Tangi, while the tempest raged, was told
That where his daughter might be no one knew—
They feared, upon the Lake in her canoe.
Straightway the stoutest of his clansmen staunch
He sent in search of her their boats to launch;
page 95 Then set himself to charm away the Storm;
And it was rare to see the grand old Chief
Now in the haughtiness of fancied power
To cope with Nature in her fiercest hour
Quick pouring forth wild-ringing chaunt on chaunt
To bid Tawhiri—God of Storms—A vaunt!
Now in a rival storm of rage and grief
Threatening—reproaching—all his stalwart form
Dilating with defiance: outstretched arms
And head thrown back and milk-white fleece of hair,
And blood shot eyes and dark-blue visage bare
Lit up by fits in the blue lightning's glare.
So plies he his monotonous rude charms—
So on the Storm his vehement passion vents,
Hoarsely upbraiding the hoarse elements.