The Maero Is Stalking.

Steep is his dwelling-place, treed-in and misty,
High is his haunting-house, high-up and lonely;
Nobody passes there, nobody, only
The wind who is stirring and howling and moaning.
Haste through the woods, not stopping by marsh-land,
Swiftly by raupo and twisted, pale reeds;
Heed not the echo that snakes through the red weeds,
But hasten, my littlest, loneliest, comeliest.
Vast is his home-path, steep-sloped and lofty,
Down he comes, shadowy, sneakingly, snaringly;
False is his voice which shall call so endearingly,
Hear not and heed not, little brown moth-child.
Greet the good Kauri, cry hail to the Kowhai,
Konini, Rata, all these will protect thee.
Shun the fierce Lawyer, who longs to ensare thee,
The Raupo, the Aka, shun these, my littlest.
Many his snares are, laid widely and cunningly,
Fierce are his ravages, darkness and death;
Pale grows the bog-land, all sick with his breath,
Know these for his signs, and knowing them, shun them.
Run through the wildwoods, run swiftly, unswervingly,
Light-footed, noiselessly, red flower, come homing;
Hasten for night o'er the dim hills is coming,
The Maero is stalking; good Tane protect thee.

—Mary R. Greig.

* * *

Night.
Now darkness reigns and the soft wings of night
Fold o'er the sleeping world. The flowers sigh,
Whispering their sorrows, where faint breezes lie
In restless slumber, pausing from their flight.
On the cold fountains now and on the leaves
The dewdrops lie, and white mists veil the stream.
The night is sad and silent as a dream.
Laying cold fingers on the heart that grieves.
Through the dark branches, Night's thin, silver bow
Gleams like a jewel on her brow. The sea,
Yearning for days that never more may be,
Lies dumb with strange, unutterable woe ….
But sudden laughter stirs the listening trees
And bright-eyed dawn dispels such dreams as these.

—Jean H. Mather.

* * *

Vale.
Round the camp-fire's glowing embers, reminiscent one remembers
Dear dead days of deep-sea travel when the routes were ruled by sail;
Running Easting down when weather left you brine-scaled altogether
As you surged along triumphant with the driving western gale.
With the fore-foot's spume far-flinging and each straining backstay singing
An Aeolian hymn of worship to Poseidon and his ways,
Sails tower in tremendous tiering, taut from clew to weather earing,
With their reef-points all a-patter as she lifts and scends and sways.
Tropic nights with starlight splendid when your dim horizons blended
With that Equatorial heaving which the calm forever mars;
When the heavens mirrored round you seemed with magic to surround you,
And you floated like a dream-ship on a spangled sea of stars.
Gone forever, days of sailing; steam the only power prevailing,
Scheduled like a penny ferry with the seamen washing paint;
Fare-ye-well, you ships of glory, clippers famed in song and story,
From your graves rise ghostly chanties, mournful echoes dim and faint.

—R. Morant.

The Exile.
The Kowhai will be blooming now
In gleaming clouds of gold beside the stream—
It will be mirrored in the water now
As thoughts are mirrored in a dream,
And I not there to see!
The Kowhai will be blooming now—
A thousand bells of gold and yellow ringing
In all the winds that blow;
A thousand liquid-throated tuis singing
And I not there to see!
The Kowhai will be blooming now—
A thousand golden petals on the grass;
And all the birds will linger there to sip
Those nectar-scented petals as they pass
And I not there to see!

Désirée A. N. Frain.