The seer stands on the sacred hill above the ocean strand, His eyes fixed on the spirit path that leads to the spirit land;

To the Far North, with many a bend, along the rugged hore
That sad road leads, o'er rocks and weeds, whence none returneth more.
The weak, the strong, all pass along—the coward and the brave;
From that dread track none turneth back, none can escape the grave.

Seer.

Tangaroa!^* Tangaroa! whither now have fled your waves,
Who, 'gainst the land, eternal war wage from out their ocean caves?
Why, abashed, with lowly head,
Sleep they on their heaving bed—
Your sons! your braves!
Tangaroa, tell me why
Flows this fountain silently?
Why has the cataract ceased to moan
Bounding his last bound,
From mountain-top to salt-sea stone
Headlong, with no sound;
And the west wind passes by
Silently, without a sigh?

Tangaroa.

Passing, now, are the ghosts of the dead,
The winds are hushed, the rude waves hide their head;
And the fount flows silently,
And the breeze forgets to sigh,
And the torrent to moan
O'er rock and stone.
For the dead pass by!
Now on the barren spirit-track,
Lingering sadly, gazing back,
Slowly moves a ghastly train,
Shades of warriors, brave in vain;
For what can mortal valour do
page 235 'Gainst you, furious war-god Tu? ^*
You, by sacrifice and pray'r,
To hostile ranks allured were;
None but you, O Tu! could slay them,
None but the war-god's self dismay them;
You who shouted at your birth,
" Let us sunder heaven and earth";
You who, charging like a flood,
Wrap whole armies in their blood;
You who scale the hill-fort steep
When the weary warriors sleep,
And awake them but to die
With the Whaka-ara^† cry;
You who, when the fight is done,
Roast the flesh on heated stone,
Brother of the thunder, scarlet-belted Tu,^‡
For ever and for ever shall the warriors worship you;
Wealth and power and high command
All are in your forceful hand,
Earth-shaker,
Spoil-taker,
Climber of mountains, climber of waves,
Weapon-bearer, binder of slaves,
Battle-fighter, wrathful Tu,
Builder of the war-canoe.
Though your followers may lie
In their blood on battle-plain,
They alone can never die,
For in song they live again,
page 236 And their names, remembered long,
Twine in many a warlike bale;
And the tangi, plaintive song,
Makes for them the parting wail.
The seer has left the hill. Hark! hark! that wailing cry;
The shades he saw were braves of his tribe to the Reinga passing by.

—F. E. Maning.