I.

Alas! that human Happiness should never
Like those fair-flowing snowy fringes be,
That down Mahana's geyser-terraced hill.
Grow into permanence as they distil;
In loveliness of marble mimicry
There, in the act of falling, fixed for ever!—
Alas! that Love's best transports may—
Like rills that dance and gleam and glance.
In loveliest forms of foam and spray
Down common cataracts every day—
So swiftly cease their sparkling play;
Though Love—the River's self—below
As deep or deeper still may flow!

The days rolled on—as dark or bright they will;
And found those lovers fondly loving still.
Could chance or change or circumstance destroy
Fair Amos fondness for her bright Sea-boy?
Hers was a love exhaustless as the Ocean;
Her heart unwearied—as his waves with motion—
With restless play of passionate devotion.
page 420 Her pure profound Affection could outpour
Its tender tributes from an endless store,
With lavish waste diminishing no more,
Than his with rolling snow-wreaths on the shore.
Enraptured in the presence of the Lord
And Idol of her young imagination,
Her Soul seemed always in the act to bless—
Her Spirit in a posture that adored;
Each look seemed love—each gesture a caress;
And every breath a yearning aspiration!
Though half the gems with which her Idol glowed
And won her worship, she herself bestowed—
Her heart was an unworked Golconda-mine,
Unconscious as 'twas careless, what a dower—
As a volcano might its scoria-shower—
It flung of diamond-fancies on the shrine
And round the Deity it made divine.
The knowledge-—courage—courtesy—whate'er
In mind or body might be found, of fair
Intelligent or brave in him she loved,
By her fresh bosom's fond illusive pride,
Were all sublimed, transfigured, glorified;
Beyond the reach of her and hers removed—
As are some landscapes' beauties you survey
With head downbent, and such new charms diffuse,
That woods and plains are in transcendant hues
Of tenderest richness floated far away.

II.

Was she not happy then?—what shadow stole
Over her full contentedness of soul?—
It was that as the days less swiftly flew
A weariness o'er Ranolf's spirit grew;
page 421 Not of her charms or her—foT none the less
He loved his Wonder of the Wilderness.
But that the Life he led of savage ease
The more it was prolonged, seemed less to please.
Perhaps his love of roving was too strong,
Too deep-engrained to be quiescent long:
But this was nut a conscious need, nor would
Have been the parent of his present mood:
It was the crave for intellectual food.
For which a young enthusiast Thinker pines,
Who daringly has tasted of the Tree,
Forbidden still, of Knowledge of a Good
Beyond the actual still to be pursued
In all things 10 all ends; an Evil still
To be assailed by Reason still more free,
By wider Love and more exalted Will,
It was the crave for Books—the mighty mines
Where all the extinguished forests of mankind
In diamond-thoughts lie crystallised—enshrined:
And 'twas the haply sadder doom to be
Excluded from the guidance—sympathy—
The fellowship or presence of the prime
Of men who towards the Light the highest climb:
And head the onslaught of the human Mind
Against the strongholds of dim Destiny.
Ambition—progress—all the hope and pride
Of true Existence seemed to him denied.
That land so rich in Beauty's sensuous smile.
Seemed for the Soul, only a desert Isle.
If ever chance-sent rumours reached his ear
Of the great Nations in their grand career,
They seemed dim records of aerial hosts
Who struggled in the heavens—or shadowy ghosts.
page 422 All the loud wonder-throes of peace or war
Seemed melted to a murmur faint and far!
What marvel if a feeling would intrude
Of something wanting in this solitude?—
Was it a treason to almighty Love
This sense of unfulfilled desire to prove?
Could any Love in any Paradise,
Howe'er impassioned, mutual, melting, true—
Alone for any lovers long suffice?—
Not poets' dreams can make it ever new—
Not even a bustling dove can always coo!

And anxious Amo could not but perceive
His thoughts were often wandering far away;
Her keen-eyed love would note, and inly grieve,
The shadow on his features once so gay.
The very love that, to her faithful breast,
So magnified the merits he possessed;
On which to dwell and feel them all her own
Were highest bliss to be conceived or known:
Made her inclined to rate herself loo low;
With timid doubt it could indeed be so,
That such a treasure was reserved for her!
And often to her memory would recur.
With what a glow he answered her demand
To paint the Beauties of his native Land.
And when her fond eye marked—more frequent now.
His sad abstracted air and troubled brow,
She could not check the thought, how full of woe,
"Ah! he is pining for those charms, I know,
Those lovely beings all of light and snow!
O my o'erweening pride to think that he
The glorious one, could be content with me!—"
page 423 Then would she seek the saddened heart to ease,
And ply with simple craft her arts to please;
With skilful change her finest mantles choose
Of broadest purfle and the fairest hues;
Their folds around her shapely shoulders place
Or dainty waist, in each remembered way
He most had praised for piquancy and grace:
Or the soft glitter of her lustrous hair—
So glossy black, the lights thrown off would play
In sharp metallic gleams of bluish gray—
In crimson flowers he loved her so to wear,
Or wax-white creeper-wreaths, she would array,
With chance-taught Taste so sure—such careless Care!
Or she would set herself a serious task,
Through tangled woods and thickets dense to range
In search of plants and insects—else despised—
Because he took in them an interest strange,
She knew not why and scarcely cared to ask,
Since 'twas enough they were by Ranolf prized.
Or she would summon all her Damsels gay,
To lively dance or sportive game, that best
Would dexterous skill or native grace display:
Or send them on a harvest-gathering quest
Of clustering purple-fringes whence they squeeze
Sweet jellies ruby-clear; because the sight
Once seemed his fancy so to strike and please
Of these wild Wood-nymphs trooping through the trees
Back with their mirth-lit eyes—teeth glittering white
With laughter—tresses floating on the breeze,
And cheeks and foreheads in their reckless mood
All dashed and splashed with crimson berry-blood;
Like nymphs that frolic reeled in Bacchic dance
In Nature's golden-aged exuberance,
page 424 Or with goat-borne Silenus loved to romp
In grape-empurpled grace and tipsy pomp!
And Ranolf would her loving purpose guess;
And chide himself that he could not repress
The weary longing that would o'er him steal;
And force a gaiety he could not feel;
And show her deeper love and double tenderness.
But how should this content her? whose sole aim
Was to light up the old gladness in his eyes;
And little cared what of herself became,
Were that secured at any sacrifice;
But gained from true love far too keen a glance
To be deceived by any simulance
Of feeling, or affectionate pretence;—
Beyond material Nature and above;
Clear-seeing, with its supernatural sense
The sympathetic object through and through?
Into its inmost being swift to dart,
In strange emotion take magnetic part,
And throb with beatings of the loved one's heart?—
So Ranolf fondly sought—but sought in vain
From those fond eyes to hide his inward pain.

III.

What could be done? could he then bear her hence.
A wondering Wilding to his native land,
A savage wife! Ah what a startling shock
To prejudices like a wall of rock
Sense-based or senseless—piled on every hand!
Could he find fortitude ur impudence
The ridicule and censure to withstand
Wisdom and folly would alike dispense?
page 425 Could he endure to be the mark or mock
For open pity—secret insolence?
To friends and kindred such a stumbling-block
Of deep and irremediable offence?
Ah could he brave all this?—But graver care
It was, how Amo such a change could bear?
Could this bright Child of woods and waters thrive
In the hot crowding of our social hive—
Though not like its mere honey-workers tasked,
Though only for such lightsome labour asked,
Such sweet monotony of toil as there
The partner of his moderate means must share?—
This life, self-guided by her will or whim—
Could she resign it for confinement dim,
Cooped round with indoor comfort—too secure?
Give up bright careless ease and breathing pure
In azure liberty of Sun and Air,
To choke in some fine atmosphere, of nice
Punctilios and proprieties precise?
Be drilled into the trite and tedious round
Of petty duties, poor amusements, found
In formal life by strict conventions bound?—
Or could it flourish, this wild-flowering Tree,
Transparent with the sunbeams flowing free
Through its white cloud of blossom—nailed and trained
Espalier-wise against the rigid Wall
Of civilised existence—shorn of all
Its shoots of natural beauty—every spray
Checked in its impulses of artless play—
And all its waving wanton boughs constrained
And tortured into stiff and starch array,
In straightened uniformity controlled,
Like iron grate-bars regular and cold?—
page 426 Or could the Tree transplanted long endure
The chill and rigour of a rougher sky?
The beautiful Exotic would be sure
In such ungenial clime to droop and die!
Nay (for this minor matter too deserves
A moment's thought) what sacrilege 'twould seem
To bolster out, disfigure and compress
That realization of a sculptor's dream
Of pure proportion—sinuous Symmetry—
So simply clad in classic drapery—
That hit the happy and harmonious mean
Between the ripe and rich voluptuousness
Of Iovely Aphrodite—soft and warm—
And beauty bright with a severer charm,
The light strong grace of active Artemis:—
Ah! what a sin to screw a shape like this
Into some flaunting wire-and-whalebone screen
Of beauty-blighting frippery, that combines
In dull extravagance discordant lines—
Sharp angles—shooting arcs and cutting curves—
Each form fantastic from true taste that swerves
In hideous freaks of fashionable dress!
No! whether for her mind's or body's weal
He most was anxious—most was bound to feel—
Whichever way he looked, it seemed too plain,
He must this longing for his home restrain,

IV.

So with factitious fervour—wearied zeal
As if to banish thought and deaden pain
He takes to his boar-hunting toils again;
While native mongrels, bad or good, replace
His first stanch sturdy comrade in the chase;
page 427 But none he loved so—none that so loved him—
As that good-tempered wriggling tiger—Nim!
And many a day and sometimes nights he passed
Amid the forests on the Mountains vast;
While Amo, loving still and lonely grieved,
By his affected interest undeceived
In these pursuits; and with increased distress,
Saw the sad struggle she so well could guess—
The discontent of forced contentedness.
Though he was kind—aye kinder than before,
'Twas not for kindness that she yearned alone,
But love—glad glowing love like that of yore,
Impetuous and impassioned as her own!
That kindness might be pity—nay, it must!
What else could be more likely—natural—just!
What else could one of such exalted sphere
Her fancy lifted to a realm so clear
And high above her, from his glorious place
Feel towards a being of inferior race,
Such as her love still made herself appear?
"Did he not come, a wonder and a prize
From some far Clime mysterious as the Skies—
Stoop in his flight to steep me in excess
Of too delightful, fleeting happiness—
My lowly life with strange wild joys to crown,
As Hapae in the legend once came down.
The white-winged Wanderer from blue haunts above—
And on Tawhaki lavished all that love?
Ah! what am I, or what my claim or right
To keep all to myself a thing so bright?—"
And then her anguish took another turn;
With the old pride at moments would she burn:
"Am I not something too! through all the land
page 428 Where'er on great or small the Sun would shine
What Maid could boast superior birth to mine?
Could I help hearing how on every hand
They said—not men, even women—far and wide
For beauty none with Amohia vied;
None in the dance such wavy grace displayed;
Such fair designs for rich-wrought purfles made—
Like her could tell a legend—turn a song?
Was it all flattery then—delusive—wrong?
Is she—through her whole life so praised—so prized,
Doomed to be now neglected and despised?"—
In her distraction then how would she try
To hate the cause of all this agony;
Half curse him in her impotent distress—
Aye-curse him with a passion that—would bless!
The mere conception of harsh words of hate
Such instant fond revulsion would create,
The ire wrung out by woe, in utterance choked,
Itself a gush of boundless love provoked—
The rage ran off in tears of tenderness:
"Too mad! too mad!—too horrible to curse
One so beloved—so beautiful—O worse
Than Rona cursing the full Moon for light!
Is it his blame he shines at such a height?
Ah, miserable me! who can but find
Food for a curse in what I am too blind—
No—not too blind! I cannot, ne'er could be
So blind, that dear, dear glory, not to see!
And seeing it and him—to think it strange
If love like mine he only could bestow
On beings like himself in fair exchange—
Bright beings—ah—those Maids he talked of so—
All golden light and sunset-tinted snow!
page 429 In beauty, knowledge—all attractions fine
Such as perchance I never could divine,
Would they not dim these poor dark charms of mine
As he does all our native youths outshine!
But could they love like me? Ah were they here
To show which held the dearest one most dear!
Would they were here! if deadly danger prest
His life, he soon would learn who loved him best!
Would they, like me (O would I might!) to save
Him sinking, rush into the flooded wave
And all the terrors of the torrent brave?
Would they, like me, dash into the thickest fight.
Cling to his conquering foe, about to smite
And take the blow—Ah me! with what delight,
Aimed at that head so beautiful—so bright!
Then, then—those Wonders—none he soon would see
Could worship—doat on—die for him like me!
Ah, why can men love nothing but the skin,
So little care for all that glows within—
All that should lure their love—their praises win?
Ah, why was I not made as wise, as fair—
Why should those Gods or Atuas—whatsoe'er
They be—have left me of these gifts so bare,
And grudged me all but misery and despair?
And yet he said—for I remember well
When of those wondrous beauties he would tell
The greatest merit could be had or known
Was for another's good to give your own;
And those grand Creatures, born to light and bliss,
Good in so much besides, were best in this.
But there at least I am their equal—I;
O could I not the best of them defy
To give all I would give his good to buy?
page 430 None—none of them like me, without a sigh,
To give him joy, a thousand times would die:
O that the chance would rise—howe'er it came
That I might prove, and he might learn, the same!"

And so the days slid heavily for both—
Each grief grew daily with the other's growth;
And from the woods upon his sad return
The sadness in her eyes he would discern,
And try to cheer her, O, with words too drear—
Words meaning much—but sounding little—cheer.
And then it was her turn sad joy to feign,
Which, pressing hard her heart to check its pain
She feigned—with stiffening lips that twitched in vain;
Thinking—with anguish smiling for his sake—
"O misery! my heart will break, will break!"

V.

So matters stood. And now the Autumn's fruits—
Karaka—taro—kumera—berries, roots—
Had all been harvested with merry lays
And rites of solemn gladness; choral praise
And pure religious feeling—grateful—true;
Though rude, benighted if you will, the due
Of the great bounteous Spirit unknown or known
Of Nature; due in every clime or zone;
They called it 'Rongo '—God of fruits and peace;
What matter, so the gratitude was given
To Spirit—call it Nature, God or Heaven?—
The worst was, almost ere the songs could cease,
With idiot inconsistency, like—men,
The very life-preserving gifts that then
page 431 They thanked their God for, they would straight employ
As means, almost incentives, to destroy;
And seize the occasion of abundant food
As fittest for the work of war and blood.

'Twas then, that tidings of invasion, planned
By far more dangerous foes, against their land.
Reached Rotorua's people; how in brief
That mighty tribe, of all the tribes the chief,
Far in the North, whom not their neighbours dread
Not even the great Waikato could withstand—
Such wealth of gims and powder could they boast,
(For with the white man's ships they trafficked most)
Were coming, an innumerable host
Twas rumoured, by the famous Chieftain led
With whom the marriage treaty was begun
Which Amo when she swam the Lake had fled;
So much the picture of her beauty brought
By Kangapo had on his fancy wrought;
Such power had recently that rabid Priest—
(By careless Ranolf in contempt released
When after Tangi's death the warfare ceased)—
O'er the excited haughty Chieftain won;
And, mad with rancour and revengeful spite
He could not wreak on Ranolf, nor requite
That spurner of his supernatural might
Who laughed at necromantic spells and charms,
Except by tearing Amo from his arms—
Had roused the Chief's too ready sense of slight,
By representing Tangi in the light
Of an abettor of his daughter's flight;
And acquiescent in the wrong his pride
Endured from those who sought—then set aside—
page 432 The great alliance they would now deride.
So all this storm was brewing, it was plain,
And soon would ruin and destruction rain
Upon their tribe, one special end to gain,—
To force surrender or the proffered bride,
And vengeance on the Stranger so obtain.

Before the tidings well were told, which filled
The eager-listening crowd with blank dismay,
The prescient heart of Amohia chilled;
And through her brain there shot a gloomy ray.
That Message seemed her secret Soul to seek;
Seemed to her inner consciousness to speak.
Doomlike, before the story was got through;
Almost before she heard the half, she knew
Her hour was come, and all she had to do.
To foes like these, resistance would be vain,
She would be captured, Ranolf would be slain.
This was the chance that she had prayed for still;
This was the moment when her heart should thrill
With joy, not terror, for the hope it gave—
Nay, all the certainty her heart could crave—
To prove her love and her adored one save!
Yes; she, ere it burst forth, that storm would stay,
Anticipate—prevent that dreadful day
And turn its terrors from one head away!
To save that dear one, she would go alone
And give herself to that resistless Chief;
The wrong, if done by Ranolf so atone
And buy his life, O more than with her own!—
Her life were little—better could she bear
To give a thousand lives than seem to share
page 433 Another's love; that was the pain, the smart,
That was the sacrifice that wrung her heart;
Yet, worse than death, to make his life secure
This outrage to her love would she endure!
Yet life would still be given—for O with grief
She soon would die, and death would be relief!
Or if it came not of itself—and here
Pale grew her solemn brow and more severe
Her eyes and firm prest lips—herself would rend
The life away that misery would not end.
But Ranolf would be saved—O he would know
How matchless, boundless was her love—and woe;
And feel, the best of those he vaunted so
Could not outdare her in devotion—make
Such sacrifice of self for his dear sake!
Then would he long for her again—-and weep
Her loss, and ever in his bosom deep
His poor wild maiden's memory fondly keep!

But Ranolf, whose own cares too deeply weighed,
Not much attention to these tidings paid:
"It was their greed for marvels—nothing more;
Or if that doughty Chieftain and his men
Were bent upon invading them—what then?
They would be threshed as Whetu was before."
So he continued listless to explore
The forests for the footprints of the boar.
And Amo thought, "He does not know their power,
Nor half their evil deeds in victory's hour "—
And all the more determined it was right
Herself should save him in his own despite.

VI.

And often had she fixed the day to start,
Yet could not bear from all life's tight to part;
The project oft deferred, was still renewed,
Whenever Ranolfs restlessness she viewed;
Until one night arrived for her and him,
That filled their cup of misery to the brim.
That day a precious letter from his home—
With slanting oval postmarks blue and red,
And scrawls "Try here—try there" all overspread—
Had (passed from tribe to tribe) to Ranolf come;
And with it, news that all the Chiefs who shared
The great proposed invasion were prepared
With countless guns and piles of packed-up food
And war-canoes and crowds of warriors good
To start in sanguinary, sanguine mood.—
And Amo all that eve had sate and gazed
With tearful looks, how fond! on Ranolfs face
And eyes, so seldom from the letter raised,
Or fixed in sad abstraction far away,
While on his knees the fatal missive lay;
And fancied all his thoughts she well could trace—
With maddening hopelessness how they would run
Upon the Sister—Mother—long unseen;
And what a roar of Ocean—vast—unknown—
And obstacles far greater, stood between
Those loved ones and the Brother and lost Son;
And some sweet phantom Shape still dearer, she
Would fancy in his picture there must be!—
'Twas then, and there, with burning—bursting heart
And choking throat—she bound herself, alone
Come what come might-—next morning to depart.
page 435 So, when day broke, while Ranolf, half the night
Awake, was sleeping sadly by her side,
She rose up—from her prostrate grief upright—
To take a last long gaze—heart-broken bride—
Upon that sleeping face—her life—her pride!
Then, in an agony of tenderness
With those fair golden curls she toyed awhile
That seemed to mock her with their sunny smile;
And lavished many a bitter-sweet caress
Upon the brow and cheeks and fast-closed eyes
She loved so—more than ever seemed to prize,
And thought more beautiful in this distress;
And hid at last her face upon his breast,
And wept a passionate flood of bitter tears—
"O could she there end all—joys, woes and fears—
Dead—dead at once—for ever there to rest!"—
And when at those fond touches Ranolf woke,
And saw her grief, and words of comfort spoke.
Returning her caress, and sought to know
What sudden sorrow caused these tears to flow;
With quick-recovered firmness she replied—
'Twas nothing—he was not to mind her—she
Was foolish—was 'porangi'—and would be
Better directly—" and her tears she dried
And smiled in utter misery—and tried
Her deep despairing eyes from his to hide;
The while with more than usual busy zeal,
It seemed, she went about the morning meal;
Then set it quietly before him—made
Some light excuse why he could not persuade
Herself to touch it—quietly received
His last caress, as, bidding her be cheered,
page 436 "For he would soon return, she might be sure! "—
And kissing her, he stroked her tresses black,
And with his dogs and gun, and heart sore-grieved
Off to the hills, by her calm looks deceived,
As usual went; while she, with bosom seared,
And brain that whirled confused upon a rack
Of thoughts and feelings she could scarce endure,
Till all that she was seeing, hearing—seemed
Something she heard not—saw not—only dreamed,
She stood there watching till he disappeared;—
Then flung herself upon her couch, and there
Gave full, wild vent to sobbings of despair.

Soon with set teeth she rises; from her eyes
Brushes the blinding tears that will arise;
And snatching up a small supply of food—
For life must last to make her purpose good—
Still in the clutch of that wild passion held,
That from her tight grief-strangled bosom swelled
Up to her throbbing brow—as if compelled
By outward force—she keeps her frenzied thought
As well as her despairing fevered glance,
From resting on a single circumstance
Of past or recent happiness, or aught
About that dim—loved—lost—and torturing scene—
The hut—the room where she so blest had been!
But staggering as beneath a heavy load,
Rushes straight forward on her blighted road.