The Seige of Whakarewa. (A Legend of Taranaki.)

Strong was the rock where Whakarewa stood,
High were the palisades above the cliffs
And bare its flanks of any sheltering wood
Where warriors invading might creep on
Unseen and storm the pa with quick attack.
Such was the fort that Taka-rangi saw
Defy his hardy warriors, throw them back
Confused and beaten down its craggy walls.
His chosen Ngati-awa ranged its base
Then swore by their dark gods of death and war
That old Rarunga and his stubborn race
Would own the strength of Takarangi's arm
Before the Ngati-awa looked again On Puke-ariki on its high hill.

Aloof, unconquered, stood that strong redoubt.
High was the courage of its warriors
And old Rarunga's heart and arm were stout
And tried in many a past battle. Yet
His chieftain's heart was troubled for the stock
Of food and drink was scanty and no spring
Flowed and no roots grew on that lofty rock.
So day by day the troubled chieftain saw
How hunger smote the weak and thirst the strong.
He saw the sorrow in Mahora's eyes;
Mahora, she whose beauty was the song
Of every pa in Taranaki's bounds!
His daughter's sorrow moved him and he went
And from the palisade he hailed his foe:
“O Taka-rangi, in this fortress pent
We thirst, be generous as you are bold
And give us drink!”

Young Taka-rangi heard
And answered. Rose, and at the bubbling stream
Known as Orangi, filled a calabash
And bore it to his foe. But when the gleam
Of that pure water met Rarunga's eyes,
Forgetting all, he seized and drank with haste,

Then passed it to Mahora at his side.
The maiden drank, and when the blessed taste
Of cool, sweet water quenched her thirst at last,
Joy o'er her weakness conquered and she swayed
And fainted. Taka-rangi saw, and knew
This was Mahora, she, the matchless maid!
He leaped into the pa beside her, knelt
And gazed and in that moment knew his love
Must be this maiden. Then Mahora raised
Her lashes and her dark eyes looked above
And met the ardent look of that young chief. —
“Ho,” cried a warrior, “He loves a maid
As well as war, this Ngati-awa youth!”

Rarunga looked on them. All unafraid
Was he of death, but he was old and tired;
His days were few but they were sweet, and they
More sweet must be to those who yet could laugh
And love. Mahora rose to hear him say,
“My daughter, could you love this man as lord?”
“Yes father,” spoke Mahora, “I have heard
The deeds of Taka-rangi often told
In honour; I would be his wife.”

Then stirred
The heart of old Rarunga, “To the gates,”
He cried, “and throw them wide. The fight is done.
Go greet the Ngati-awa as your friends
Since I receive their leader as my son;
Prepare a feast, send messengers around!
This is a story which will yet be told
Among our peoples in the distant years,
When men will cherish all these deeds of old.”

D. Gordon Buchanan.