Part 3 (1/2)

I. THE PRIEST'S VIGIL

IN all the land of the tribe was neither fish nor fruit, And the deepest pit of popoi stood empty to the foot. {61} The clans upon the left and the clans upon the right Now oiled their carven maces and scoured their daggers bright; They gat them to the thicket, to the deepest of the shade, And lay with sleepless eyes in the deadly ambuscade.

And oft in the starry even the song of morning rose, What time the oven smoked in the country of their foes; For oft to loving hearts, and waiting ears and sight, The lads that went to forage returned not with the night.

Now first the children sickened, and then the women paled, And the great arms of the warrior no more for war availed.

Hushed was the deep drum, discarded was the dance; And those that met the priest now glanced at him askance.

The priest was a man of years, his eyes were ruby-red, {62a} He neither feared the dark nor the terrors of the dead, He knew the songs of races, the names of ancient date; And the beard upon his bosom would have bought the chief's estate.

He dwelt in a high-built lodge, hard by the roaring sh.o.r.e, Raised on a n.o.ble terrace and with tikis {62b} at the door.

Within it was full of riches, for he served his nation well, And full of the sound of breakers, like the hollow of a sh.e.l.l.

For weeks he let them perish, gave never a helping sign, But sat on his oiled platform to commune with the divine, But sat on his high terrace, with the tikis by his side, And stared on the blue ocean, like a parrot, ruby-eyed.

Dawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the mountain height: Out on the round of the sea the gems of the morning light, Up from the round of the sea the streamers of the sun;- But down in the depths of the valley the day was not begun.

In the blue of the woody twilight burned red the cocoa-husk, And the women and men of the clan went forth to bathe in the dusk, A word that began to go round, a word, a whisper, a start: Hope that leaped in the bosom, fear that knocked on the heart: ”See, the priest is not risen-look, for his door is fast!

He is going to name the victims; he is going to help us at last.”

Thrice rose the sun to noon; and ever, like one of the dead, The priest lay still in his house with the roar of the sea in his head; There was never a foot on the floor, there was never a whisper of speech; Only the leering tikis stared on the blinding beach.

Again were the mountains fired, again the morning broke; And all the houses lay still, but the house of the priest awoke.

Close in their covering roofs lay and trembled the clan, But the aged, red-eyed priest ran forth like a lunatic man; And the village panted to see him in the jewels of death again, In the silver beards of the old and the hair of women slain.

Frenzy shook in his limbs, frenzy shone in his eyes, And still and again as he ran, the valley rang with his cries.

All day long in the land, by cliff and thicket and den, He ran his lunatic rounds, and howled for the flesh of men; All day long he ate not, nor ever drank of the brook; And all day long in their houses the people listened and shook- All day long in their houses they listened with bated breath, And never a soul went forth, for the sight of the priest was death.

Three were the days of his running, as the G.o.ds appointed of yore, Two the nights of his sleeping alone in the place of gore: The drunken slumber of frenzy twice he drank to the lees, On the sacred stones of the High-place under the sacred trees; With a lamp at his ashen head he lay in the place of the feast, And the sacred leaves of the banyan rustled around the priest.

Last, when the stated even fell upon terrace and tree, And the shade of the lofty island lay leagues away to sea, And all the valleys of verdure were heavy with manna and musk, The wreck of the red-eyed priest came gasping home in the dusk.

He reeled across the village, he staggered along the sh.o.r.e, And between the leering tikis crept groping through his door.

There went a stir through the lodges, the voice of speech awoke; Once more from the builded platforms arose the evening smoke.

And those who were mighty in war, and those renowned for an art Sat in their stated seats and talked of the morrow apart.

II. THE LOVERS

HARK! away in the woods-for the ears of love are sharp- Stealthily, quietly touched, the note of the one-stringed harp. {67} In the lighted house of her father, why should Taheia start?

Taheia heavy of hair, Taheia tender of heart, Taheia the well-descended, a bountiful dealer in love, Nimble of foot like the deer, and kind of eye like the dove?

Sly and shy as a cat, with never a change of face, Taheia slips to the door, like one that would breathe a s.p.a.ce; Saunters and pauses, and looks at the stars, and lists to the seas; Then sudden and swift as a cat, she plunges under the trees.

Swift as a cat she runs, with her garment gathered high, Leaping, nimble of foot, running, certain of eye; And ever to guide her way over the smooth and the sharp, Ever nearer and nearer the note of the one-stringed harp; Till at length, in a glade of the wood, with a naked mountain above, The sound of the harp thrown down, and she in the arms of her love.

”Rua,”-”Taheia,” they cry-”my heart, my soul, and my eyes,”

And clasp and sunder and kiss, with lovely laughter and sighs, ”Rua!”-”Taheia, my love,”-”Rua, star of my night, Clasp me, hold me, and love me, single spring of delight.”

And Rua folded her close, he folded her near and long, The living knit to the living, and sang the lover's song:

_Night_, _night it is_, _night upon the palms_.

_Night_, _night it is_, _the land wind has blown_.

_Starry_, _starry night_, _over deep and height_; _Love_, _love in the valley_, _love all alone_.

”Taheia, heavy of hair, a foolish thing have we done, To bind what G.o.ds have sundered unkindly into one.

Why should a lowly lover have touched Taheia's skirt, Taheia the well-descended, and Rua child of the dirt?”

”-On high with the haka-ikis my father sits in state, Ten times fifty kinsmen salute him in the gate; Round all his martial body, and in bands across his face, The marks of the tattooer proclaim his lofty place.

I too, in the hands of the cunning, in the sacred cabin of palm, {69} Have shrunk like the mimosa, and bleated like the lamb; Round half my tender body, that none shall clasp but you, For a crest and a fair adornment go dainty lines of blue.