| |
(From The Island)
HOW pleasant were the songs of Toobonai, | |
| When summer’s sun went down the coral bay! | |
| Come, let us to the islet’s softest shade, | |
| And hear the warbling birds! the damsels said: | |
| The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, | 5 |
| Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo; | |
| We ’ll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, | |
| For these most bloom where rests the warrior’s head; | |
| And we will sit in twilight’s face, and see | |
| The sweet moon dancing through the tooa tree, | 10 |
| The lofty accents of whose sighing bough | |
| Shall sadly please us as we lean below; | |
| Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain | |
| Wrestle with rocky giants o’er the main, | |
| Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. | 15 |
| How beautiful are these, how happy they, | |
| Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, | |
| Steal to look down where naught but ocean strives! | |
| Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, | |
| And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon. | 20 |
| |
| Yes—from the sepulchre we ’ll gather flowers, | |
| Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, | |
| Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, | |
| Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, | |
| And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, | 25 |
| Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, | |
| And plait our garlands gathered from the grave, | |
| And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. | |
| But lo! night comes, the Mooa wooes us back, | |
| The sound of mats is heard along our track; | 30 |
| Anon the torchlight-dance shall fling its sheen | |
| In flashing mazes o’er the Marly’s green; | |
| And we too will be there; we too recall | |
| The memory bright with many a festival, | |
| Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes | 35 |
| For the first time were wafted in canoes. | |
| Alas! for them the flower of mankind bleeds; | |
| Alas! for them our fields are rank with weeds. | |
| |
| Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, | |
| Of wandering with the moon and love alone. | 40 |
| But be it so,—they taught us how to wield | |
| The club, and rain our arrows o’er the field; | |
| Now let them reap the harvest of their art! | |
| But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. | |
| Strike up the dance, the cava-bowl fill high, | 45 |
| Drain every drop!—to-morrow we may die. | |
| In summer garments be our limbs arrayed; | |
| Around our waist the Tappa’s white displayed; | |
| Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring’s, | |
| And round our necks shall glance the Hooni strings; | 50 |
| So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow | |
| Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. | |
| |
| But now the dance is o’er—yet stay awhile; | |
| Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile. | |
| To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, | 55 |
| But not to-night,—to-night is for the heart. | |
| Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, | |
| Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo! | |
| How lovely are your forms! how every sense | |
| Bows to your beauties, softened, but intense, | 60 |
| Like to the flowers on Mataloco’s steep, | |
| Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep: | |
| We too will see Licoo; but oh, my heart— | |
| What do I say? to-morrow we depart. | |
| |
