| |
| COME to Licoo! the sun is riding | |
| Down hills of gold to his coral bowers; | |
| Come where the wood-pigeon’s moan is chiding | |
| The song of the wind, while we gather flowers. | |
| |
| Let us plait the garland, and weave the staves, | 5 |
| While the wild waves dance on our iron strand; | |
| To-morrow these waves may wash our graves, | |
| And the moon look down on a ruined land. | |
| |
| Let us light the torches, and dip our hair | |
| In the fragrant oil of the sandal-tree; | 10 |
| Strike the bonjoo, and the oola share, | |
| Ere the death-gods hear our jubilee. | |
| |
| Who are they that in floating towers | |
| Come with their skins of curdled snows? | |
| They shall see our maidens dress our bowers, | 15 |
| While the hooni shines on their sunny brows. | |
| |
| Who shall mourn when, red with slaughter, | |
| Finow sits on the funeral stone? | |
| Who shall weep for his dying daughter? | |
| Who shall answer the red chief’s moan? | 20 |
| |
| He shall cry unheard by the funeral stone, | |
| He shall sink unseen by the split canoe, | |
| Though the plantain-bird be his alone, | |
| And the thundering gods of Fanfonnoo. | |
| |
| Let us not think ’t is but an hour | 25 |
| Ere the wreath shall drop from the warrior’s waist; | |
| Let us not think ’t is but an hour | |
| We have on our perfumed mats to waste. | |
| |
| Shall we not banquet, though Tonga’s king | |
| To-morrow may hurl the battle-spear? | 30 |
| Let us whirl our torches, and tread the ring,— | |
| He only shall find our footprints here. | |
| |
| We will dive,—and the turtle’s track shall guide | |
| Our way to the cave where Hoonga dwells, | |
| Where under the tide he hides his bride, | 35 |
| And lives by the light of its starry shells. | |
| |
| Come to Licoo! in yellow skies | |
| The sun shines bright, and the wild waves play; | |
| To-morrow for us may never rise;— | |
| Come to Licoo to-day, to-day. | 40 |
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