The breath of the wind that blew is blown out like the flame of a lamp,

  And the silent armies of death draw near with inaudible tramp:

  So sudden, the voice of her weeping ceased; in silence she rose

  And passed from the house of her sorrow, a woman clothed with repose,

  Carrying death in her breast and sharpening death in her hand.

  Hither she went and thither in all the coasts of the land.

  They tell that she feared not to slumber alone, in the dead of night,

  In accursed places; beheld, unblenched, the ribbon of light

  Spin from temple to temple; guided the perilous skiff,

  Abhorred not the paths of the mountain and trod the verge of the cliff;

  From end to end of the island, thought not the distance long,

  But forth from king to king carried the tale of her wrong.

  To king after king, as they sat in the palace door, she came,

  Claiming kinship, declaiming verses, naming her name

  And the names of all of her fathers; and still, with a heart on the rack,

  Jested to capture a hearing and laughed when they jested back;

  So would deceive them a while, and change and return in a breath,

  And on all the men of Vaiau imprecate instant death;

  And tempt her kings — for Vaiau was a rich and prosperous land,

  And flatter — for who would attempt it but warriors mighty of hand?

  And change in a breath again and rise in a strain of song,

  Invoking the beaten drums, beholding the fall of the strong,

  Calling the fowls of the air to come and feast on the dead.

  And they held the chin in silence, and heard her, and shook the head;

  For they knew the men of Taiárapu famous in battle and feast,

  Marvellous eaters and smiters: the men of Vaiau not least.

  To the land of the Námunu-úra, to Paea, at length she came,

  To men who were foes to the Tevas and hated their race and name.

  There was she well received, and spoke with Hiopa the king.

  And Hiopa listened, and weighed, and wisely considered the thing.

  “Here in the back of the isle we dwell in a sheltered place,”

  Quoth he to the woman, “in quiet, a weak and peaceable race.

  But far in the teeth of the wind lofty Taiárapu lies;

  Strong blows the wind of the trade on its seaward face, and cries

  Aloud in the top of arduous mountains, and utters its song

  In green continuous forests. Strong is the wind, and strong

  And fruitful and hardy the race, famous in battle and feast,

  Marvellous eaters and smiters: the men of Vaiau not least.

  Now hearken to me, my daughter, and hear a word of the wise:

  How a strength goes linked with a weakness, two by two, like the eyes.

  They can wield the ómare well and cast the javelin far;

  Yet are they greedy and weak as the swine and the children are.

  Plant we, then, here at Paea a garden of excellent fruits;

  Plant we bananas and kava and taro, the king of roots;

  Let the pigs in Paea be tapu and no man fish for a year;

  And of all the meat in Tahiti gather we threefold here.

  So shall the fame of our plenty fill the island and so,

  At last, on the tongue of rumour, go where we wish it to go.

  Then shall the pigs of Taiárapu raise their snouts in the air;

  But we sit quiet and wait, as the fowler sits by the snare,

  And tranquilly fold our hands, till the pigs come nosing the food:

  But meanwhile build us a house of Trotéa, the stubborn wood,

  Bind it with incombustible thongs, set a roof to the room,

  Too strong for the hands of a man to dissever or fire to consume;

  And there, when the pigs come trotting, there shall the feast be spread,

  There shall the eye of the morn enlighten the feasters dead.

  So be it done; for I have a heart that pities your state,

  And Nateva and Námunu-úra are fire and water for hate.”

  All was done as he said, and the gardens prospered; and now

  The fame of their plenty went out, and word of it came to Vaiau.

  For the men of Námunu-úra sailed, to the windward far,

  Lay in the offing by south where the towns of the Tevas are,

  And cast overboard of their plenty; and lo! at the Tevas’ feet

  The surf on all the beaches tumbled treasures of meat.

  In the salt of the sea, a harvest tossed with the refluent foam;

  And the children gleaned it in playing, and ate and carried it home;

  And the elders stared and debated, and wondered and passed the jest,

  But whenever a guest came by eagerly questioned the guest;

  And little by little, from one to another, the word went round:

  “In all the borders of Paea the victual rots on the ground,

  And swine are plenty as rats. And now, when they fare to the sea,

  The men of the Námunu-úra glean from under the tree

  And load the canoe to the gunwale with all that is toothsome to eat;

  And all day long on the sea the jaws are crushing the meat,

  The steersman eats at the helm, the rowers munch at the oar,

  And at length, when their bellies are full, overboard with the store!”

  Now was the word made true, and soon as the bait was bare,

  All the pigs of Taiárapu raised their snouts in the air.

  Songs were recited, and kinship was counted, and tales were told

  How war had severed of late but peace had cemented of old

  The clans of the island. “To war,” said they, “now set we an end,

  And hie to the Námunu-úra even as a friend to a friend.”

  So judged, and a day was named; and soon as the morning broke,

  Canoes were thrust in the sea, and the houses emptied of folk.

  Strong blew the wind of the south, the wind that gathers the clan;

  Along all the line of the reef the clamorous surges ran;

  And the clouds were piled on the top of the island mountain-high,

  A mountain throned on a mountain. The fleet of canoes swept by

  In the midst, on the green lagoon, with a crew released from care,

  Sailing an even water, breathing a summer air,

  Cheered by a cloudless sun; and ever to left and right,

  Bursting surge on the reef, drenching storms on the height.

  So the folk of Vaiau sailed and were glad all day,

  Coasting the palm-tree cape and crossing the populous bay

  By all the towns of the Tevas; and still as they bowled along,

  Boat would answer to boat with jest and laughter and song,

  And the people of all the towns trooped to the sides of the sea,

  And gazed from under the hand or sprang aloft on the tree

  Hailing and cheering. Time failed them for more to do;

  The holiday village careened to the wind, and was gone from view

  Swift as a passing bird; and ever as onward it bore,

  Like the cry of the passing bird, bequeathed its song to the shore —

  Desirable laughter of maids and the cry of delight of the child.

  And the gazer, left behind, stared at the wake and smiled.

  By all the towns of the Tevas they went, and Pápara last,

  The home of the chief, the place of muster in war; and passed

  The march of the lands of the clan, to the lands of an alien folk.

  And there, from the dusk of the shoreside palms, a column of smoke

  Mounted and wavered and died in the gold of the setting sun,

  “Paea!” they cried. “It is Paea.” And so was the voyage done.

  In the early fall of the night Hiopa came to the shore,

  And beheld and counted the comers, and lo, they were forty score;

  The pelting feet of the babes that ran already and played,

  The clean-lipped smile of the boy, the slender breasts of the maid,

  And mighty limbs of women, stalwart mothers of men.

  The sires stood forth unabashed; but a little back from his ken

  Clustered the scarcely nubile, the lads and maids, in a ring,

  Fain of each other, afraid of themselves, aware of the king

  And aping behaviour, but clinging together with hands and eyes,

  With looks that were kind like kisses, and laughter tender as sighs.

  There, too, the grandsire stood, raising his silver crest,

  And the impotent hands of a suckling groped in his barren breast.

  The childhood of love, the pair well married, the innocent brood,

  The tale of the generations repeated and ever renewed —

  Hiopa beheld them together, all the ages of man,

  And a moment shook in his purpose.

  But these were the foes of his clan,

  And he trod upon pity, and came, and civilly greeted the king,

  And gravely entreated Rahéro; and for all that could fight or sing,

  And claimed a name in the land, had fitting phrases of praise:

  But with all who were well-descended he spoke of the ancient days.

  And “‘Tis true,” said he, “that in Paea the victual rots on the ground;

  But, friends, your number is many; and pigs must be hunted and found,

  And the lads must troop to the mountains to bring the féis down,

  And around the bowls of the kava cluster the maids of the town.

  So, for to-night, sleep here; but king, common, and priest

  To-morrow, in order due, shall sit with me in the feast.”

  Sleepless the live-long night, Hiopa’s followers toiled.

  The pigs screamed and were slaughtered; the spars of the guest-house oiled,

  The leaves spread on the floor. In many a mountain glen

  The moon drew shadows of trees on the naked bodies of men

  Plucking and bearing fruits; and in all the bounds of the town

  Red glowed the cocoa-nut fires, and were buried and trodden down.

  Thus did seven of the yottowas toil with their tale of the clan,

  But the eighth wrought with his lads, hid from the sight of man.

  In the deeps of the woods they laboured, piling the fuel high

  In fagots, the load of a man, fuel seasoned and dry,

  Thirsty to seize upon fire and apt to blurt into flame.

  And now was the day of the feast. The forests, as morning came,

  Tossed in the wind, and the peaks quaked in the blaze of the day —

  And the cocoa-nuts showered on the ground, rebounding and rolling away:

  A glorious morn for a feast, a famous wind for a fire.

  To the hall of feasting Hiopa led them, mother and sire

  And maid and babe in a tale, the whole of the holiday throng.

  Smiling they came, garlanded green, not dreaming of wrong;

  And for every three, a pig, tenderly cooked in the ground,

  Waited; and féi, the staff of life, heaped in a mound

  For each where he sat; — for each, bananas roasted and raw

  Piled with a bountiful hand, as for horses hay and straw

  Are stacked in a stable; and fish, the food of desire,

  And plentiful vessels of sauce, and bread-fruit gilt in the fire; —

  And kava was common as water. Feasts have there been ere now,

  And many, but never a feast like that of the folk of Vaiau.

  All day long they ate with the resolute greed of brutes,

  And turned from the pigs to the fish, and again from the fish to the fruits,

  And emptied the vessels of sauce, and drank of the kava deep;

  Till the young lay stupid as stones, and the strongest nodded to sleep.

  Sleep that was mighty as death and blind as a moonless night

  Tethered them hand and foot; and their souls were drowned, and the light

  Was cloaked from their eyes. Senseless together, the old and the young,

  The fighter deadly to smite and the prater cunning of tongue,

  The woman wedded and fruitful, inured to the pangs of birth,

  And the maid that knew not of kisses, blindly sprawled on the earth.

  From the hall Hiopa the king and his chiefs came stealthily forth.

  Already the sun hung low and enlightened the peaks of the north;

  But the wind was stubborn to die and blew as it blows at morn,

  Showering the nuts in the dusk, and e’en as a banner is torn,

  High on the peaks of the island, shattered the mountain cloud.

  And now at once, at a signal, a silent, emulous crowd

  Set hands to the work of death, hurrying to and fro,

  Like ants, to furnish the fagots, building them broad and low,

  And piling them high and higher around the walls of the hall.

  Silence persisted within, for sleep lay heavy on all

  But the mother of Támatéa stood at Hiopa’s side,

  And shook for terror and joy like a girl that is a bride,

  Night fell on the toilers, and first Hiopa the wise

  Made the round of the hose, visiting all with his eyes;

  And all was piled to the eaves, and fuel blockaded the door;

  And within, in the house beleaguered, slumbered the forty score.

  Then was an aito despatched and came with fire in his hand,

  And Hiopa took it. — ”Within,” said he, “is the life of a land;

  And behold! I breathe on the coal, I breathe on the dales of the east,

  And silence falls on forest and shore; the voice of the feast

  Is quenched, and the smoke of cooking; the roof-tree decays and falls

  On the empty lodge, and the winds subvert deserted walls.”

  Therewithal, to the fuel, he laid the glowing coal;

  And the redness ran in the mass and burrowed within like a mole,

  And copious smoke was conceived. But, as when a dam is to burst,

  The water lips it and crosses in silver trickles at first,

  And then, of a sudden, whelms and bears it away forthright;

  So now, in a moment, the flame sprang and towered in the night,

  And wrestled and roared in the wind, and high over house and tree,

  Stood, like a streaming torch, enlightening land and sea.

  But the mother of Támatéa threw her arms abroad,

  “Pyre of my son,” she shouted, “debited vengeance of God,

  Late, late, I behold you, yet I behold you at last,

  And glory, beholding! For now are the days of my agony past,

  The lust that famished my soul now eats and drinks its desire,

  And they that encompassed my son shrivel alive in the fire.

  Tenfold precious the vengeance that comes after lingering years!

  Ye quenched the voice of my singer? — hark, in your dying ears,

  The song of the conflagration! Ye left me a widow alone?

  — Behold, the whole of your race consumes, sinew and bone

  And torturing flesh together: man, mother, and maid

  Heaped in a common shambles; and already, borne by the trade,

  The smoke of your dissolution darkens the stars of night.”

  Thus she spoke, and her stature grew in the people’s sight.

  III

  RAHÉRO

  Rahéro was there in the hall asleep: beside him his wife,

  Comely, a mirthful woman, one that delighted in life;

  And a girl that was ripe for marriage, shy and sly as a mouse;

  And a boy, a climber of trees: all the hopes of his house.

  Unwary, with open hands, he slept in the midst of his folk,

  And dreamed that he heard a voice crying without, and awoke,

  Leaping blindly afoot like one from a dream that he fears.

  A hellish glow and clouds were about him; — it roared in his ears

  Like the sound of the cataract fall that plunges sudden and steep;

  And Rahéro swayed as he stood, and his reason was still asleep.

  Now the flame struck hard on the house, wind-wielded, a fracturing blow,

  And the end of the roof was burst and fell on the sleepers below;

  And the lofty hall, and the feast, and the prostrate bodies of folk,

  Shone red in his eyes a moment, and then were swallowed of smoke.

  In the mind of Rahéro clearness came; and he opened his throat;

  And as when a squall comes sudden, the straining sail of a boat

  Thunders aloud and bursts, so thundered the voice of the man.

  — ”The wind and the rain!” he shouted, the mustering word of the clan,

  And “Up!” and “To arms, men of Vaiau!” But silence replied,

  Or only the voice of the gusts of the fire, and nothing beside.

  Rahéro stooped and groped. He handled his womankind,

  But the fumes of the fire and the kava had quenched the life of their mind,

  And they lay like pillars prone; and his hand encountered the boy,

  And there sprang in the gloom of his soul a sudden lightning of joy.

  “Him can I save!” he thought, “if I were speedy enough.”

  And he loosened the cloth from his loins, and swaddled the child in the stuff:

  And about the strength of his neck he knotted the burden well.

  There where the roof had fallen, it roared like the mouth of hell.

  Thither Rahéro went, stumbling on senseless folk,

  And grappled a post of the house, and began to climb in the smoke:

  The last alive of Vaiau; and the son borne by the sire.

  The post glowed in the grain with ulcers of eating fire,

  And the fire bit to the blood and mangled his hands and thighs;

  And the fumes sang in his head like wine and stung in his eyes;

  And still he climbed, and came to the top, the place of proof,

  And thrust a hand through the flame, and clambered alive on the roof.

  But even as he did so, the wind, in a garment of flames and pain,

  Wrapped him from head to heel; and the waistcloth parted in twain;