New Zealand Verse/The Last of the Forest
XXVII.
The Last of the Forest.
Hast thou not heard, O White Man, through a troubled dreaming
On some still night when all the world lay stark,
Sharp through the silence, moaning of the sea, and screaming
Of night-birds in the dark ?
On some still night when all the world lay stark,
Sharp through the silence, moaning of the sea, and screaming
Of night-birds in the dark ?
Hast thou not said, O White Man, shivering when the shrieking
Wild voices thrilled thee in a mystery of pain:
“Peace! ’tis the Ocean calling! ’tis the Dead Tree creaking!
Hush thee, my heart, again!”
Wild voices thrilled thee in a mystery of pain:
“Peace! ’tis the Ocean calling! ’tis the Dead Tree creaking!
Hush thee, my heart, again!”
Are they but birds? is it the sea in lamentation,
Or is it Ghosts of Earth, and Air, that cry,
Moaning a requiem, in their utter desolation,
For old worlds passing by?
Or is it Ghosts of Earth, and Air, that cry,
Moaning a requiem, in their utter desolation,
For old worlds passing by?
Is it the wind that howls? The Dead Tree thou ignorest,
Speech hath, and Spirit, though a shadow grey.
Hearest thou not the voice that mourns the vanished Forest,
That was, and passed away?
Speech hath, and Spirit, though a shadow grey.
Hearest thou not the voice that mourns the vanished Forest,
That was, and passed away?
“White Man, behold me! ghastly in the Spring’s sereneness,
Battered, and bruised, by ceaseless storm and strife;
I am the Spectre of a mighty forest’s greenness,
I, who am Death in Life!
Battered, and bruised, by ceaseless storm and strife;
I am the Spectre of a mighty forest’s greenness,
I, who am Death in Life!
Late, and with lingering footsteps, Spring draws near, revealing
Love, and new life, to every passer-by;
Angel beloved! in thy touches is no healing,
No balm for such as I!
Love, and new life, to every passer-by;
Angel beloved! in thy touches is no healing,
No balm for such as I!
Dawn after dawn, I, sleepless, wait the first faint flushes,
Then, as the cloud-gates of the East unfold,
Over the world the red flood of the sunrise rushes
That leaves me white and cold.
Then, as the cloud-gates of the East unfold,
Over the world the red flood of the sunrise rushes
That leaves me white and cold.
Heaven in her pity rains her tender tears upon me,
Me,— who shall never bud nor bloom again,
There is no quickening in the sunshine lavished on me,
The dew drops all in vain.
Me,— who shall never bud nor bloom again,
There is no quickening in the sunshine lavished on me,
The dew drops all in vain.
Shattered by lightning, tempest-tossed, and torn, and broken,
Storms had no power to shake me till this last,
When, at the coming of the White Man, doom was spoken,—
Now live I in the Past!
Storms had no power to shake me till this last,
When, at the coming of the White Man, doom was spoken,—
Now live I in the Past!
What is there left, O White Man, what is there remaining?
What is there flees not from before thy face?
Wonder thou not to hear the Spirits’ loud complaining
For flower, forest, race!
What is there flees not from before thy face?
Wonder thou not to hear the Spirits’ loud complaining
For flower, forest, race!
As the worn body by a lingering breath is haunted,
So is my Ghost withheld from final peace;
While these strong roots thus firmly in the earth are planted,
Am I denied release.
So is my Ghost withheld from final peace;
While these strong roots thus firmly in the earth are planted,
Am I denied release.
Hast thou no mercy, Storm-wind? let thy fury hound me;
Let loose thy Fiends, and bid them work their will,
Till in Earth’s bosom snaps the link that bound me!
Then shall my soul be still!”
Let loose thy Fiends, and bid them work their will,
Till in Earth’s bosom snaps the link that bound me!
Then shall my soul be still!”
Dost thou not hear, O White Man, through thy troubled dreaming
On this calm night when all the world lies stark,
Sharp through the silence, moaning of the sea, and screaming
Of night-birds in the dark?
On this calm night when all the world lies stark,
Sharp through the silence, moaning of the sea, and screaming
Of night-birds in the dark?
What! dost thou say, O White Man, shivering when the shrieking
Wild voices thrill thee in an agony of pain:
“Peace! ’tis the Ocean calling! ’tis the Dead Tree creaking!
Hush thee, my heart, again!”
Wild voices thrill thee in an agony of pain:
“Peace! ’tis the Ocean calling! ’tis the Dead Tree creaking!
Hush thee, my heart, again!”
They are not birds! the sea wails not in lamentation—
They are the Ghosts of Earth, of Air, that cry,
Moaning a requiem, in their utter desolation,
For old worlds passing by.
They are the Ghosts of Earth, of Air, that cry,
Moaning a requiem, in their utter desolation,
For old worlds passing by.