10
Not Understood
Pleasure-ground of the Pacific! brightest region on the main!
Land of many a rushing river, verdant valley, fertile plain!
I revisit thee, in fancy, all thy wonders rise once more,
Once again, enthrall’d, I listen to old Tongariro’s roar;
Tarawera roused to fury, belches forth his molten wrath,
And a host of fiery demons dance along his flaming path,
Boiling cauldrons, foaming geysers, lakes whose bosoms leap with fear;
Well and truly is it written—“Wonderland is really here!”
Shift the scene! Night grows to morning, morn soon ripens into day,
Lovely islands crowd and cluster in a bright and placid bay,
Silver ripples shimmer softly on the bosom of the deep,
And the mountains see their faces, for the wind is fast asleep.
Bay of Islands! bay of beauty! who would dream that such a place
Should have been a scene of slaughter, man ’gainst man, and race ’gainst race;
Yonder, in the little churchyard, mouldering tombstones sadly tell
Tales of valour and of honour, records of how brave men fell
In the sacred cause of duty; thanks to God, those days are o’er,
And the old race and the new race now are enemies no more.
Sweep we round by Rangitoto, with his rough and rocky crest,
Grim old guardian of the gateway leading out to ocean’s breast;
Takapuna slumbers, deeply Waitemata opes its arms,
All its loveliness unfolding, circled by a hundred charms;
Land of many a rushing river, verdant valley, fertile plain!
I revisit thee, in fancy, all thy wonders rise once more,
Once again, enthrall’d, I listen to old Tongariro’s roar;
Tarawera roused to fury, belches forth his molten wrath,
And a host of fiery demons dance along his flaming path,
Boiling cauldrons, foaming geysers, lakes whose bosoms leap with fear;
Well and truly is it written—“Wonderland is really here!”
Shift the scene! Night grows to morning, morn soon ripens into day,
Lovely islands crowd and cluster in a bright and placid bay,
Silver ripples shimmer softly on the bosom of the deep,
And the mountains see their faces, for the wind is fast asleep.
Bay of Islands! bay of beauty! who would dream that such a place
Should have been a scene of slaughter, man ’gainst man, and race ’gainst race;
Yonder, in the little churchyard, mouldering tombstones sadly tell
Tales of valour and of honour, records of how brave men fell
In the sacred cause of duty; thanks to God, those days are o’er,
And the old race and the new race now are enemies no more.
Sweep we round by Rangitoto, with his rough and rocky crest,
Grim old guardian of the gateway leading out to ocean’s breast;
Takapuna slumbers, deeply Waitemata opes its arms,
All its loveliness unfolding, circled by a hundred charms;
