The Rose of Dawn | Page 5

and her eyes?Closed to the ardent sun. The village slept,?Waiting for evening's cool. Uhila came;?Over his shoulder like a silver shroud?He brought the gleaming fish. The purple shadows?Lay in soft pools about the palms; the leaves,?Listless as weary love, hung motionless,?And the hot green gave color to the air,?The world viewed through an emerald.?He came,?And to Akau's hut he brought his gift,?A mighty fish to grace the wedding feast.?And where was Taka? All the gorgeous day?She had been absent, old Akau told;?And of the stranger, wanderer, with eyes?Lit by the fires of youth, Akau told,?Like a glad wind of morning bearing spring,?Spring with the heart of summer, and his brow?Crowned with the calm white flowers of innocence.?Uhila knew, in days long past he too?Had wandered thro' the forest in the glory?And glow of youth.
With mouth set stern and grim?He followed to the pool. His heart was stirred?With turbulent emotions. She was his,--?Taka was his, the blossom that should cheer?The winter of his age. His springing step?Was stealthy as a tiger's, and the way?Was clear before him. Rightly was he named?The lightning; keen and cruel he would flash?Into this sky of love, death in his hand.?The path was strewn with little crimson flowers?Scarlet festooned the trees, or was it blood?That danced within his eyes? His thoughts were vague:?Death, mercy, love, but strongest was desire?Merely to see and satisfy his fear.?Sudden he saw them, and he hid his eyes?Before the sight, then strained to see again?Taka, her arms piled high with blossoms, stood,?An amber goddess of spring with flying hair?Beneath a flower-bent branch, whose leaves had caught?One of her sun-kissed curls. Malua watched her.?Laughing, she would have torn away the tress?And with the effort all the starry flowers?Drifted like snow across their bended heads,?But with a low cry he withheld her hand,?And standing where she needs must turn to see?His two arms o'er her slender shoulder laid,?With fingers little used to gentler arts?His timid touch unloosed her perfumed hair,?Too near--for aught but that her curving throat?Should be upturned to meet his sure caress,?And all the blossoms drifted thro' the air?And fell like blessings on their bended heads.
Uhila bore no more; his heart was great?With unshed tears; their beauty and their love?Touched like soft music on his injured soul?With infinite sadness and a hopeless calm.?He left them there and sought the forest shades?To search his heart. A great nobility?Slept in his native breast, and those pale drops?Of northern blood had taught him self-control?And might of mercy. To and fro he paced,?Learning his lesson. Taka, little moon?Sent by the gods to light his loneliness,?Was his no longer. He must twist his heart,?Wried with grim pain, to smiles of pleasantness.?Ah, it was great. Uhila should be great,?Giving her to Malua as a gift,?Showing Akau how he wished no more?To wed so young a maid, and then the tears?Broke from his eyes and burned his throbbing breast.?Homeward he turned, and all the sleepy birds?Twittered good-night--and almost was he glad.?In the cool green of evening, silent now?Save for their beating hearts, the lovers came?Back to the village. In the stranger's honor?The people made a feast. The air was filled?With busy sounds of preparation. Some?Brought driftwood for the fires, some gathered flowers?To deck themselves, and all the fruitful earth?Was robbed of its delights for beauty's sake.?Before the feasting Chief Akau rose,?Grave and majestic, for the evening prayer;?Pouring libation from the kava bowl?In a deep silence, to the gods he cried,
"Take of our offering, O you mighty gods,?Look on this people kindly, let them prosper?In health and increase. Let the fecund ground?Grant us, your creatures, life to serve you well.?Take of our offering, O you gods of war,?Let men be brave and triumph in your name.?Take of our offering, O you gods of sea,?Spare us your wrath, and in your might depart?Along the ocean to some far off shore.?Take of our offering, all you mighty gods."
The feasting ended, round the fires they gathered,?Wise aged men telling anew their tales?Of youth, sweet purposeless youth which dreams of stars?The while it gathers weeds--of battles dire.?Their thin cold blood warmed with grim memories?Of gods they told, of goddesses with hair?Streaming across the sunset, and of dear?Women long dead, and then the maidens came,?Singing their little songs. One sang of love:
"The breath of spring is in his hair,?He needs no crimson necklaces?To win the favor of the fair.
"The full moon leaned to kiss his eyes,?The fairies brought him purple flowers,?The flowers of love, and made him wise.
"The maidens die for his disdain,?His heart strikes silver lightning,?Their warm tears stir the flowers like rain.
"The breath of love is in his hair,?He needs no crimson necklaces?To win the fairest of the fair."
Another sang of the sad mothers, lone?In their dark homes at evening, while beyond?The limitless twilight on some field of war?Their hearts lie dead.
"O