New Zealand Verse/The Pink and White Terraces
XVIII.
The Pink and White Terraces.
From the low sky-line of the hilly rangeBefore them, sweeping down its dark-green faceInto the lake that slumbered at its base,A mighty Cataract—so it seemed—Over a hundred steps of marble streamedAnd gushed, or fell in dripping overflow—Flat steps, in flights half-circled—row o’er row,Irregularly mingling side by side;They and the torrent-curtain wide,All rosy-hued, it seemed, with sunset’s glow.——But what is this!—no roar, no soundDisturbs that torrent’s hush profound!The wanderers near and nearer come—Still is the mighty Cataract dumb!A thousand fairy lights may shimmerWith tender sheen, with glossy glimmer,O’er curve advanced and salient edgeOf many a luminous water-ledge;A thousand slanting shadows paleMay fling their thin transparent veilO’er deep recess and shadowy dentIn many a watery stair’s descent:Yet, mellow-bright, or mildly dim,Both lights and shades—both dent and rim—Each wavy streak, each warm snow-tress—Stand rigid, mute and motionless!No faintest murmur—not a sound—Relieves that Cataract’s hush profound;No tiniest bubble, not a flakeOf floating foam is seen to breakThe smoothness where it meets the Lake: Along that shining surface moveNo ripples; not the slightest swellRolls o’er the mirror darkly green,Where, every feature limned so well—Pale, silent and serene as death—The cataract’s image hangs beneathThe cataract—but not more serene,More phantom-silent than is seenThe white rose-hued reality above.
They paddle past—for on the rightAnother Cataract comes in sight;Another broader, grander flightOf steps—all stainless, snowy-bright!They land—their curious way they trackNear thickets made by contrast black;And then that wonder seems to beA Cataract carved in Parian stone,Or any purer substance known—Agate or milk-chalcedony!Its showering snow-cascades appearLong ranges bright of stalactite,And sparry frets and fringes white,Thick-falling, plenteous, tier o’er tier;Its crowding stairs, in bold ascentPiled up that silvery-glimmering height,Are layers, they know—accretions slowOf hard silicious sediment:For as they gain a rugged road,And cautious climb the solid rime,Each step becomes a terrace broad—Each terrace a wide basin brimmedWith water, brilliant, yet in hueThe tenderest, delicate harebell-blueDeepening to violet! Slowly climbThe twain, and turn from time to time To mark the hundred baths in view—Crystalline azure, snowy-rimmed—The marge of every beauteous pondCurve after curve—each lower beyondThe higher—outsweeping white and wide,Like snowy lines of foam that glideO’er level sea sands lightly skimmedBy thin sheets of the glistening tide. They climb those milk-white flats incrustedAnd netted o’er with wavy ropesOf wrinkled silica. At last—Each basin’s heat increasing fast—The topmost step the pair surmount,And lo, the cause of all! Around,The circling cliffs a crater bound—Cliffs damp with dark-green moss—their slopesAll crimson-stained with blots and streaks—White-mottled and vermilion-rusted;And in the midst, beneath a cloudThat ever upward rolls and reeksAnd hides the sky with its dim shroud,Look where upshoots a fuming fount—Up through a blue and boiling poolPerennial—a great sapphire steaming,In that coralline crater gleaming.Upwelling ever, amethystal,Ebullient comes the bubbling crystal!Still growing cooler and more coolAs down the porcelain stairway slipsThe fluid flint, and slowly drips,And hangs each basin’s curling lipsWith crusted fringe each year increases,Thicker than shear-forgotten fleeces;More close and regular than rows,Long rows of snowy trumpet-flowersSome day to hang in garden-bowers, When strangers shall these wilds enclose.But see! in all that lively spreadOf blue and white and vermeil red,How dark with growths of greenest gloss,Just at the edge of that first ledge,A little rocky islet peepsInto the crater-caldron’s deeps.Along the ledge they lightly cross,And from that place of vantage gazeO’er all the scene — and every phaseThe current takes as down it strays:They note where’er, by step or stair,By brimming bath, on hollow reefOr hoary plain, its magic rainCan reach a branch, a flower, a leaf—The branching spray, leaf, blossom gay,Are blanched and stiffened into stone!So round about lurks tracery strewnOf daintiest-moulded porcelain-ware,Or coral wreaths and clusters rare,A white flint-foliage! rather saySuch fairy-work as frost aloneWere equal to, could it o’erlayWith tender crust of crystals fair,—Fine spikes so delicately piled—Not wintry trees, leafstripped and bare,But summer’s vegetation, rich and wild.