Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/182
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146
Miroa’s Song.
Ngatimamoe! From your Chiefs a word Was wont to summon all the woes that wait On warfare—plunder, slaughter, lust and hate;You then were feared; your name is now abhorred!
Driven to the wild, inhospitable West, The strong tribe dwindled; mother, sire and son Fought Cold and Famine—foes that ne’er relented.The last child starved at the last mother’s breast, The last stern warrior laid him down alone, Unsepulchred, unhonoured, unlamented!
LXXXV.
Miroa’s Song.
Alas, and well-a-day! they are talking of me still:By the tinkling of my nostril, I fear they are talking ill;Poor hapless I—poor little I—so many mouths to fill, And all for this strange feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
O senseless heart—O simple! to yearn so and to pineFor one so far above me, confest o’er all to shine—For one a hundred dote upon, who never can be mine! O ’tis a foolish feeling—all this fond sweet pain!
When I was quite a child—not so many moons ago—A happy little maiden—O then it was not so;Like a sunny-dancing wavelet then I sparkled to and fro; And I never had this feeling, O this sad sweet pain!