Original Poetry.

New Zealander, Volume 10, Issue 886, 11 October 1854, Page 3

Original Poetry.

FRAGMENT. CANOE AND WOMAN OF THE SOUTH SEA ISLAND Framed of the fragrant bread-fruit tree, The waves along its glittering track, Were scented sweet as sweet could be— And it was tyed in many a knot With cordage of the cocoa-tree. The paotrrcs underneath the sea, Whose gurgiing dash the breeze brought back— Were musical both to hear and see. The lofty prow was carved and scroll'd, Like stalls within some minster old— And fastened there in graceful show, Bright feathers from some tropic wing, Bowed o'er the crystal deep below, In that blue surface mirroring, Their flutter and their glow, Thus blending with one lovely thing, The fairest thing 1 know. I tell you that a proud trireme, Mann'd by a Grecian crew, Upon a Naiad haunted stream — Was not more fair to view. I tell you those caiques that glide. With nought on earth to do, Along the Bosphorus' golden tide, Shame not this rude canoe. I tell you that no gondolas, Where lovers stab or woo, Not all that Venice had or has, Can match this frail canoe. And she who steer'd the fragile bark— And moor'd it in a tiny bay, Like some enchanter's spell was dark ; Or like a night whose starry ray Is purer, lovlier than the day. She was a woman slight and tall, In whose matured and perfect prime— There met and sweetly mingled all The graces of a younger time. For her's was girlhood's timid look— Which seldom stranger gaze can brook, And her's the calm and steadfast mien; The step, the gesture of a queen. Her's was the Asiatic eye, Whose languid lids divinely fold— O'er glances passionate and shy, O'er orbs wherein the heart is told By light and shade of strongest feeling, As thro' a summer sky of gold— The dark fring'd robes of eve are stealing— When night's first kiss on earth is prest.— When day's last flush of light is best, And each one by itself could never Show fair as then they showed together. A sculptor's hand had loved to try Her limbs exactest symmetry. To chisel out the waving fall Of curls upon each dusky shoulder, And all that nameless ease recall Which shone in every thing about her. For scarce her scanty garments dyed Of rainbow hues, those limbs could hide, In many a fold of ancient taste, Depending from her slender waist; Over one dark arm lightly thrown, With grace a Grecian nymph might own. Lightly she leaped upon the beach, With naked foot and charming gesture— A being art should never reach, A simple an enchanting creature! ST. GEORGE. Auckland. Oct. 11th, 1854. THE MISSIONARY'S INFANT'S TOMB, BY THE WAIKATO RIVER, FORMERLY A MISSIONARY STATION. Near to the river's sloping side, Beneath a fragrant shade A grave the blooming flowers hide— Death here a prisoner made. Not clothed in terrors did he come, He was not met in dread. — This is a lovely infant's tomb, This is its lowly bed. Parents have left behind their dead, For here they could not stay ; They planted flowers around the bed On which the sleeper lay. Parted they are but for a while, The thought their hearts will cheer, — In faith and hope, resigned, they smile, They wipe away the tear. No stately church here, towering high, Casts o'er its solemn shade, — No vesper bell, with evening's sigh, Resounds along this glade. Vigils these flowing waters keep, The ever-murmuring surge, Rolling, in plaintive tones they sweep, Chanting thy funeral dirge. As from an heated mass, these hills, Thrown up in nature's storm, Pile upon pile, o'erhanging still, In every shape and form, — Nature in gorgeous robes here seen, In beauty all arrayed, An ever varied, changing scene, Shown by the light and shade. This lovely spot—thy long, long home; But here thou shalt not stay,— A fire that will this world entomb, Shall vivify thy clay! Thy body, purified, shall rise In youthful beauties bloom, Bursting, as from a chrysalis, The fetters of thy tomb! Tamali