the notes of despair. Hone Heke, M.H.R., the last of the speakers, gave the old farewells, and then Takarangi Mete Kingi rose to his feet, and, circling his méré round his head, cried the opening words of the lament:—
Whakarongo e te rau
Tenei te tupuna o te mate.
The Maoris sprang to their feet and broke into a grand chorus, an old chant to Death. They stamped and threw their arms from side to side. The women waved their green branches, and as the sonorous poem was chanted with full voice, they seemed to be defiantly challenging Death. No translation can convey the pathos and poetic force of the lament, but the words may be given. They are as follow:—
Hearken O ye people!
This is the parent of Death,
Our common ancestor,
Who must embrace us all.
’Twas conceived in the Reinga,[1]
’Twas engendered in the Dark, Sad Night.
’Tis but a breath from heaven,
And we pass away for ever.
We fall, and prone we lie,
And ever soundly sleep.
We slumber with our knees drawn up,
We slumber stricken in a heap.
I liken me to yon bright starry sign,
To Maahu-tonga[2]
That round and round revolves.
(We circle our short lives and then pass on),
I am but as a wandering sprite—
Behold the hawk that soars so far above
In summer skies—
And listen to the sullen matuku,
The bittern[3] that bellows in the swamp
(E hu ana i to repo—i—e!)
With eyes rolling, feathers dancing, black tresses tossing, and weapons brandished in the air, the Maoris ended their great song with a long drawn “E—e!”
