Rua looked and wondered; he said to himself in his heart: “Poor are the pleasures of life, and death is the better part.” But lo! on the higher benches a cluster of tranquil folk Sat by themselves, nor raised their serious eyes, nor spoke: Women with robes unruffled and garlands duly arranged, Gazing far from the feast with faces of people estranged; And quiet amongst the quiet, and fairer than all the fair, Taheia, the well-descended, Taheia, heavy of hair. And the soul of Rua awoke, courage enlightened his eyes, And he uttered a summoning shout and called on the clan to rise. Over against him at once, in the spotted shade of the trees, Owlish and blinking creatures scrambled to hands and knees; On the grades of the sacred terrace, the driveller woke to fear, And the hand of the ham-drooped warrior brandished a wavering spear. And Rua folded his arms, and scorn discovered his teeth; Above the war-crowd gibbered, and Rua stood smiling beneath. Thick, like leaves in the autumn, faint, like April sleet, Missiles from tremulous hands quivered around his feet; And Taheia leaped from her place; and the priest, the ruby-eyed, Ran to the front of the terrace, and brandished his arms, and cried: “Hold, O fools, he brings tidings!” and “Hold, ’tis the love of my heart!” Till lo! in front of the terrace, Rua pierced with a dart. Taheia cherished his head, and the aged priest stood by, And gazed with eyes of ruby at Rua’s darkening eye. “Taheia, here is the end, I die a death for a man. I have given the life of my soul to save an unsavable clan. See them, the drooping of hams! behold me the blinking crew: Fifty spears they cast, and one of fifty true! And you, O priest, the foreteller, foretell for yourself if you can, Foretell the hour of the day when the Vais shall burst on your clan! By the head of the tapu cleft, with death and fire in their hand, Thick and silent like ants, the warriors swarm in the land.” And they tell that when next the sun had climbed to the noonday skies, It shone on the smoke of feasting in the country of the Vais. NOTES TO THE FEAST OF FAMINE IN this ballad, I have strung together some of the more striking particularities of the Marquesas. It rests upon no authority; it is in no sense, like “Rahéro,” a native story; but a patchwork of details of manners and the impressions of a traveller. It may seem strange, when the scene is laid upon these profligate islands, to make the story hinge on love. But love is not less known in the Marquesas than elsewhere; nor is there any cause of suicide more common in the islands. {61} Note 1, page 61. “_Pit of Popoi_.” Where the breadfruit was stored for preservation.