"ONWARD."

Observer, Volume XL, Issue 7, 18 October 1919, Page 18

"ONWARD."

THE gift ship has dipped her ensign and glided proudly " Onward." Wreathed in ihe glamour of her new-won glor.y, she swung into tho channel; her wash lapping the peaceful sands, and splashing the jagged rim of Rangitoto. Centuries ago the immutable old hill, beheld the'first strange brown men beat in from sea ; their flaxen sails, storm torn and frayed, by perilous voyaging. The smoke from the hapu, hung a pale halo round her purple cone; the thud of the haka vibrated on the beaches; the savage war shout echoed in tho .hills; and the grim old guardian of the gateway heard all tin moved.

Anon the far horizon was flecked with the white sail of Tasman and of Cook. The tides surged a century round her rugged base, and out of the North, the winds of heaven wafted the first emigrant ships. The rattle of anchor chains floated across the placid harbour, and tatooed warriors paddled swift canoes to greet the pakeha .strangers. An English plough turned the first furrow in the Jand of the Long White Cloud. ;

Not many harvests were garnered ere the Maori strove to drive the usurper into the sea. The ring of the axe, and the clang of the builders' hammer, gave way to the yell of savagery and the rattle of musketry. The conflict was fierce and cruel. With tenacious valour the native clung to his birthright and won an honourable peace. The peaceful years grew rich with the spoils of fruitful nature. The science of accumulated ages won from the fertile earth her choicest gifts. The silent sentry saw the white wings of com. merce, superseded by the smoke stacks of. bulky freighters. The nucleus of a nation nestled in the shadow of her concave dome. One winter day, when the clouds banked low along her sloping shoulders, and the white horses raced up the yellow sands ;• plunging boldly over the billows, came the guardian .of our weal; and glided through the gateway into the haven under the hills. The battle cruiser, "New Zealand," slim, graceful, tremendous, compact of every modern device of destniction; £2,000,000 in steel, swung by the bow on the Waitemata stream. A little nation's tribute to the defender of her freedom. Her mighty guns, new from the arsenal; unsounded in anger ; she seemed rather the surety of perpetual peace than the instrument of devastation. A brief visit and she took her station in the vanguard of the fleet. Suddenly the world was riven by the clash of armed continents. In the grey mist of a last May day, with decks cleared for action, her guns vomiting lurid bolts of shrieking death, sho swept unscathed throueh the fiery breath of battle. The diapason of her guns resounded round the world, and stirred our hearts to gratitude and thanksgiving.

Heligoland, Dogger Bank, Jutland, graven in proud relief, adorn the armoiir of her turrets. Slowly steaming in a grim and silent line, under her frowning guns a mighty fleet, passed in sullen surrender. The victory achieved, she returned to her native land; the land whose harvests gave her birth; whose people give her personality. Our Champion of the sea. Our green land is girt by the sea; let the wind blow whence it will, the tang of salt is borne to us in its breath; pnd while salt surges in our blood, we will love a gallant ship.

But ships are but boards. Already the gift ship is obsolete. Other vessels, more stupendous; more terrifying with inventions of swift annihilation ; will bear her proud name and ; cherish her record of honour. The destructive forces of the earth will be arrayed in ever increasing magnitude ;to overawe; to obliterate; until Great Nature revolte and destroys us,

Among the purveyors of beliefs, there are a sort of men who descant on the continuity of life, and perpetual rebirth. Would it were true. How satisfactory to think oneself a recurring link in the great chain of world destiny. - And why not? It will be admitted that the vapid happiness of sitting round on fleecy clouds, encircled with halos and puling harp strings, is. an unproductive pastime, that makes little appeal to this utilitarian age. In new centuries; in now lives; in the golden age dreamed of by the millenarian, when the British lion shall nest with the German eagle, and the Yankee no longer neigh the English language through his nostrils; when the "League of Nations" passes the controversial stage; and the flags of tho Federated world wave from tho same staff; then will we look back along tho flight of ages, and aver that "life is real, life is earnest."

Meanwhile the 'Unalterable hills look down, through the decades, and we petty men, fret out our span of life, and fade into the past.

But ever there is "the flag unstrung to the breeze to martyr and strive for;." our ancient boast to bnttle and die for; the future, radiant with hopes and possibilities.

"Onward" she goes, cleaving the placid sea, and leaving a long white trail. The wind bears a parting breath from her triple funnels to the solemn old hill at the entrance.

Hull down on the sky line, she turns towards the tropics. tAdjiniral' , iJohln, looks back., mayhap, with a quiet friendly smile, at this last outpost of the Empire. Jack Tar, maybe, turns the quid in his cheek, and growls:— "By crumbs; you smell Seven sorts of 'ell, But for us—an' Jellico." "Onward" she goes over the tumbling seas, her ensign streaming gallantly aloft, proclaiming the message of the race— "That they are free, and other men, must bo as free as they."— Tom Harris.