But she only peers through the fringe of fern At the depths where those secret fires do burn, Whence their deadly breath is poured; And her chief cries, “Foolish daughter, go! “Would you wait on the son of our former foe? “Whom we conquered in battle long ago, “With all his rabble horde! “‘Tis little you reck of that trysting-place “Where he never lags in the loving race, “Nor plays a backward part. “Is it meet or right for a maid well-born “To leave her tribe, and to grieve forlorn, “For a coward slave who has falsely sworn?”— And he racks that maiden's heart. She springs to her feet, alert, upright, Her eyes flash the sudden signal light Of proud blood rudely stirred. She calls aloud to her kinsmen all, And they start, amazed at her sudden call; You could hear a footstep's lightest fall; They hang on her ev'ry word. “If my lover be false, or my lover true, “May the gods be witness between us two, “I have kept the tryst I swore. “I'll keep the compact between us both, “For the sake of my love and my plighted troth, “Though he keep me waiting, I take my oath, “A hundred years or more!” She leaps, with one despairing scream, Like spear-shaft piercing the scalding steam; Its clouds one moment part; That hell-hole gorges its dainty prey, Then shrouds in a column of boiling spray A woman who dared to be true alway, So fond so brave her heart. Still is the steam-cloud shining fair, ‘Tis a white pall, hanging ever there, O'er a tomb that none may see. But the drooping fern-fronds are no more glad; Karapiti's moan is a tangi sad, And a warning voice to the Maori lad Who false to his tryst would be. GEORGE PHIPPS WILLIAMS 1904