Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Oceanica: Vol. XXXI. 1876–79.
Song of the Tonga-Islanders
By AnonymousC
Down hills of gold to his coral bowers;
Come where the wood-pigeon’s moan is chiding
The song of the wind, while we gather flowers.
While the wild waves dance on our iron strand;
To-morrow these waves may wash our graves,
And the moon look down on a ruined land.
In the fragrant oil of the sandal-tree;
Strike the bonjoo, and the oola share,
Ere the death-gods hear our jubilee.
Come with their skins of curdled snows?
They shall see our maidens dress our bowers,
While the hooni shines on their sunny brows.
Finow sits on the funeral stone?
Who shall weep for his dying daughter?
Who shall answer the red chief’s moan?
He shall sink unseen by the split canoe,
Though the plantain-bird be his alone,
And the thundering gods of Fanfonnoo.
Ere the wreath shall drop from the warrior’s waist;
Let us not think ’t is but an hour
We have on our perfumed mats to waste.
To-morrow may hurl the battle-spear?
Let us whirl our torches, and tread the ring,—
He only shall find our footprints here.
Our way to the cave where Hoonga dwells,
Where under the tide he hides his bride,
And lives by the light of its starry shells.
The sun shines bright, and the wild waves play;
To-morrow for us may never rise;—
Come to Licoo to-day, to-day.