Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/92

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56
The Last of the Forest.
Late, and with lingering footsteps, Spring draws near, revealing
Love, and new life, to every passer-by;
Angel beloved! in thy touches is no healing,
    No balm for such as I!

Dawn after dawn, I, sleepless, wait the first faint flushes,
Then, as the cloud-gates of the East unfold,
Over the world the red flood of the sunrise rushes
    That leaves me white and cold.

Heaven in her pity rains her tender tears upon me,
Me,— who shall never bud nor bloom again,
There is no quickening in the sunshine lavished on me,
    The dew drops all in vain.

Shattered by lightning, tempest-tossed, and torn, and broken,
Storms had no power to shake me till this last,
When, at the coming of the White Man, doom was spoken,—
    Now live I in the Past!

What is there left, O White Man, what is there remaining?
What is there flees not from before thy face?
Wonder thou not to hear the Spirits’ loud complaining
    For flower, forest, race!

As the worn body by a lingering breath is haunted,
So is my Ghost withheld from final peace;
While these strong roots thus firmly in the earth are planted,
    Am I denied release.

Hast thou no mercy, Storm-wind? let thy fury hound me;
Let loose thy Fiends, and bid them work their will,
Till in Earth’s bosom snaps the link that bound me!
    Then shall my soul be still!”