fish-hooks, fairest of mother of pearl,
Great mats from ancient days with border rare
Of crimson feathers, cruel tragic spears,
Sweet unguents, necklaces of pearly shells
Envied by maidens, and above them all
Bales of the snowy tapa, made by hands
Subtle, wise hands of women, over whom
The earth had long laid flowers.

In the land
Where history is but a charming tale
Droned by old men at twilight, future days
Pleasantly certain as the next repast,
Where gods and goddesses appear as birds,
Trees, plants or moonlight, gently rising tide,
And shining girdle of leaves,--all homely things,
Which hold the people's hearts.--In this fair land
Taka was born. Thro' sixteen years of moon
And tropic sun she blossomed in the air.
Chilled by no frost, the world unconsciously
Mirrored her sweetness back to her. The sun
Had kissed her skin to a warm topaz; rare
As dusky wealth of Autumn, her sweet breast,
Gleaming and bare, was hung with ropes of flowers
Yellow and white, and in her curling hair
Glimmered the pure gardenia. All the braves
Wished her for wife, but old Akau the chief,
Knowing Uhila's prowess and the blood
Left by an English forbear in his veins,
Knowing that Taka too could boast, or mourn,
A foreign ancestry, had lately pledged
His daughter to this brave, and now the village
Made preparations for the marriage. There
By the warm sea the maidens paid their court
To Taka, who so soon would leave their gay
Indifferent frolic lives to wed the grave
Stern chief. She did not falter at the choice.
Love which the maidens sang was but a word;
She wished no better fate than to be mated
To a strong warrior whom her heart held dear
As friend to kind Akau. So she waited.
In her slim hands she held a polished cup,
The shell of cocoanut, which caught the light
Like a brown pool. The toil of many days
Had turned the tawny shade to warmest black
In gradual depths as shaded Taka's cheek;
With perfumed oil her fingers gave caress
And waked the hidden pictures in the grain,
The yellow sand, the dusky amber girl,
The brown perfected in the shining globe.
Earth's monotones are justified in this.
Close to her lolled small Hopa, blithe and gay
As a young cricket, teasing all the rest
With her sharp wit; often she dropped her work--
The threading of bright flowers into wreaths--
To look across the waves, and suddenly
She called, "A sail, a little sail," and all
Followed her pointing fingers. F