New Zealand Verse/The Lost Tribe
LXXXIV.
The Lost Tribe.
Not always do they perish by the sword
Who by the sword have lived. A harder fate,
A direr doom, an end more desolate
Befel the remnant of one warlike horde!
Who by the sword have lived. A harder fate,
A direr doom, an end more desolate
Befel the remnant of one warlike horde!
Ngatimamoe! From your Chiefs a word
Was wont to summon all the woes that wait
On warfare—plunder, slaughter, lust and hate;
You then were feared; your name is now abhorred!
Was wont to summon all the woes that wait
On warfare—plunder, slaughter, lust and hate;
You then were feared; your name is now abhorred!
Driven to the wild, inhospitable West,
The strong tribe dwindled; mother, sire and son
Fought Cold and Famine—foes that ne’er relented.
The last child starved at the last mother’s breast,
The last stern warrior laid him down alone,
Unsepulchred, unhonoured, unlamented!
The strong tribe dwindled; mother, sire and son
Fought Cold and Famine—foes that ne’er relented.
The last child starved at the last mother’s breast,
The last stern warrior laid him down alone,
Unsepulchred, unhonoured, unlamented!