Her children shine as eight stars far away.
She watch down sky, ever look far north-west,
As the big night passeth over moani ali[[5]]
Sometimes my love blink her eyes, and then
The little stars all laugh and clap hands!
And lo! stars shoot ’cross sky out of Poluto’s halls.
[5]. The sea.
“’Tis good O Le Langi, to know that your loved one watches with her starry eyes over your dead children,” I responded, as the scented sea wind stirred the feathery palms and dying forest flowers. The very trees seemed to sigh some mystery into my ears as the old poet spoke, or rather chanted on, saying that which I have so weakly told. For a moment O Le Langi did not answer. Then, with his massive chest swelling with emotion, he slowly raised his handsome, old wrinkled face. He looked like some marvellous bronze statue as he lifted his head and chin skyward. I dared not speak as I saw him lift his arm and, with hand archwise over his eyes, stare at that tremendous manuscript of heathen-night. Then he pointed with one long, tawny finger to the heavens. For a little moment that dark, thin finger wavered with indecision, then it steadily pointed straight toward the far north-west—and lo! I saw his beloved dead (her who had died thirty years before) looking out of the sparkling constellation. Yes, two bright stars—her eyes! It appeared that she was watching over the little group of pale stars that wistfully stared from the east to the north-west—they were the spirits of O Le Langi’s four dead children. It was some time ere he lowered his chin, for he had watched long and strangely those stars that he claimed.
As the shadows deepened and wild odours of citrons and decaying pineapples drifted on the cool sea wind, I relit my pipe. Once more the old poet looked at me with ambitious pride gleaming from his eyes over my rapt attention and praise. Then he continued in sombre tones that which was apparently of magnificent import to him:
One night I stand by sea-coast, dreaming