But more to me than the hunter—
The fisher and stream and hill—
Was the kampong deep in the hollow,
Nestling dark and still.
Dark and still in the valley,
A single house and strong;
Perched on piles two warriors high
And a hundred paces long.
And straight before the tall-stepped door
The mighty chief poles rose,
And seemed to shake their tasseled tops
In warning to their foes—
As they who slept beneath them
Once did, when in their might—
With shining steel and sinews—
Full-armed they sprang to fight.
Long from the hill-side trees I watched
The water women go
Back and forth to the river bank,
Chattering to and fro.
Long from the hill-side trees I watched
Till—straight as the windless flame—
With spear and shield and mandauw,
The kampong chieftain came.
Full well I knew the waist-cloth blue
Where hung each shriveled head.
Full well I saw the eyes of awe
That followed in his tread.
Full well I heard the spoken word—
The quick obedience fanned—
And I felt the trance of the royal glance
Of the Lord of the Jungle-land.
Lightly he scorned the proffered guard
As he strode the upland grade,
And softly I drew my mandauw
And fingered the sharpened blade.
Was it for game or a head he came
To the hills in the golden morn?
But little I cared as the heavens stared
On the day that my hope was born.