Lo-lale's Lament





Lo-Lale, a prince of Oahu in the fifteenth century, took no joy in

the sea after the girl had been drowned in it who was betrothed to

him. Retiring inland, he led a quiet, thoughtful life, to the regret

of those who had looked to see him show some fitness in leadership,

for as youth verged toward middle age he was repeatedly besought

to marry, that his princely line might be continued. Tired of these

importunities, and possibly not averse to the lightening of his spirit,

he consented that a wife should be sought for him, and appointed his

handsome, dashing cousin, Kalamakua, as his agent in the choice. The

cousin sailed at once for Maui, where rumor said a young woman of

rare beauty was living at the court, whose hand had been sought by

a dozen chiefs. On arriving near the shore of the king's domain

the messenger and his rowers were startled by the uprising from

the waves of a laughing, handsome face, and behold! the woman who

introduced herself in this unusual fashion was the one they sought:

Kelea, the king's sister. She had been surf-riding on her board, and

in the delight of swimming had ventured farther from shore than usual.



The captain of the canoe helped this dusky Venus to rise completely

from the sea, and as she did not wish to return at once, he put his

boat at her service for the exhilarating and risky sport of coasting

the breakers; but putting far out to meet a wave of uncommon size,

they were struck by a squall and blown so far that they found it

easier to put in for shelter near the home of Lo-Lale than to return

to Maui. The storm, the spray, the chilling gusts, compelled Kelea

to sit close in the shelter of Kalamakua's sturdy form. He levied on

the scant draperies of his crew for cloth to keep her warm, and all

the men dined scantily that she might be fed. It is not strange that

a friendship was born on that voyage between the two people who had

been so oddly introduced. Lo-Lale had never heard of John Alden and

Myles Standish, principally, no doubt, because they had not been

born, but it must be allowed in his behalf, or in hers, that he

had never seen the damsel whom he was courting thus by proxy. When

he did behold her he was vastly pleased, and as he appeared in all

the paraphernalia of his rank and instituted in her honor a series

of feasts and entertainments unparalleled in Oahu, the consent of

Kelea to a speedy marriage was obtained, a courteous notice to that

effect being sent to her relatives, who had mourned for her as lost

in the storm. He built a temple and adorned it with a statue as a

thank-offering for having blown so fair a bride to his domain. No

prettier compliment could be paid to a wife, even by a white man.



For a time Kelea was content. Lo-Lale was a kind husband, and he was

constantly studying to advance her happiness, but he was meditative and

silent; he loved the woody solitudes, while she was fond of company,

babble, sport, and especially of swimming and surf-riding. Presently

it was noticed that she laughed less. She did not welcome Lo-Lale

when he returned from his walks or his communings with Nature on

the hills. The voice of the sea was calling her,--and the voice

of Kalamakua. A separation had to come. It was without any spoken

bitterness. The husband wished her well, bestowed on her some parting

gifts, and sent her to the shore in a palanquin borne by four men and

attended by a guard of three hundred, as became her station. Kalamakua

was waiting on the beach,--Kalamakua, handsome, reckless, ardent. She

never returned to Maui. Though Lo-Lale resumed his old, still way

and kept his dignity and countenance before his people, his lament,

that has been preserved by the treasurers of island traditions for

more than four centuries, discovers a pang in his heart deeper than he

could or would have voiced when he parted from his wife. The English

version is by King Kalakaua:





"Farewell, my partner on the lowland plains,

On the waters of Pohakeo, above Kanehoa,

On the dark mountain spur of Mauna-una!

O, Lihue, she is gone!

Sniff the sweet scent of the grass,

The sweet scent of the wild vines

That are twisted by Waikoloa,

By the winds of Waiopua,

My flower!

As if a mote were in my eye.

The pupil of my eye is troubled.

Dimness covers my eyes. Woe is me!"





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