The Kéaou Yen

O vast and distant Heaven, whom we
Father and mother call, on thee
I cry. Say why these ills on me
Excessive fall.
Oppressive, vast, my misery,
Though guiltless all !

The first small lie contains the rest.
When slanders fill our monarch’s breast,
Ills grow, and never are redressed.
Would he but trust
The good, wrongs soon must be redressed.
I know they must.

His frequent covenants show him weak.
Wrongs grow from cozening words they speak.
He trusts the rogues that lie and sneak,
And make things worse.
Their duties shirked, their words so meek
Prove but a curse.

With the great work of some great mind ;—
A temple by true king designed,
Or plans by sagest men outlined,
I’m in a fog..
Round common schemes my way I wind,
Like hare and dog.

As timber soft in carver’s hand
Assumes the shape he may command,
So common speech to understand,
I well may claim.
Those talkers, flowing, artful, grand,
Are sons of shame.

And who are they ? On yonder stream
They dwell; and void of strength they seem.
From men so bloated who would dream
Of martial force ?
Both they and theirs may madly scheme,
And fare the worse !