II. THE DESCENT

Arába speaks: I am the voice of Ífa, messenger Of all the Gods: to me the histories Are known, and I will tell you of the days Of the Descent. How Old Arámfè sent The Gods from Heaven, and Odudúwa stole The bag—my king has told you. . . For many a day Across unwatered plains the Great Ones journeyed, And sandy deserts—for such is the stern bar Set by Arámfè 'twixt his smiling vales
The Gods arrive at the edge of Heaven.	And the stark cliff's edge which his sons approached Tremblingly, till from the sandy brink they peered Down the sheer precipice. Behind them lay The parched, forbidding leagues; but yet the Sun Was there, and breezes soft, and yet the mountains— A faded line beyond the shimmering waste— Called back to mind their ancient home. Beneath Hung chaos—dank blackness and the threatening roar Of untamed waters. Then Odudúwa spoke: "Orísha, what did we? And what fault was ours? Outcasts to-day; to-morrow we must seek Our destiny in dungeons, and beneath p. 21 That yawning blackness we must found a city For unborn men. Better a homeless life In desert places: dare we turn and flee To some lost valley of the hills? Orísha, What think you?" Then spoke Orísha whom men call The Great: "Is this Odúwa that I hear— My mother's son who stole Arámfè's gift, And thought to filch away the hearts of men With blessings which were mine to give? For me, The arts I know I long to use, and yearn To see the first of toiling, living men That I shall make. Forbidding is our task, You say—but think, ere we return to peace And Heaven's calm, how boundless is the fate You flinch from! Besides, is Godhead blind?
	You think
	Arámfè would not know? Has Might no bodes With eyes and ears? . . Dumb spirits hungering
Odúwa sends Ojúmu with the Bird,	For life await us: let us go." So spoke Orísha; and Odúwa hung a chain Over the cliff to the dark water's face, And sent Ojúmu, the wise priest, to pour The magic sand upon the sea and loose p. 22 The five-clawed Bird to scatter far and wide Triumphant land.1 But, as Earth's ramparts grew, Ever in the darkness came the waves and sucked Away the crumbling shore, while foot by foot Lagoons crept up, and turned to reedy swamps The soil of hope. So Odudúwa called
and Olókun and Olóssa.	Olókun2 and Olóssa3 to the cliff And thus he spoke: "Beneath, the waters wrestle With the new-rising World, and would destroy Our kingdom and undo Arámfè's will. Go to the fields of men to be, the homes That they shall make. Olókun! to the sea! For there your rule and your dominion shall be: To curb the hungry waves upon the coastlands For ever. And thus, in our first queen of cities And secret sanctuaries on lonely shores Through every æon as the season comes, Shall men bring gifts in homage to Olókun. And you, Olóssa, where your ripple laps The fruitful bank, shan see continually The offerings of thankful men."
	p. 23 The months
	Of Heaven passed by, while in the moonless night
The Bird makes the Earth,	Beneath the Bird toiled on until the bounds, The corners of the World were steadfast. And then Odúwa called Orísha and the Gods To the cliff's edge, and spoke these words of sorrow: "We go to our sad kingdom. Such is the will Of Old Arámfè: so let it be. But ere The hour the wilderness which gapes for us Engulf us utterly, ere the lingering sight Of those loved hills can gladden us no more— May we not dream awhile of smiling days Gone by? . . Fair was drenched morning in the Sun When dark the hill-tops rose o'er misty hollows; Fair were the leafy trees of night beneath The silvering Moon, and beautiful the wind Upon the grasslands. Good-bye, ye plains we roamed.
The Gods descend.	Good-bye to sunlight and the shifting shadows Cast on the crags of Heaven's blue hills. Ah! wine Of Heaven, farewell" . . . So came the Gods to Ífè. Then of an age of passing months untold By wanings of the Moon our lore repeats
A sunless World.	p. 24 The dirge of wasting hopes and the lament Of a people in a strange World shuddering Beneath the thunder of the unseen waves On crumbling shores around. Always the marsh Pressed eagerly on Ífè; but ever the Bird Returned with the unconquerable sand Ojúmu poured from his enchanted shell, And the marsh yielded. Then young Ógun bade The Forest grow her whispering trees—but she Budded the pallid shoots of hopeless night, And all was sorrow round the sodden town Where Odudúwa reigned. Yet for live men
Orísha creates man.	Orísha, the Creator, yearned, and called To him the longing shades from other glooms; He threw their images1 into the wombs Of Night, Olókun and Olóssa, and all The wives of the great Gods bore babes with eyes Of those born blind—unknowing of their want— And limbs to feel the heartless wind which blew From outer nowhere to the murk beyond. . . But as the unconscious years wore by, Orísha, The Creator, watched the unlit Dawn of Man Wistfully—as one who follows the set flight p. 25 Of a lone sea-bird when the sunset fades Beyond a marshy wilderness—and spoke To Odudúwa: "Our day is endless night, And deep, wan woods enclose our weeping children. The Ocean menaces, chill winds moan through Our mouldering homes. Our guardian Night, who spoke To us with her strange sounds in the still hours Of Heaven is here; yet she can but bewail Her restless task. And where is Evening? Oh! where Is Dawn?" He ceased, and Odudúwa sent Ífa, the Messenger, to his old sire To crave the Sun and the warm flame that lit The torch of Heaven's Evening and the dance. . .
Arámfè sends fire, the Sun and the Moon.	A deep compassion moved thundrous Arámfè, The Father of the Gods, and he sent down The vulture with red fire upon his head For men; and, by the Gods' command, the bird Still wears no plumage where those embers burned him— A mark of honour for remembrance. Again The Father spoke the word, and the pale Moon Sought out the precincts of calm Night's retreat p. 26 To share her watch on Darkness; and Day took wings, And flew to the broad spaces of the sky— To roam benignant from the floating mists Which cling to hillsides of the Dawn—to Eve Who calls the happy toilers home.
	And all
The Age of Mirth.	Was changed: for when the terror of bright Day Had lifted from the unused eyes of men, Sparks flew from Ládi's anvil, while Ógun taught The use of iron, and wise Obálufon1 Made brazen vessels and showed how wine streams out From the slim palms.2 And in the night the Gods Set torches in their thronging courts to light The dance, and Heaven's music touched the drum Once more as in its ancient home. And mirth With Odudúwa reigned.