VI. THE PASSING OF ÓGUN

VI. THE PASSING OF ÓGUN.

	Arába continues:
After the Úbo Wars, Ógun reigns	An age passed by, and Ífè knew no more Of battles; for Ógun, grey and bent, chose out The way of peace beloved of Old Arámfè.
in peace.
	Forgotten lives were lived, and shadowy priests Kept warm the altars of the departed Gods: Old men went softly to the River's lip1 Unsung: 'twixt hope and fear mute colonists Went forth to the strange forests of the World; And unremembered wives sought out the shrines Of the givers of new life. Their names are lost. . .      Yet now, Oíbo, let a final tale Be told; for, at the last, that silent age Yields up the legend of its fall. In those Last tranquil years the mothers blessed King Ógun For peaceful days and night's security; And old men used to tell of their brave deeds In battles where Orányan led, applaud The torch-lit dance and pass their last calm days Happily. . . But then came traders from the wilds p. 47 By thorn and tangle of scarce-trodden ways Through the dim woods with wondrous tales they heard At crossway markets1 in far lands of deeds Orányan did on battlefields beyond The region of the forests. These tales, oft-told In house and market, filled the air with rumours And dreams of war which troubled the repose Of ancient Ífè—for, while the fathers feared The coming of the day when the grey God, Aweary of Earth's Kingship, would go back To his first far-off home, the young men's dreams Were always of Orányan, and their pale days
Orányan returns from distant Wars to demand the crown.	Lagged by. . . Such were the various thoughts of men In Ífè, when on a clay, unheralded, Orányan2 with a host appeared before Her peaceful gates. None could deny his entrance: The hero strode again the streets he saved From the Olúbo's grass-clad men, and came Before his father to demand the crown Of Odudúwa. King Ógun spoke: "My son, p. 48 'Tis long since you were here, and you are welcome. But why with these armed men do you recall Times well-forgotten and the ancient wars? This is a land of peace: beneath the shade Of Ífè's trees the mirth of Heaven's vales Has found a home, the chorus and the dance Their measure. Lay by your arms, and may no hurt Attend your coming or your restful hours!" Harshly Orányan answered his old father: "You speak of peace, Great Ógun, and the calm Arámfè destined for a World to be. Arámfè spoke—and Odudúwa's dream Of wisdom linked to supreme power begat A theft!1 And that same night on Heaven's rim Devised another destiny for men. What Heaven-sent art has Ógun to undo That deed, and bid the still-born live? Besides, Who taught the peaceful peoples of the World Their longing for red War? Who forged their weapons— With steel Arámfè gave for harvesting? Who slew young maids who would not wed to bear p. 49 More sons for ancient wars? Who, pray, but Ógun, The God of War? . . What then? 'Tis said: 'The field The father sowed his son shall reap!'"1 And Ógun Made answer: "The story of my life has been As the succeeding seasons in the course Where Óshun pours her stream. First, long ago, The sunny months of heaven when I roamed A careless boy upon the mountains; then, As a whole season when the boisterous storms Fill full the crag-strewn bed with racing waters, And the warm Sun is hidden by the clouds, Doom brought me journeys, toils in darkness, wars And yet more wars. Again the barren months Are here: the wagtail lights upon the rock The river hid; a lazy trickle moves And in my age Arámfè's promised peace Gives back her stolen happiness to Ífè. . . . And now, the sage Osányi2 is no more, His charms forgotten: I cannot turn to stone And vanish like Odúwa; I cannot cast p. 50 My worn old body down to rise instead A river of the land, as Óshun did. No, Earth must hold me, glad or desolate, A King or outcast in the vague forest, Till Heaven call me—when the locked pools bask, And Óshun sleeps. . . Till then I ask to be In peace; and, with my tale of days accomplished, My last arts taught, Arámfè's bidding done— I, the lone God on Earth who knows fair Heaven, And the calm life the Father bade us give To men,—I, Ógun, will make way, and go Upon the road I came." But Orányan said: "Let the first Mistress of the World decide. These years the kingly power has passed away From the old sleeping town Odúwa built To me, Orányan, battling in far lands Where no voice spoke of Ífè. Let Ífè choose Her way: obscurity or wide renown!"      A silence fell: the black clouds of the storm Were overhanging human destiny; The breathless pause before the loud wind's blast Held all men speechless—though they seemed to heave
The old men desire Ógun to remain;	p. 51 For utterance. At length, Eléffon, the friend Of Ógun, voiced the fond hopes of the old chiefs Who feared Orányan and his coming day: "Ours is the city of the shrines which guard The spirits of the Gods, and all our ways Are ordered by the Presences which haunt The sacred precincts. The noise of war and tumult Is far from those who dream beneath the trees Of Ífè. There is another way of life: The way of colonists. By God's command, From this first breast the infant nations stray To the utter marches of humanity. Let them press onward, and let Orányan lead them Till the far corners of the World be filled; Let the unruly fall before their sword Until the Law prevail. But let not Ífè Swerve from the cool road of her destiny For dreams of conquest; and let not Ógun leave The roof, the evening firelight and the ways Of men—to go forth to the naked woods." And the old chiefs echoed: "Live with us yet, Oh, Ógun! Reign on your stable throne." But murmurs rose
but the young men acclaim Orányan.	p. 52 From the young men—suppressed at first, then louder— Until their leader, gaining courage, cried: "Empty our life has been—while from far plains, Vibrant with the romance, the living lustre, Orányan's name bestows, great rumours came To mock our laggard seasons; and each year Mórimi's festival recalls alike The hero's name and Ífè's greatness. Must All Ífè slumber that the old may drowse? No; we will have Orányan, and no other, To be our King." And a loud cry went up From his followers: "Orányan is our King!" And in that cry King Ógun heard the doom A chieftain of our day sees clear in eggs1 Of fateful parrots in his inmost chamber: The walls of his proud city (his old defence) Can never more uphold a rule of iron For victor treachery within. And wearily He spoke his last sad words: "My boyhood scarce Had ended on Arámfè's happy hills p. 53 When I came here with Odudúwa; with him, Lovingly I watched this ancient city growing, And planted the grand forests for a robe For queenly Ífè. I have grown old with Ífè: Sometimes I feel that Ógun did become Ífè, and Ífè Ógun, with the still lapse
Ógun goes away.	Of years. Yet she rejects me. Ah! my trees Would be more kind, and to my trees I go."      Dawn came; and Ógun stood upon a hill To Westward, and turned to take a last farewell Of his old queen of cities—but white and dense. O'er harbouring woods and unremembering Ífè A mist was laid and blotted all. . Beyond, As islands from a morning sea, arose Two lone grey hills; and Ógun dreamed he saw Again those early days, an age gone by, When he and Great Odúwa watched the Bird Found those grand hills with magic sand,—bare slopes, Yet born to smile. . . That vision paled: red-gold Above grey clouds the Sun of yesterday Climbed up—to shine on a new order. . So passed Old Ógun from the land.