The Greatest Works of Herman Melville - 27 Novels & Short Stories; With 140+ Poems & Essays. Herman Melville

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      The sun rolled on. And starting to his feet, arms clasped, and wildly staring, Yoomy exclaimed —“Nay, nay, thou shalt not depart, thou maid! — here, here I fold thee for aye! — Flown? — A dream! Then siestas henceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee, sweet maid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next we embrace!”

      “What ails that somnambulist?” cried Media, rising. “Yoomy, I say! what ails thee?”

      “He must have indulged over freely in those citrons,” said Mohi, sympathetically rubbing his fruitery. “Ho, Yoomy! a swallow of brine will help thee.”

      “Alas,” cried Babbalanja, “do the fairies then wait on repletion? Do our dreams come from below, and not from the skies? Are we angels, or dogs? Oh, Man, Man, Man! thou art harder to solve, than the Integral Calculus — yet plain as a primer; harder to find than the philosopher’s-stone — yet ever at hand; a more cunning compound, than an alchemist’s — yet a hundred weight of flesh, to a penny weight of spirit; soul and body glued together, firm as atom to atom, seamless as the vestment without joint, warp or woof — yet divided as by a river, spirit from flesh; growing both ways, like a tree, and dropping thy topmost branches to earth, like thy beard or a banian! — I give thee up, oh Man! thou art twain — yet indivisible; all things — yet a poor unit at best.”

      “Philosopher you seem puzzled to account for the riddles of your race,” cried Media, sideways reclining at his ease. “Now, do thou, old Mohi, stand up before a demi-god, and answer for all. — Draw nigh, so I can eye thee. What art thou, mortal?”

      “My worshipful lord, a man.”

      “And what are men?”

      “My lord, before thee is a specimen.”

      “I fear me, my lord will get nothing out of that witness,” said Babbalanja. “Pray you, King Media, let another inquisitor cross-question.”

      “Proceed; take the divan.”

      “A pace or two farther off, there, Mohi; so I can garner thee all in at a glance. — Attention! Rememberest thou, fellow-being, when thou wast born?”

      “Not I. Old Braid–Beard had no memory then.”

      “When, then, wast thou first conscious of being?”

      “What time I was teething: my first sensation was an ache.”

      “What dost thou, fellow-being, here in Mardi?”

      “What doth Mardi here, fellow-being, under me?”

      “Philosopher, thou gainest but little by thy questions,” cried Yoomy advancing. “Let a poet endeavor.”

      “I abdicate in your favor, then, gentle Yoomy; let me smooth the divan for you; — there: be seated.”

      “Now, Mohi, who art thou?” said Yoomy, nodding his bird-of-paradise plume.

      “The sole witness, it seems, in this case.”

      “Try again minstrel,” cried Babbalanja.

      “Then, what art thou, Mohi?”

      “Even what thou art, Yoomy.”

      “He is too sharp or too blunt for us all,” cried King Media. “His devil is even more subtle than yours, Babbalanja. Let him go.”

      “Shall I adjourn the court then, my lord?” said Babbalanja.

      “Ay.”

      “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All mortals having business at this court, know ye, that it is adjourned till sundown of the day, which hath no tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 33

      WHEREIN BABBALANJA AND YOOMY EMBRACE

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      “How the isles grow and multiply around us!” cried Babbalanja, as turning the bold promontory of an uninhabited shore, many distant lands bluely loomed into view. “Surely, our brief voyage, may not embrace all Mardi like its reef?”

      “No,” said Media, “much must be left unseen. Nor every where can Yillah be sought, noble Taji.”

      Said Yoomy, “We are as birds, with pinions clipped, that in unfathomable and endless woods, but flit from twig to twig of one poor tree.”

      “More isles! more isles!” cried Babbalanja, erect, and gazing abroad. “And lo! round all is heaving that infinite ocean. Ah! gods! what regions lie beyond?”

      “But whither now?” he cried, as in obedience to Media, the paddlers suddenly altered our course.

      “To the bold shores of Diranda,” said Media.

      “Ay; the land of clubs and javelins, where the lord seigniors Hello and Piko celebrate their famous games,” cried Mohi.

      “Your clubs and javelins,” said Media, “remind me of the great battle-chant of Narvi — Yoomy!”— turning to the minstrel, gazing abstractedly into the water; —“awake, Yoomy, and give us the lines.”

      “My lord Media, ’tis but a rude, clanging thing; dissonant as if the north wind blew through it. Methinks the company will not fancy lines so inharmonious. Better sing you, perhaps, one of my sonnets.”

      “Better sit and sob in our ears, silly Yoomy that thou art! — no! no! none of your sentiment now; my soul is martially inclined; I want clarion peals, not lute warblings. So throw out your chest, Yoomy: lift high your voice; and blow me the old battle-blast. — Begin, sir minstrel.”

      And warning all, that he himself had not composed the odious chant, Yoomy thus:—

      Our clubs! our clubs!

      The thousand clubs of Narvi!

      Of the living trunk of the Palm-tree made;

      Skull breakers! Brain spatterers!

      Wielded right, and wielded left;

      Life quenchers! Death dealers!

      Causing live bodies to run headless!

      Our bows! our bows!

      The thousand bows of Narvi!

      Ribs of Tara, god of War!

      Fashioned from the light Tola their arrows;

      Swift messengers! Heart piercers!

      Barbed with sharp pearl shells;

      Winged with white tail-plumes;

      To wild death-chants, strung with the hair of wild maidens!

      Our spears! our spears!

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