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Updated: June 1, 2025
From seaward now came a breeze so blithesome and fresh, that it made us impatient of Babbalanja's philosophy, and Mohi's incredible legends. One and all, we called upon the minstrel Yoomy to give us something in unison with the spirited waves wide-foaming around us. "If my lord will permit, we will give Taji the Paddle-Chant of the warriors of King Bello." "By all means," said Media.
To pieces picking the thorny roses culled from Hautia's gifts, and holding up their blighted cores, thus plumed and turbaned Yoomy sang, leaning against the mast: Oh! royal is the rose, But barbed with many a dart; Beware, beware the rose, 'Tis cankered at the heart. Sweet, sweet the sunny down, Oh! lily, lily, lily down! Sweet, sweet, Verbena's bloom! Oh! pleasant, gentle, musky bloom!
Like the fish of the bright and twittering fin, Bright fish! diving deep as high soars the lark, So, far, far, far, doth the maiden swim, Wild song, wild light, in still ocean's dark. "What maiden, minstrel?" cried Media. "None of these," answered Yoomy, pointing out a shallop gliding near. "The damsels three: Taji, they pursue you yet." That still canoe drew nigh, the Iris in its prow.
But at times disdaining the oaten reed, like a clarion he burst forth with lusty lays of arms and battle; or, in mournful strains, sounded elegies for departed bards and heroes. Thus much for Yoomy as a minstrel. In other respects, it would be hard to depict him.
"Well put, Babbalanja; come nearer; here, cross your legs by mine; you have risen a cubit in my regard. Vee-Vee, bring us that gourd of wine; so, pass it round with the cups. Now, Yoomy, a song!" And a song was sung. And thus did we sail; pleasantly reclining on the mats stretched out beneath the canopied howdah. At length, we drew nigh to a rock, called Pella, or The Theft.
But he added, that true pearl shells rang musically, though not strung upon a cord. Upon this presumptuous interference, Mohi looked highly offended; and nervously twitching his beard, uttered something invidious about frippery young poetasters being too full of silly imaginings to tell a plain tale. Said Yoomy, in reply, adjusting his turban, "Old Mohi, let us not clash.
And now disdaining the earth, the vines shot upward: climbing to the topmost boughs of the trees; and flowering in the sunshine forever and aye." Yoomy here paused for a space; but presently continued: "The little eyes of the people of Tupia were very strange to behold: full of stars, that shone from within, like the Pleiades, deep- bosomed in blue.
While full of these thoughts, Media interrupted them by saying, that the minstrel was about to begin one of his chants, a thing of his own composing; and therefore, as he himself said, all critics must be lenient; for Yoomy, at times, not always, was a timid youth, distrustful of his own sweet genius for poesy.
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