Open-eyed, they sleep and dream; on their roof-trees, grapes unheeded drop. In Nora-Bamma, whispers are as shouts; and at a zephyr’s breath, from the woodlands shake the leaves, as of humming-birds, a flight. All this spake Braid-Beard, of the isle. How that none ere touched its strand, without rendering instant tribute of a nap; how that those who thither voyaged, in golden quest of golden gourds, fast dropped asleep, ere one was plucked; waking not till night; how that you must needs rub hard your eyes, would you wander through the isle; and how that silent specters would be met, haunting twilight groves, and dreamy meads; hither gliding, thither fading, end or purpose none. True or false, so much for Mohi’s Nora Bamma. But as we floated on, it looked the place described. We yawned, and yawned, as crews of vessels may; as in warm Indian seas, their winnowing sails all swoon, when by them glides some opium argosie. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. In A Calm, Hautia’s Heralds Approach “How still!” cried Babbalanja. “This calm is like unto Oro’s everlasting serenity, and like unto man’s last despair.” But now the silence was broken by a strange, distant, intermitted melody in the water. Gazing over the side, we saw naught but a far-darting ray in its depths. Then Yoomy, before buried in a reverie, burst forth with a verse, sudden as a jet from a Geyser. 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. Gliding slowly by, one damsel flung a Venus-car, the leaves yet fresh. Said Yoomy—“Fly to love.” The second maiden flung a pallid blossom, buried in hemlock leaves. Said Yoomy, starting—“I have wrought a death.” Then came showering Venus-cars, and glorious moss-roses numberless, and odorous handfuls of Verbena. Said Yoomy—“Yet fly, oh fly to me: all rosy joys and sweets are mine.” Then the damsels floated on. “Was ever queen more enigmatical?” cried Media—“Love,—death,—joy,—fly to me? But what says Taji?” “That I turn not back for Hautia; whoe’er she be, that wild witch I contemn.” “Then spread our pinions wide! a breeze! up sails! ply paddles all! Come, Flora’s flute, float forth a song.” 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!