“Not more so, than sincere,” said Babbalanja. “He who is frank, will often appear vain, my lord. Having no guile, he speaks as freely of himself, as of another; and is just as ready to honor his own merits, even if imaginary, as to lament over undeniable deficiencies. Besides, such men are prone to moods, which to shallow-minded, unsympathizing mortals, make their occasional distrust of themselves, appear but as a phase of self-conceit. Whereas, the man who, in the presence of his very friends, parades a barred and bolted front,—that man so highly prizes his sweet self, that he cares not to profane the shrine he worships, by throwing open its portals. He is locked up; and Ego is the key. Reserve alone is vanity. But all mankind are egotists. The world revolves upon an I; and we upon ourselves; for we are our own worlds:—all other men as strangers, from outlandish, distant climes, going clad in furs. Then, whate’er they be, let us show our worlds; and not seek to hide from men, what Oro knows.” “Truth, my lord,” said Yoomy, “but all this applies to men in mass; not specially, to my poor craft. Of all mortals, we poets are most subject to contrary moods. Now, heaven over heaven in the skies; now layer under layer in the dust. This, the penalty we pay for being what we are. But Mardi only sees, or thinks it sees, the tokens of our self-complacency: whereas, all our agonies operate unseen. Poets are only seen when they soar.” “The song! the song!” cried Media. “Never mind the metaphysics of genius.” And Yoomy, thus clamorously invoked, hemmed thrice, tuning his voice for the air. But here, be it said, that the minstrel was miraculously gifted with three voices; and, upon occasions, like a mocking-bird, was a concert of sweet sounds in himself. Had kind friends died, and bequeathed him their voices? But hark! in a low, mild tenor, he begins:— Half-railed above the hills, yet rosy bright, Stands fresh, and fair, the meek and blushing morn! So Yillah looks! her pensive eyes the stars, That mildly beam from out her cheek’s young dawn! But the still meek Dawn, Is not aye the form Of Yillah nor Morn! Soon rises the sun, Day’s race to run: His rays abroad, Flash each a sword,— And merrily forth they flare! Sun-music in the air! So Yillah now rises and flashes! Rays shooting from ont her long lashes,— Sun-music in the air!