Her laugh! How it bounds! Bright cascade of sounds! Peal after peal, and ringing afar,— Ringing of waters, that silvery jar, From basin to basin fast falling! Fast falling, and shining, and streaming:— Yillah’s bosom, the soft, heaving lake, Where her laughs at last dimple, and flake! Oh beautiful Yillah! Thy step so free!— Fast fly the sea-ripples, Revealing their dimples, When forth, thou hi’st to the frolicsome sea! All the stars laugh, When upward she looks: All the trees chat In their woody nooks: All the brooks sing; All the caves ring; All the buds blossom; All the boughs bound; All the birds carol; And leaves turn round, Where Yillah looks! Light wells from her soul’s deep sun Causing many toward her to run! Vines to climb, and flowers to spring; And youths their love by hundreds bring! “Proceed, gentle Yoomy,” said Babbalanja. “The meaning,” said Mohi. “The sequel,” said Media. “My lord, I have ceased in the middle; the end is not yet.” “Mysticism!” cried Babbalanja. “What, minstrel; must nothing ultimate come of all that melody? no final and inexhaustible meaning? nothing that strikes down into the soul’s depths; till, intent upon itself, it pierces in upon its own essence, and is resolved into its pervading original; becoming a thing constituent of the all embracing deific; whereby we mortals become part and parcel of the gods; our souls to them as thoughts; and we privy to all things occult, ineffable, and sublime? Then, Yoomy, is thy song nothing worth. Alla Mollolla saith, ‘That is no true, vital breath, which leaves no moisture behind.’ I mistrust thee, minstrel! that thou hast not yet been impregnated by the arcane mysteries; that thou dost not sufficiently ponder on the Adyta, the Monads, and the Hyparxes; the Dianoias, the Unical Hypostases, the Gnostic powers of the Psychical Essence, and the Supermundane and Pleromatic Triads; to say nothing of the Abstract Noumenons.” “Oro forbid!” cried Yoomy; “the very sound of thy words affrights me.” Then, whispering to Mohi—“Is he daft again?” “My brain is battered,” said Media. “Azzageddi! you must diet, and be bled.” “Ah!” sighed Babbalanja, turning; “how little they ween of the Rudimental Quincunxes, and the Hecatic Spherula!” CHAPTER LXVII. They Visit One Doxodox Next morning, we came to a deep, green wood, slowly nodding over the waves; its margin frothy-white with foam. A charming sight! While delighted, all our paddlers gazed, Media, observing Babbalanja plunged in reveries, called upon him to awake; asking what might so absorb him. “Ah, my lord! what seraphic sounds have ye driven from me!”