"Five hundred thousand centuries since," said Babbalanja, "this same sight was seen. With Oro, the sun is co-eternal; and the same life that moves that moose, animates alike the sun and Oro. All are parts of One. In me, in me, flit thoughts participated by the beings peopling all the stars. Saturn, and Mercury, and Mardi, are brothers, one and all; and across their orbits, to each other talk, like souls.
Of these things what chapters might be writ! Oh! that flesh can not keep pace with spirit. Oh! that these myriad germ-dramas in me, should so perish hourly, for lack of power mechanic.-Worlds pass worlds in space, as men, men, — in thoroughfares; and after periods of thousand years, cry:-"Well met, my friend, again!" — To me to me, they talk in mystic music; I hear them think through all their zones.
— Hail, furthest worlds! and all the beauteous beings in ye! Fan me, sweet Zenora! with thy twilight wings! — Ho! let's voyage to Aldebaran.-Ha! indeed, a ruddy world! What a buoyant air! Not like to Mardi, this. Ruby columns: minarets of amethyst: diamond domes! Who is this? — a god? What a lake-like brow! transparent as the morning air. I see his thoughts like worlds revolving-and in his eyes-like unto heavens-soft falling stars are shooting.-How these thousand passing wings winnow away my breath:-I faint:-back, back to some small asteroid.-Sweet being! if, by Mardian word I may address thee-speak! — 'I bear a soul in germ within me; I feel the first, faint trembling, like to a harp-string, vibrate in my inmost being. Kill me, and generations die.'-So, of old, the unbegotten lived within the virgin; who then loved her God, as new-made mothers their babes ere born. Oh, Alma, Alma, Alma! — Fangs off, fiend! — will that name ever lash thee into foam? — Smite not my face so, forked flames!"
"Babbalanja! Babbalanja! rouse, man! rouse! Art in hell and damned, that thy sinews so snake-like coil and twist all over thee? Thy brow is black as Ops! Turn, turn! see yonder moose!"
"Hail! mighty brute! — thou feelest not these things: never canst thou be damned. Moose! would thy soul were mine; for if that scorched thing, mine, be immortal-so thine; and thy life hath not the consciousness of death. I read profound placidity-deep-million-violet fathoms down, in that soft, pathetic, woman eye! What is man's shrunk form to thine, thou woodland majesty? — Moose, moose! — my soul is shot again-Oh, Oro! Oro!"
"He falls!" cried Media.
"Mark the agony in his waning eye," said Yoomy;-"alas, poor Babbalanja! Is this thing of madness conscious to thyself? If ever thou art sane again, wilt thou have reminiscences? Take my robe:-here, I strip me to cover thee and all thy woes. Oro! by this, thy being's side, I kneeclass="underline" -grant death or happiness to Babbalanja!"
CHAPTER LXXXI
L'ultima Sera
Thus far, through myriad islands, had we searched: of all, no one pen may write: least, mine;-and still no trace of Yillah.
But though my hopes revived not from their ashes; yet, so much of Mardi had we searched, it seemed as if the long pursuit must, ere many moons, be ended; whether for weal or woe, my frenzy sometimes reeked not.
After its first fair morning flushings, all that day was overcast. We sailed upon an angry sea, beneath an angry sky. Deep scowled on deep; and in dun vapors, the blinded sun went down, unseen; though full toward the West our three prows were pointed; steadfast as three printed points upon the compass-card.
"When we set sail from Odo, 'twas a glorious morn in spring," said Yoomy; "toward the rising sun we steered. But now, beneath autumnal night-clouds, we hasten to its setting."
"How now?" cried Media; "why is the minstrel mournful? — He whose place it is to chase away despondency: not be its minister."
"Ah, my lord, so thou thinkest. But better can my verses soothe the sad, than make them light of heart. Nor are we minstrels so gay of soul as Mardi deems us. The brook that sings the sweetest, murmurs through the loneliest woods:
The isles hold thee not, thou departed!
From thy bower, now issues no lay:- In vain we recall perished warblings:
Spring birds, to far climes, wing their way!"
As Yoomy thus sang; unmindful of the lay, with paddle plying, in low, pleasant tones, thus hummed to himself our bowsman, a gamesome wight:- Ho! merrily ho! we paddlers sail!
Ho! over sea-dingle, and dale! — Our pulses fly, Our hearts beat high, Ho! merrily, merrily, ho!
But a sudden splash, and a shrill, gurgling sound, like that of a fountain subsiding, now broke upon the air. Then all was still, save the rush of the waves by our keels.
"Save him! Put back!"
From his elevated seat, the merry bowsman, too gleefully reaching forward, had fallen into the lagoon.
With all haste, our speeding canoes were reversed; but not till we had darted in upon another darkness than that in which the bowsman fell.
As, blindly, we groped back, deep Night dived deeper down in the sea.
"Drop paddles all, and list."
Holding their breath, over the six gunwales all now leaned; but the only moans were the wind's.
Long time we lay thus; then slowly crossed and recrossed our track, almost hopeless; but yet loth to leave him who, with a song in his mouth, died and was buried in a breath.
"Let us away," said Media-"why seek more? He is gone."
"Ay, gone," said Babbalanja, "and whither? But a moment since, he was among us: now, the fixed stars are not more remote than he. So far off, can he live? Oh, Oro! this death thou ordainest, unmans the manliest. Say not nay, my lord. Let us not speak behind Death's back.
Hard and horrible is it to die: blindfold to leap from life's verge!
But thus, in clouds of dust, and with a trampling as of hoofs, the generations disappear; death driving them all into his treacherous fold, as wild Indians the bison herds. Nay, nay, Death is Life's last despair. Hard and horrible is it to die. Oro himself, in Alma, died not without a groan. Yet why, why live? Life is wearisome to alclass="underline" the same dull round. Day and night, summer and winter, round about us revolving for aye. One moment lived, is a life. No new stars appear in the sky; no new lights in the soul. Yet, of changes there are many. For though, with rapt sight, in childhood, we behold many strange things beneath the moon, and all Mardi looks a tented fair-how soon every thing fades. All of us, in our very bodies, outlive our own selves. I think of green youth as of a merry playmate departed; and to shake hands, and be pleasant with my old age, seems in prospect even harder, than to draw a cold stranger to my bosom. But old age is not for me. I am not of the stuff that grows old. This Mardi is not our home. Up and down we wander, like exiles transported to a planet afar:-'tis not the world we were born in; not the world once so lightsome and gay; not the world where we once merrily danced, dined, and supped; and wooed, and wedded our long-buried wives. Then let us depart. But whither? We push ourselves forward then, start back in affright. Essay it again, and flee. Hard to live; hard to die; intolerable suspense! But the grim despot at last interposes; and with a viper in our winding-sheets, we are dropped in the sea."
"To me," said Mohi, his gray locks damp with night-dews, "death's dark defile at times seems at hand, with no voice to cheer. That all have died, makes it not easier for me to depart. And that many have been quenched in infancy seems a mercy to the slow perishing of my old age, limb by limb and sense by sense. I have long been the tomb of my youth. And more has died out of me, already, than remains for the last death to finish. Babbalanja says truth. In childhood, death stirred me not; in middle age, it pursued me like a prowling bandit on the road; now, grown an old man, it boldly leads the way; and ushers me on; and turns round upon me its skeleton gaze: poisoning the last solaces of life. Maramma but adds to my gloom."