Now, that this fine wind had sprung up; the sun riding joyously in the heavens; and the Lagoon all tossed with white, flying manes; Media called upon Yoomy to ransack his whole assortment of songs:—warlike, amorous, and sentimental,—and regale us with something inspiring for too long the company had been gloomy.
“Thy best,” he cried.
Then will I e’en sing you a song, my lord, which is a song-full of songs. I composed it long, long since, when Yillah yet bowered in Odo. Ere now, some fragments have been heard. Ah, Taji! in this my lay, live over again your happy hours. Some joys have thousand lives; can never die; for when they droop, sweet memories bind them up.—My lord, I deem these verses good; they came bubbling out of me, like live waters from a spring in a silver mine. And by your good leave, my lord, I have much faith in inspiration. Whoso sings is a seer.”
“Tingling is the test,” said Babbalanja, “Yoomy, did you tingle, when that song was composing?”
“All over, Babbalanja.”
“From sole to crown?”
“From finger to finger.”
“My life for it! true poetry, then, my lord! For this self-same tingling, I say, is the test.”
“And infused into a song,” cried Yoomy, “it evermore causes it so to sparkle, vivify, and irradiate, that no son of man can repeat it without tingling himself. This very song of mine may prove what I say.”
“Modest youth!” sighed Media.