Chapter 33

Wherein Babbalanja And Yoomy Embrace

"How the isles grow and multiply around us!" cried Babbalanja, as
turning the bold promontory of an uninhabited shore, many distant
lands bluely loomed into view. "Surely, our brief voyage, may not
embrace all Mardi like its reef?"

"No," said Media, "much must be left unseen. Nor every where can
Yillah be sought, noble Taji."

Said Yoomy, "We are as birds, with pinions clipped, that in
unfathomable and endless woods, but flit from twig to twig of one poor
tree."

"More isles! more isles!" cried Babbalanja, erect, and gazing abroad.
"And lo! round all is heaving that infinite ocean. Ah! gods! what
regions lie beyond?"

"But whither now?" he cried, as in obedience to Media, the paddlers
suddenly altered our course.

"To the bold shores of Diranda," said Media.

"Ay; the land of clubs and javelins, where the lord seigniors Hello
and Piko celebrate their famous games," cried Mohi.

"Your clubs and javelins," said Media, "remind me of the great battle-
chant of Narvi--Yoomy!"--turning to the minstrel, gazing abstractedly
into the water;--"awake, Yoomy, and give us the lines."

"My lord Media, 'tis but a rude, clanging thing; dissonant as if the
north wind blew through it. Methinks the company will not fancy lines
so inharmonious. Better sing you, perhaps, one of my sonnets."

"Better sit and sob in our ears, silly Yoomy that thou art!--no! no!
none of your sentiment now; my soul is martially inclined; I want
clarion peals, not lute warblings. So throw out your chest, Yoomy:
lift high your voice; and blow me the old battle-blast.--Begin, sir
minstrel."

And warning all, that he himself had not composed the odious chant,
Yoomy thus:--

Our clubs! our clubs!
The thousand clubs of Narvi!
Of the living trunk of the Palm-tree made;
Skull breakers! Brain spatterers!
Wielded right, and wielded left;
Life quenchers! Death dealers!
Causing live bodies to run headless!

Our bows! our bows!
The thousand bows of Narvi!
Ribs of Tara, god of War!
Fashioned from the light Tola their arrows;
Swift messengers! Heart piercers!
Barbed with sharp pearl shells;
Winged with white tail-plumes;
To wild death-chants, strung with the hair of wild maidens!

Our spears! our spears!
The thousand spears of Narvi!
Of the thunder-riven Moo-tree made
Tall tree, couched on the long mountain Lana!
No staves for gray-beards! no rods for fishermen!
Tempered by fierce sea-winds,
Splintered into lances by lightnings,
Long arrows! Heart