{"id":"01KG8AKR72ZCZMJ4YM85QRYBZA","cid":"bafkreifyparf4kcnru7lxxvz6532muzp4lsxasa6bc2jh2tubwjhyslbki","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":9216,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","start_line":9130,"text":"CHAPTER LXVI.\r\nA Flight Of Nightingales From Yoomy’s Mouth\r\n\r\n\r\nBy noon, down came a calm.\r\n\r\n“Oh Neeva! good Neeva! kind Neeva! thy sweet breath, dear Neeva!”\r\n\r\nSo from his shark’s-mouth prayed little Vee-Vee to the god of Fair\r\nBreezes. And along they swept; till the three prows neighed to the\r\nblast; and pranced on their path, like steeds of Crusaders.\r\n\r\nNow, that this fine wind had sprung up; the sun riding joyously in the\r\nheavens; and the Lagoon all tossed with white, flying manes; Media\r\ncalled upon Yoomy to ransack his whole assortment of songs:—warlike,\r\namorous, and sentimental,—and regale us with something inspiring for\r\ntoo long the company had been gloomy.\r\n\r\n“Thy best,” he cried.\r\n\r\nThen will I e’en sing you a song, my lord, which is a song-full of\r\nsongs. I composed it long, long since, when Yillah yet bowered in Odo.\r\nEre now, some fragments have been heard. Ah, Taji! in this my lay, live\r\nover again your happy hours. Some joys have thousand lives; can never\r\ndie; for when they droop, sweet memories bind them up.—My lord, I deem\r\nthese verses good; they came bubbling out of me, like live waters from\r\na spring in a silver mine. And by your good leave, my lord, I have much\r\nfaith in inspiration. Whoso sings is a seer.”\r\n\r\n“Tingling is the test,” said Babbalanja, “Yoomy, did you tingle, when\r\nthat song was composing?”\r\n\r\n“All over, Babbalanja.”\r\n\r\n“From sole to crown?”\r\n\r\n“From finger to finger.”\r\n\r\n“My life for it! true poetry, then, my lord! For this self-same\r\ntingling, I say, is the test.”\r\n\r\n“And infused into a song,” cried Yoomy, “it evermore causes it so to\r\nsparkle, vivify, and irradiate, that no son of man can repeat it\r\nwithout tingling himself. This very song of mine may prove what I say.”\r\n\r\n“Modest youth!” sighed Media.\r\n\r\n“Not more so, than sincere,” said Babbalanja. “He who is frank, will\r\noften appear vain, my lord. Having no guile, he speaks as freely of\r\nhimself, as of another; and is just as ready to honor his own merits,\r\neven if imaginary, as to lament over undeniable deficiencies. Besides,\r\nsuch men are prone to moods, which to shallow-minded, unsympathizing\r\nmortals, make their occasional distrust of themselves, appear but as a\r\nphase of self-conceit. Whereas, the man who, in the presence of his\r\nvery friends, parades a barred and bolted front,—that man so highly\r\nprizes his sweet self, that he cares not to profane the shrine he\r\nworships, by throwing open its portals. He is locked up; and Ego is the\r\nkey. Reserve alone is vanity. But all mankind are egotists. The world\r\nrevolves upon an I; and we upon ourselves; for we are our own\r\nworlds:—all other men as strangers, from outlandish, distant climes,\r\ngoing clad in furs. Then, whate’er they be, let us show our worlds; and\r\nnot seek to hide from men, what Oro knows.”\r\n\r\n“Truth, my lord,” said Yoomy, “but all this applies to men in mass; not\r\nspecially, to my poor craft. Of all mortals, we poets are most subject\r\nto contrary moods. Now, heaven over heaven in the skies; now layer\r\nunder layer in the dust. This, the penalty we pay for being what we\r\nare. But Mardi only sees, or thinks it sees, the tokens of our\r\nself-complacency: whereas, all our agonies operate unseen. Poets are\r\nonly seen when they soar.”\r\n\r\n“The song! the song!” cried Media. “Never mind the metaphysics of\r\ngenius.”\r\n\r\nAnd Yoomy, thus clamorously invoked, hemmed thrice, tuning his voice\r\nfor the air.\r\n\r\nBut here, be it said, that the minstrel was miraculously gifted with\r\nthree voices; and, upon occasions, like a mocking-bird, was a concert\r\nof sweet sounds in himself. Had kind friends died, and bequeathed him\r\ntheir voices? But hark! in a low, mild tenor, he begins:—\r\n\r\n        Half-railed above the hills, yet rosy bright,\r\n    Stands fresh, and fair, the meek and blushing morn!\r\nSo Yillah looks! her pensive eyes the stars,\r\n    That mildly beam from out her cheek’s young dawn!\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJVBHJDRAGSQ5NKTAQ7R7","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKR72DRM1J933YEP4T2F7","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:14.562Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:26.859Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}