From earth to heaven!  High above me was Night’s shadowy bower, traversed, vine-like, by the Milky Way, and heavy with golden clusterings.  Oh stars! oh eyes, that see me, wheresoe’er I roam:  serene, intent, inscrutable for aye, tell me Sybils, what I am.—­ Wondrous worlds on worlds!  Lo, round and round me, shining, awful spells:  all glorious, vivid constellations, God’s diadem ye are!  To you, ye stars, man owes his subtlest raptures, thoughts unspeakable, yet full of faith.

But how your mild effulgence stings the boding heart.  Am I a murderer, stars?

Hours pass.  The starry trance is departed.  Long waited for, the dawn now comes.

First, breaking along the waking face; peeping from out the languid lids; then shining forth in longer glances; till, like the sun, up comes the soul, and sheds its rays abroad.

When thus my Yillah did daily dawn, how she lit up my world; tinging more rosily the roseate clouds, that in her summer cheek played to and fro, like clouds in Italian air.

CHAPTER LIX Their Morning Meal

Not wholly is our world made up of bright stars and bright eyes:  so now to our story.

A conscientious host should ever be up betimes, to look after the welfare of his guests, and see to it that their day begin auspiciously.  King Media announced the advent of the sun, by rustling at my bower’s eaves in person.

A repast was spread in an adjoining arbor, which Media’s pages had smoothed for our reception, and where his subordinate chiefs were in attendance.  Here we reclined upon mats.  Balmy and fresh blew the breath of the morning; golden vapors were upon the mountains, silver sheen upon the grass; and the birds were at matins in the groves; their bright plumage flashing into view, here and there, as if some rainbow were crouching in the foliage.

Spread before us were viands, served in quaint-shaped, curiously-dyed gourds, not Sevres, but almost as tasteful; and like true porcelain, fire had tempered them.  Green and yielding, they are plucked from the tree; and emptied of their pulp, are scratched over with minute marks, like those of a line engraving.  The ground prepared, the various figures are carefully etched.  And the outlines filled up with delicate punctures, certain vegetable oils are poured over them, for coloring.  Filled with a peculiar species of earth, the gourd is now placed in an oven in the ground.  And in due time exhumed, emptied of its contents, and washed in the stream, it presents a deep-dyed exterior; every figure distinctly traced and opaque, but the ground semi-transparent.  In some cases, owing to the variety of dyes employed, each figure is of a different hue.

More glorious goblets than these for the drinking of wine, went never from hand to mouth.  Capacious as pitchers, they almost superseded decanters.

Now, in a tropical climate, fruit, with light wines, forms the only fit meal of a morning.  And with orchards and vineyards forever in sight, who but the Hetman of the Cossacs would desire more?  We had plenty of the juice of the grape.  But of this hereafter; there are some fine old cellars, and plenty of good cheer in store.