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 all:  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