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- text
- screaming.
Out from those depths up rose a stream.
The land lay basking in the world’s round torrid brisket, hot with
solar fire.
“No need here to land,” cried Yoomy, “Yillah lurks not here.”
“Heat breeds life, and sloth, and rage,” said Babbalanja. “Here live
bastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove
their freedom.—Refill, my lord.”
“Methinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in
Vivenza read:—Ha? Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled
castles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom, but
find it despotism to rule themselves. These, Babbalanja, are of the
race, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing.” So saying he drained
his cup.
“My lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll.
But, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as
evil seldom eventuates in good. Yet will these people soon have a
tyrant over them, if long they cleave to war. Of many javelins, one
must prove a scepter; of many helmets, one a crown. It is but in the
wearing.—Refill, my lord.”
“Fools, fools!” cried Media, “these tribes hate us kings; yet know not,
that Peace is War against all kings. We seldom are undone by spears,
which are our ministers.—This wine is strong.”
“Ha, now’s the time! In his cups learn king-craft from a king. Ay, ay,
my lord, your royal order will endure, so long as men will fight. Break
the spears, and free the nations. Kings reap the harvests that wave on
battle-fields. And oft you kings do snatch the aloe-flower, whose slow
blossoming mankind watches for a hundred years.—Say on, my lord.”
“All this I know; and, therefore, rest content. My children’s children
will be kings; though, haply, called by other titles. Mardi grows
fastidious in names: we royalties will humor it. The steers would burst
their yokes, but have not hands. The whole herd rears and plunges, but
soon will bow again: the old, old way!”
“Yet, in Porpheero, strong scepters have been wrested from anointed
hands. Mankind seems in arms.”
“Let them arm on. They hate us:—good;—they always have; yet still we’ve
reigned, son after sire. Sometimes they slay us, Babbalanja; pour out
our marrow, as I this wine; but they spill no kinless blood. ’Twas
justly held of old, that but to touch a monarch, was to strike at
Oro.—Truth. The palest vengeance is a royal ghost; and regicides but
father slaves. Thrones, not scepters, have been broken. Mohi, what of
the past? Has it not ever proved so?”
“Pardon, my lord; the times seem changed. ’Tis held, that demi-gods no
more rule by right divine. In Vivenza’s land, they swear the last kings
now reign in Mardi.”
“Is the last day at hand, old man? Mohi, your beard is gray; but,
Yoomy, listen. When you die, look around; mark then if any mighty
change be seen. Old kingdoms may be on the wane; but new dynasties
advance. Though revolutions rise to high spring-tide, monarchs will
still drown hard;—monarchs survived the flood!”
“Are all our dreams, then, vain?” sighed Yoomy. “Is this no dawn of day
that streaks the crimson East! Naught but the false and flickering
lights which sometimes mock Aurora in the north! Ah, man, my brother!
have all martyrs for thee bled in vain; in vain we poets sang, and
prophets spoken? Nay, nay; great Mardi, helmed and mailed, strikes at
Oppression’s shield, and challenges to battle! Oro will defend the
right, and royal crests must roll.”
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