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- 9225
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:18.539Z
- extracted_by
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- start_line
- 9146
- text
- the purple valley of Ardair! Thrice hail.
But the imperial Marzilla was not for all; gods only could partake; the
Kings and demigods of the isles; excluding left-handed descendants of
sad rakes of immortals, in old times breaking heads and hearts in
Mardi, bequeathing bars-sinister to many mortals, who now in vain might
urge a claim to a cup-full of right regal Marzilla.
The Royal Particular was pressed upon me, by the now jovial Donjalolo.
With his own sceptered hand charging my flagon to the brim, he declared
his despotic pleasure, that I should quaff it off to the last lingering
globule. No hard calamity, truly; for the drinking of this wine was as
the singing of a mighty ode, or frenzied lyric to the soul.
“Drink, Taji,” cried Donjalolo, “drink deep. In this wine a king’s
heart is dissolved. Drink long; in this wine lurk the seeds of the life
everlasting. Drink deep; drink long: thou drinkest wisdom and valor at
every draught. Drink forever, oh Taji, for thou drinkest that which
will enable thee to stand up and speak out before mighty Oro himself.”
“Borabolla,” he added, turning round upon a domed old king at his left,
“Was it not the god Xipho, who begged of my great-great- grandsire a
draught of this same wine, saying he was about to beget a hero?”
“Even so. And thy glorious Marzilla produced thrice valiant Ononna, who
slew the giants of the reef.”
“Ha, ha, hear’st that, oh Taji?” And Donjalolo drained another cup.
Amazing! the flexibility of the royal elbow, and the rigidity of the
royal spine! More especially as we had been impressed with a notion of
their debility. But, sometimes these seemingly enervated young blades
approve themselves steadier of limb, than veteran revelers of very long
standing.
“Discharge the basin, and refill it with wine,” cried Donjalolo. “Break
all empty gourds! Drink, kings, and dash your cups at every draught.”
So saying, he started from his purple mat; and with one foot planted
unknowingly upon the skull of Marjora; while all the skeletons grinned
at him from the pavement; Donjalolo, holding on high his blood-red
goblet, burst forth with the following invocation:—
Ha, ha, gods and kings; fill high, one and all;
Drink, drink! shout and drink! mad respond to the call!
Fill fast, and fill frill; ’gainst the goblet ne’er sin;
Quaff there, at high tide, to the uttermost rim:—
Flood-tide, and soul-tide to the brim!
Who with wine in him fears? who thinks of his cares?
Who sighs to be wise, when wine in him flares?
Water sinks down below, in currents full slow;
But wine mounts on high with its genial glow:—
Welling up, till the brain overflow!
As the spheres, with a roll, some fiery of soul,
Others golden, with music, revolve round the pole;
So let our cups, radiant with many hued wines,
Round and round in groups circle, our Zodiac’s Signs:—
Round reeling, and ringing their chimes!
Then drink, gods and kings; wine merriment brings;
It bounds through the veins; there, jubilant sings.
Let it ebb, then, and flow; wine never grows dim;
Drain down that bright tide at the foam beaded rim:—
Fill up, every cup, to the brim!
Caught by all present, the chorus resounded again and again. The beaded
wine danced on many a beard; the cataract lifted higher its voice; the
grotto sent back a shout; the ghosts of the Coral Monarchs seemed
starting from their insulted bones. But ha, ha, ha, roared forth the
five-and-twenty kings—alive, not dead—holding both hands to their
girdles, and baying out their laughter from abysses; like Nimrod’s
hounds over some fallen elk.
Mad and crazy revelers, how ye drank and roared! but kings no more:
vestures loosed; and scepters rolling on the ground.
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