Chapter LXXXI

by Herman Melville

　　Thus far, through myriad islands, had we searched: of all, no one pen may write: least, mine;—and still no trace of Yillah.

　　But though my hopes revived not from their ashes; yet, so much of Mardi had we searched, it seemed as if the long pursuit must, ere many moons, be ended; whether for weal or woe, my frenzy sometimes reeked not.

　　After its first fair morning flushings, all that day was overcast. We sailed upon an angry sea, beneath an angry sky. Deep scowled on deep; and in dun vapors, the blinded sun went down, unseen; though full toward the West our three prows were pointed; steadfast as three printed points upon the compass-card.

　　"When we set sail from Odo, 'twas a glorious morn in spring," said Yoomy; "toward the rising sun we steered. But now, beneath autumnal night-clouds, we hasten to its setting."

　　"How now?" cried Media; "why is the minstrel mournful?—He whose place it is to chase away despondency: not be its minister."

　　"Ah, my lord, so thou thinkest. But better can my verses soothe the sad, than make them light of heart. Nor are we minstrels so gay of soul as Mardi deems us. The brook that sings the sweetest, murmurs through the loneliest woods:

　　    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!"