not specially, to my poor craft. Of all mortals, we poets are most
subject to contrary moods. Now, heaven over heaven in the skies; now
layer under layer in the dust. This, the penalty we pay for being what
we are. But Mardi only sees, or thinks it sees, the tokens of our
self-complacency: whereas, all our agonies operate unseen. Poets are
only seen when they soar."

"The song! the song!" cried Media. "Never mind the metaphysics of
genius."

And Yoomy, thus clamorously invoked, hemmed thrice, tuning his voice
for the air.

But here, be it said, that the minstrel was miraculously gifted with
three voices; and, upon occasions, like a mocking-bird, was a concert
of sweet sounds in himself. Had kind friends died, and bequeathed him
their voices? But hark! in a low, mild tenor, he begins:--

Half-railed above the hills, yet rosy bright,
Stands fresh, and fair, the meek and blushing morn!
So Yillah looks! her pensive eyes the stars,
That mildly beam from out her cheek's young dawn!

But the still meek Dawn,
Is not aye the form
Of Yillah nor Morn!
Soon rises the sun,
Day's race to run:
His rays abroad,
Flash each a sword,--