withstand such a morn!

As on the night-banks of the far-rolling Ganges, the royal bridegroom
sets forth for his bride, preceded by nymphs, now this side, now that,
lighting up all the flowery flambeaux held on high as they pass; so
came the Sun, to his nuptials with Mardi:--the Hours going on before,
touching all the peaks, till they glowed rosy-red.

By reflex, the lagoon, here and there, seemed on fire; each curling
wave-crest a flame.

Noon came as we sailed.

And now, citrons and bananas, cups and calabashes, calumets and
tobacco, were passed round; and we were all very merry and mellow
indeed. Smacking our lips, chatting, smoking, and sipping. Now a
mouthful of citron to season a repartee; now a swallow of wine to wash
down a precept; now a fragrant whiff to puff away care. Many things
did beguile. From side to side, we turned and grazed, like Juno's
white oxen in clover meads.

Soon, we drew nigh to a charming cliff, overrun with woodbines, on
high suspended from flowering Tamarisk and Tamarind-trees. The
blossoms of the Tamarisks, in spikes of small, red bells; the
Tamarinds, wide-spreading their golden petals, red-streaked as with
streaks of the dawn. Down sweeping to the water, the vines trailed
over to the crisp, curling waves,--little pages, all eager to hold up
their trains.

Within, was a bower; going behind it, like standing inside the sheet
of the falls of the Genesee.

In this arbor we anchored. And with their shaded prows thrust in among
the flowers, our three canoes seemed baiting by the way, like wearied
steeds in a hawthorn lane.

High midsummer noon is more silent than night. Most sweet a siesta
then. And noon dreams are day-dreams indeed; born under the meridian
sun. Pale Cynthia begets pale specter shapes; and her frigid rays best
illuminate white nuns, marble monuments, icy glaciers, and cold tombs.

The sun rolled on. And starting to his feet, arms clasped, and wildly
staring, Yoomy exclaimed--"Nay, nay, thou shalt not depart, thou
maid!--here, here I fold thee for aye!--Flown?--A dream! Then siestas
henceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee,
sweet maid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next
we embrace!"

"What ails that somnambulist?" cried Media, rising. "Yoomy, I say!
what ails thee?"

"He must have indulged over freely in those citrons," said Mohi,
sympathetically rubbing his fruitery. "Ho, Yoomy! a swallow of brine
will help thee.