87. CHAPTER LXXXVII.
Still onward gliding, the lagoon a calm.
Hours pass; and full before us, round and green, a Moslem
turban by us floats—Nora-Bamma, Isle of Nods.
Noon-tide rolls its flood. Vibrates the air, and trembles.
And by illusion optical, thin-draped in azure haze, drift here
and there the brilliant lands: swans, peacock-plumaged,
sailing through the sky. Down to earth hath heaven come;
hard telling sun-clouds from the isles.
And high in air nods Nora-Bamma. Nid-nods its tufted
summit like three ostrich plumes; its beetling crags, bent
poppies, shadows, willowy shores, all nod; its streams are
murmuring down the hills; its wavelets hush the shore.
Who dwells in Nora-Bamma? Dreamers, hypochondriacs,
somnambulists; who, from the cark and care of outer
Mardi fleeing, in the poppy's jaded odors, seek oblivion for
the past, and ecstasies to come.
Open-eyed, they sleep and dream; on their roof-trees,
grapes unheeded drop. In Nora-Bamma, whispers are as
shouts; and at a zephyr's breath, from the woodlands shake
the leaves, as of humming-birds, a flight.
All this spake Braid-Beard, of the isle. How that none
ere touched its strand, without rendering instant tribute of
a nap; how that those who thither voyaged, in golden quest
of golden gourds, fast dropped asleep, ere one was plucked;
waking not till night; how that you must needs rub hard
your eyes, would you wander through the isle; and how that
silent specters would be met, haunting twilight groves, and
dreamy meads; hither gliding, thither fading, end or purpose
none.
True or false, so much for Mohi's Nora Bamma.
But as we floated on, it looked the place described. We
yawned, and yawned, as crews of vessels may; as in
warm Indian seas, their winnowing sails all swoon, when
by them glides some opium argosie.
