Chapter 62

They Encounter Gold-Hunters

Now, northward coasting along Kolumbo's Western shore, whence came the
same wild forest-sounds, as from the Eastern; and where we landed not,
to seek among those wrangling tribes;--after many, many days, we spied
prow after prow, before the wind all northward bound: sails wide-
spread, and paddles plying: scaring the fish from before them.

Their inmates answered not our earnest hail.

But as they sped, with frantic glee, in one long chorus thus they
sang:--

We rovers bold,
To the land of Gold,
Over bowling billows are gliding:
Eager to toil,
For the golden spoil,
And every hardship biding.
See! See!
Before our prows' resistless dashes,
The gold-fish fly in golden flashes!
'Neath a sun of gold,
We rovers bold,
On the golden land are gaining;
And every night,
We steer aright,
By golden stars unwaning!
All fires burn a golden glare:
No locks so bright as golden hair!
All orange groves have golden gushings:
All mornings dawn with golden flushings!
In a shower of gold, say fables old,
A maiden was won by the god of gold!
In golden goblets wine is beaming:
On golden couches kings are dreaming!
The Golden Rule dries many tears!
The Golden Number rules the spheres!
Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations:
Gold! gold! the center of all rotations!
On golden axles worlds are turning:
With phosphorescence seas are burning!
All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings:
Gold-hunters' hearts with golden dreamings!
With golden arrows kings are slain:
With gold we'll buy a freeman's name!
In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,
At home we've slaved, with stifled yearnings:
No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!
When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow.
But joyful now, with eager eye,
Fast to the Promised Land we fly:
Where in deep mines,
The treasure shines;
Or down in beds of golden streams,
The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams!
How we long to sift,
That yellow drift!
Rivers! Rivers! cease your going!
Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide!
'Till we've gained the golden flowing;
And in the golden haven ride!

"Quick, quick, my lord," cried Yoomy, "let us follow them; and from
the golden waters where she lies, our Yillah may emerge."

"No, no," said Babbalanja,--"no Yillah there!--from yonder promised-
land, fewer seekers will return, than go. Under a gilded guise,
happiness is still their instinctive aim. But vain, Yoomy, to snatch
at Happiness. Of that we may not pluck and eat. It is the fruit of our
own toilsome planting; slow it grows, nourished by many teats, and all
our earnest tendings.