Part and parcel of the Mardian isles, they formed a cluster by themselves; like the Pleiades, that shine in Taurus, and are eclipsed by the red splendor of his fiery eye, and the thick clusterings of the constellations round.

And as in Orion, to some old king-astronomer,—­say, King of Rigel, or Betelguese,—­this Earth’s four quarters show but four points afar; so, seem they to terrestrial eyes, that broadly sweep the spheres.

And, as the sun, by influence divine, wheels through the Ecliptic; threading Cancer, Leo, Pisces, and Aquarius; so, by some mystic impulse am I moved, to this fleet progress, through the groups in white-reefed Mardi’s zone.

Oh, reader, list!  I’ve chartless voyaged.  With compass and the lead, we had not found these Mardian Isles.  Those who boldly launch, cast off all cables; and turning from the common breeze, that’s fair for all, with their own breath, fill their own sails.  Hug the shore, naught new is seen; and “Land ho!” at last was sung, when a new world was sought.

That voyager steered his bark through seas, untracked before; ploughed his own path mid jeers; though with a heart that oft was heavy with the thought, that he might only be too bold, and grope where land was none.

So I.

And though essaying but a sportive sail, I was driven from my course, by a blast resistless; and ill-provided, young, and bowed to the brunt of things before my prime, still fly before the gale;—­hard have I striven to keep stout heart.

And if it harder be, than e’er before, to find new climes, when now our seas have oft been circled by ten thousand prows,—­much more the glory!

But this new world here sought, is stranger far than his, who stretched his vans from Palos.  It is the world of mind; wherein the wanderer may gaze round, with more of wonder than Balboa’s band roving through the golden Aztec glades.

But fiery yearnings their own phantom-future make, and deem it present.  So, if after all these fearful, fainting trances, the verdict be, the golden haven was not gained;—­yet, in bold quest thereof, better to sink in boundless deeps, than float on vulgar shoals; and give me, ye gods, an utter wreck, if wreck I do.

CHAPTER LXVI A Flight Of Nightingales From Yoomy’s Mouth

By noon, down came a calm.

“Oh Neeva! good Neeva! kind Neeva! thy sweet breath, dear Neeva!”

So from his shark’s-mouth prayed little Vee-Vee to the god of Fair Breezes.  And along they swept; till the three prows neighed to the blast; and pranced on their path, like steeds of Crusaders.

Now, that this fine wind had sprung up; the sun riding joyously in the heavens; and the Lagoon all tossed with white, flying manes; Media called upon Yoomy to ransack his whole assortment of songs:—­warlike, amorous, and sentimental,—­and regale us with something inspiring for too long the company had been gloomy.