West, West! West, West! Whitherward point Hope and prophet-fingers; whitherward, at sun-set, kneel all worshipers of fire; whitherward in mid-ocean, the great whales turn to die; whitherward face all the Moslem dead in Persia; whitherward lie Heaven and Hell!—West, West! Whitherward mankind and empires—flocks, caravans, armies, navies; worlds, suns, and stars all wend!—West, West!—Oh boundless boundary! Eternal goal! Whitherward rush, in thousand worlds, ten thousand thousand keels! Beacon, by which the universe is steered!—Like the north-star, attracting all needles! Unattainable forever; but forever leading to great things this side thyself!—Hive of all sunsets!— Gabriel’s pinions may not overtake thee! Over balmy waves, still westward sailing! From dawn till eve, the bright, bright days sped on, chased by the gloomy nights; and, in glory dying, lent their luster to the starry skies. So, long the radiant dolphins fly before the sable sharks but seized, and torn in flames—die, burning:—their last splendor left, in sparkling scales that float along the sea. Cymbals, drums and psalteries! the air beats like a pulse with music! —High land! high land! and moving lights, and painted lanterns!—What grand shore is this? “Reverence we render thee, Old Orienda!” cried Media, with bared brow, “Original of all empires and emperors!—a crowned king salutes thee!” “Mardi’s father-land!” cried Mohi, “grandsire of the nations,—hail!” “All hail!” cried Yoomy. “Kings and sages hither coming, should come like palmers,—scrip and staff! Oh Orienda! thou wert our East, where first dawned song and science, with Mardi’s primal mornings! But now, how changed! the dawn of light become a darkness, which we kindle with the gleam of spears! On the world’s ancestral hearth, we spill our brothers’ blood!” “Herein,” said Babbalanja, “have many distant tribes proved parricidal. In times gone by, Luzianna hither sent her prom; Franko, her scores of captains; and the Dykemen, their peddler hosts, with yard-stick spears! But thou, oh Bello! lord of the empire lineage! Noah of the moderns. Sire of the long line of nations yet in germ!— thou, Bello, and thy locust armies, are the present curse of Orienda. Down ancient streams, from holy plains, in rafts thy murdered float! The pestilence that thins thy armies here, is bred of corpses, made by thee. Maramma’s priests, thy pious heralds, loud proclaim that of all pagans, Orienda’s most resist the truth!—ay! vain all pious voices, that speak from clouds of war! The march of conquest through wild provinces, may be the march of Mind; but not the march of Love.” “Thou, Bello!” cried Yoomy, “would’st wrest the crook from Alma’s hand, and place in it a spear. But vain to make a conqueror of him, who put off the purple when he came to Mardi; and declining gilded miters, entered the nations meekly on an ass.”