- end_line
- 9026
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 8953
- text
- Yoomy, “camped on plains and steppes; on thousand mountains, worshiping
the stars; in thousand valleys, offering up first-fruits, till all the
forests seem in flames;—where, in fire, the widow’s spirit mounts to
meet her lord!—Oh, Orienda, in thee ’tis vain to seek our Yillah!”
“How dark as death the night!” said Mohi, shaking the dew from his
braids, “the Heavens blaze not here with stars, as over Dominora’s
land, and broad Vivenza.”
One only constellation was beheld; but every star was brilliant as the
one, that promises the morning. That constellation was the Crux-
Australis,—the badge, and type of Alma.
And now, southwest we steered, till another island vast, was reached;
—Hamora! far trending toward the Antarctic Pole.
Coasting on by barbarous beaches, where painted men, with spears,
charged on all attempts to land, at length we rounded a mighty bluff,
lit by a beacon; and heard a bugle call:—Bello’s! hurrying to their
quarters, the World-End’s garrison.
Here, the sea rolled high, in mountain surges: mid which, we toiled and
strained, as if ascending cliffs of Caucasus.
But not long thus. As when from howling Rhoetian heights, the traveler
spies green Lombardy below, and downward rushes toward that pleasant
plain; so, sloping from long rolling swells, at last we launched upon
the calm lagoon.
But as we northward sailed, once more the storm-trump blew, and
charger-like, the seas ran mustering to the call; and in battalions
crouched before a towering rock, far distant from the main. No moon,
eclipsed in Egypt’s skies, looked half so lone. But from out that
darkness, on the loftiest peak, Bello’s standard waved.
“Oh rifled tomb!” cried Babbalanja. “Wherein lay the Mars and Moloch of
our times, whose constellated crown, was gemmed with diadems. Thou god
of war! who didst seem the devouring Beast of the Apocalypse; casting
so vast a shadow over Mardi, that yet it lingers in old Franko’s vale;
where still they start at thy tremendous ghost; and, late, have hailed
a phantom, King! Almighty hero-spell! that after the lapse of half a
century, can so bewitch all hearts! But one drop of hero-blood will
deify a fool.
“Franko! thou wouldst be free; yet thy free homage is to the buried
ashes of a King; thy first choice, the exaltation of his race. In
furious fires, thou burn’st Ludwig’s throne; and over thy new-made
chieftain’s portal, in golden letters print’st—‘The Palace of our
Lord!’ In thy New Dispensation, thou cleavest to the exploded Law. And
on Freedom’s altar—ah, I fear—still, may slay thy hecatombs. But
Freedom turns away; she is sick with burnt blood of offerings. Other
rituals she loves; and like Oro, unseen herself, would be worshiped
only by invisibles. Of long drawn cavalcades, pompous processions,
frenzied banners, mystic music, marching nations, she will none. Oh,
may thy peaceful Future, Franko, sanctify thy bloody Past. Let not
history say; ‘To her old gods, she turned again.’”
This rocky islet passed, the sea went down; once more we neared
Hamora’s western shore. In the deep darkness, here and there, its
margin was lit up by foam-white, breaking billows rolled over from
Vivenza’s strand, and down from northward Dominora; marking places
where light was breaking in, upon the interior’s jungle-gloom.
In heavy sighs, the night-winds from shore came over us.
“Ah, vain to seek sweet Yillah here,” cried Yoomy.—“Poor land! curst of
man, not Oro! how thou faintest for thy children, torn from thy soil,
to till a stranger’s. Vivenza! did these winds not spend their plaints,
ere reaching thee, thy every vale would echo them. Oh, tribe of Hamo!
thy cup of woe so brims, that soon it must overflow upon the land which
holds ye thralls. No misery born of crime, but spreads and poisons
wide. Suffering hunteth sin, as the gaunt hound the hare, and tears it
in the greenest brakes.”
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