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- 9129
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 9093
- text
- 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.
- title
- Chunk 4