flying host. On: over forest--hill, and dale--and lo! the golden
region! After the glittering spoil, by strange river-margins, and
beneath impending cliffs, thousands delve in quicksands; and, sudden,
sink in graves of their own making: with gold dust mingling their own
ashes. Still deeper, in more solid ground, other thousands slave; and
pile their earth so high, they gasp for air, and die; their comrades
mounting on them, and delving still, and dying--grave pile on grave!
Here, one haggard hunter murders another in his pit; and murdering,
himself is murdered by a third. Shrieks and groans! cries and curses!
It seems a golden Hell! With many camels, a sleek stranger comes--
pauses before the shining heaps, and shows _his_ treasures: yams and
bread-fruit. 'Give, give,' the famished hunters cry--, 'a thousand
shekels for a yam!--a prince's ransom for a meal!--Oh,
stranger! on our knees we worship thee:--take, take our gold; but let
us live!' Yams are thrown them and they fight. Then he who toiled not,
dug not, slaved not, straight loads his caravans with gold; regains
the beach, and swift embarks for home. 'Home! home!' the hunters cry,
with bursting eyes. 'With this bright gold, could we but join our
waiting wives, who wring their hands on distant shores, all then were
well. But we can not fly; our prows lie rotting on the beach. Ah!
home! thou only happiness!--better thy silver earnings than all these
golden findings. Oh, bitter end to all our hopes--we die in golden
graves."



CHAPTER LXIII
They Seek Through The Isles Of Palms; And Pass The Isles Of Myrrh