Chapter LXII

by Herman Melville

　　Now, northward coasting along Kolumbo's Western shore, whence came the same wild forest-sounds, as from the Eastern; and where we landed not, to seek among those wrangling tribes;—after many, many days, we spied prow after prow, before the wind all northward bound: sails wide-spread, and paddles plying: scaring the fish from before them.

　　Their inmates answered not our earnest hail.

　　But as they sped, with frantic glee, in one long chorus thus they sang:—

　　            We rovers bold,

　　            To the land of Gold,

　　          Over bowling billows are gliding:

　　            Eager to toil,

　　            For the golden spoil,

　　          And every hardship biding.

　　              See! See!

　　          Before our prows' resistless dashes,

　　          The gold-fish fly in golden flashes!

　　            'Neath a sun of gold,

　　            We rovers bold,

　　          On the golden land are gaining;

　　          And every night,

　　          We steer aright,

　　        By golden stars unwaning!

　　      All fires burn a golden glare:

　　      No locks so bright as golden hair!

　　    All orange groves have golden gushings:

　　    All mornings dawn with golden flushings!

　　  In a shower of gold, say fables old,

　　  A maiden was won by the god of gold!

　　    In golden goblets wine is beaming:

　　    On golden couches kings are dreaming!

　　    The Golden Rule dries many tears!

　　    The Golden Number rules the spheres!

　　  Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations:

　　  Gold! gold! the center of all rotations!

　　    On golden axles worlds are turning:

　　    With phosphorescence seas are burning!

　　    All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings:

　　    Gold-hunters' hearts with golden dreamings!

　　    With golden arrows kings are slain:

　　    With gold we'll buy a freeman's name!

　　  In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,

　　  At home we've slaved, with stifled yearnings:

　　  No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!

　　  When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow.

　　        But joyful now, with eager eye,

　　        Fast to the Promised Land we fly:

　　          Where in deep mines,

　　          The treasure shines;

　　        Or down in beds of golden streams,

　　        The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams!

　　          How we long to sift,

　　          That yellow drift!

　　        Rivers! Rivers! cease your going!

　　          Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide!

　　        'Till we've gained the golden flowing;

　　          And in the golden haven ride!