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“Me dost thou bid to shun the coming fight? Me wouldst thou move to base, inglorious flight? Know, ’tis not honest in my soul to fear, Nor was Tydides born to tremble here. I hate the cumbrous chariot’s slow advance, And the long distance of the flying lance; But while my nerves are strong, my force entire, Thus front the foe, and emulate my sire. Nor shall yon steeds, that fierce to fight convey Those threatening heroes, bear them both away; One chief at least beneath this arm shall die; So Pallas tells me, and forbids to fly. But if she dooms, and if no god withstand, That both shall fall by one victorious hand, Then heed my words: my horses here detain, Fix’d to the chariot by the straiten’d rein; Swift to Æneas’ empty seat proceed, And seize the coursers of ethereal breed; The race of those, which once the thundering god[146] For ravish’d Ganymede on Tros bestow’d, The best that e’er on earth’s broad surface run, Beneath the rising or the setting sun. Hence great Anchises stole a breed unknown, By mortal mares, from fierce Laomedon: Four of this race his ample stalls contain, And two transport Æneas o’er the plain. These, were the rich immortal prize our own, Through the wide world should make our glory known.”

As when, on Ceres’ sacred floor, the swain Spreads the wide fan to clear the golden grain, And the light chaff, before the breezes borne, Ascends in clouds from off the heapy corn; The grey dust, rising with collected winds, Drives o’er the barn, and whitens all the hinds: So white with dust the Grecian host appears, From trampling steeds, and thundering charioteers. The dusky clouds from labour’d earth arise, And roll in smoking volumes to the skies. Mars hovers o’er them with his sable shield, And adds new horrors to the darken’d field: Pleased with his charge, and ardent to fulfil, In Troy’s defence, Apollo’s heavenly will: Soon as from fight the blue-eyed maid retires, Each Trojan bosom with new warmth he fires. And now the god, from forth his sacred fane, Produced Æneas to the shouting train; Alive, unharm’d, with all his peers around, Erect he stood, and vigorous from his wound: Inquiries none they made; the dreadful day No pause of words admits, no dull delay; Fierce Discord storms, Apollo loud exclaims, Fame calls, Mars thunders, and the field’s in flames.

I say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these things, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals, pagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these subjects. There was Queequeg, now, certainly entertaining the most absurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan;—but what of that? Queequeg thought he knew what he was about, I suppose; he seemed to be content; and there let him rest. All our arguing with him would not avail; let him be, I say: and Heaven have mercy on us all—Presbyterians and Pagans alike—for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.

At last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on board the schooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one side, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees all glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of casks on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the world-wandering whale ships lay silent and safely moored at last; while from others came a sound of carpenters and coopers, with blended noises of fires and forges to melt the pitch, all betokening that new cruises were on the start; that one most perilous and long voyage ended, only begins a second; and a second ended, only begins a third, and so on, for ever and for aye. Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness of all earthly effort.