72
COLUMBUS.
Yon Western hemisphere sublime,
Where unshorn forests frown,
The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,
The Indian hunter's bow,
Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,
And rocks of gold and diamonds thou[1]
To thankless Spain shalt show.
Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!
In Fates' unfolding scroll,
Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read,
That rack the noble soul.
On! On! Creation's secrets probe,
Then drink thy cup of scorn,
And wrapped in fallen Cesar's robe,
Sleep like that master of the globe,
All glorious,—yet forlorn.
