Volume 5 — Original. Columbus

'Tis midnight; through the lozenge panes Flashes a southern storm; And the lightning flings its livid stains O'er a bowed and wearied form. He stands, like a ship once staunch and stout By billows too long opprest; And a fiercer storm than whirls without Tears through his heaving breast. His hand is pressed on his aching brow, And veils his eyes' dark light, And a twinkling cresset's dim red glow, When the lightning pales, doth sadly flow O'er locks where many a thread of snow Tells of time's troubled flight. He stands—a fading, a clouded star, Half-hid in the rack of heaven's war; Or, like a vanquished warrior, one Whose heart is crushed, whose hopes are gone After many a gallant fight.

He turns and he paces the damp stone floor, And his glance seeks the damper wall, Where the charts, o'er which he had loved to pore, Like arras rise and fall. There is his heart's most cherished store, There lie the fruits of his deepest lore, And his lips, as he views them o'er and o'er, His withered life recall: "And was it all a dream? Is this the bitter waking? And is hope's heavenly beam For aye my soul forsaking? I thought to see the cross unfurled Upon the hills of a far-off world! To bear the faith of the Crucified Far o'er the wild Atlantic's tide! To see adored the Christian's God Where Christian foot hath never trod! Sure brighter dreams from heaven ne'er fell And I wake in this cold, dim cell! "And were they, too, but dreams—— Those lands far in the West, Where robed in sunset beams The Seven Cities rest? Far, far beyond the blue Azores, I thought to press the ocean's shores; The heaving, restless main to span, And give—and give—a world to man! A new-born world of vernal skies Fresh with the breath of paradise— A world that yet would place my name The foremost on the scroll of fame. And now I wake, poor, friendless, lone, 'Mid these dripping walls of stone. "And was it but a dream I left fair Italy? To chase the churchyard gleam Of false expectancy— That light which, like the swamp's pale glare, Lures but to darkness and despair? To crush the visions youth built up? Drink to its poisoned dregs the cup Of hope deferred and trust misplaced? To feel heart shrink and body waste? And still like drowning wretch to cry, 'One more effort and I die!'"

II. The drear, chill gray of dawning day Dies in a golden glow, And merrily on the dancing sea The rippling sunbeams flow; And they glance and glint, in many a tint, Over minaret and tower, Where the lofty cross shows the Paynim's loss And the wane of Moslem power. And waving high in the brightening sky, Floating o'er town and sea, And gleaming bright in the morning light, Spain's flag flaunts haughtily. Who passes through the antique street Worshipped by all around? Whom do the thousand voices greet That to the heavens resound? Proud is the flash of his dark eye, Yet tempered with humility; The softened radiance, high yet meek, That doth the Christian soul bespeak; Proud is his heaving bosom's swell, And proud his seat in velvet selle; His very courser paws the earth As conscious of its master's worth. And now his armed heel loud rings Through a high, carved hall, Where blazoned shields of queens and kings Hang fluttering on the wall. Around, the noblest of the land In deepest awe uncovered stand: Princes, whose proud sires had well Upheld the cross with Charles Martel; And knights, whose scutcheons flashed amid The fiercest fights where blazed the Cid; Soldiers, who by their sovereign's side Hurled back in blood the seething tide Of Moslem war; and churchmen sage, The men who smoothed that iron age. And all alone, 'mid that bright throng, His voice arises clear and strong. He stands before a throne; even now His dark plume waves above his brow, As he, of all the courtier train, Rivalled the majesty of Spain. Fortune like this, what fate can mar? He stands—a cloudless, risen star.

III. Once more 'tis the mid hour of night; Once more the storm beats high; But now it whirls its fearful might Along the cloud-fraught sky Which spans the drear Atlantic's waste, All whitened with wild foam, That cleaves the air, as sea-birds haste At even to their home. But even there, where nature's power Laughs puny man to scorn, Man lords it for his little hour O'er fellow-man forlorn. Within a Vessel's creaking sides A chained prisoner sits; Drooped, weary, careless what betides His tired soul, ere it flits Far from a world where gratitude Yields ever to the selfish brood That gold and thirst for honor bring To breast of peasant and of king. What now avails the world he gave To thankless Spain? It cannot save From slavish chains its whilom lord, Nor shield him from the hatred poured O'er his bowed head by those who late But formed the puppets of his state. Gone is his kindly mistress—laid To sleep among Spain's royal dead. Dead is her smile, her beaming gaze So full of hope when darkening days Hung o'er the crown she wore so well; Yea, dead is queenly Isabel! And where are now the crowds that hung Upon his steps when every tongue Shouted his praise? The station high Above all Spain's plumed chivalry? The high commands? Away! each thought With saddening memory so deep fraught! Call not pale flashes from afar To mock with light a fallen star! The past is dead, the future read, Ay! see a broken, moss-grown stone, And on it view a kingly meed Of thanks to genius shown— Ay! trace o'er that forgotten grave— "ANOTHER WORLD COLUMBUS GAVE TO CASTILE AND LÉON." Front-de-boeuf.