MORE than the compass to the mariner, Wast thou, Felipa, to his dauntless soul. Through adverse winds that threatened wreck, and nights Of rayless gloom, thou pointed ever to
The North Star of his great ambition. He Who once has lost an Eden, or has gained A paradise by Eve's sweet influence, Alone can know how strong a spell lies in
The witchery of a woman's beckoning hand. And thou didst draw him, tide-like, higher still, Felipa, whispering the lessons learned From thy courageous father, till the flood
Of his ambition burst all barriers And swept him onward to his longed-for goal. Before the jewels of a Spanish queen Built fleets to waft him on his untried way,
Thou gavest thy wealth of wifely sympathy To build the lofty purpose of his soul. And now the centuries have cycled by, Till thou art all-forgotten by the throng
That lauds the great Pathfinder of the deep. It matters not in that infinitude Of space, where thou dost guide thy spirit-bark To undiscovered lands, supremely fair.
If to this little planet thou couldst turn And voyage, wraithlike, to its cloud-hung rim, Thou wouldst not care for praise. And if, perchance, Some hand held out to thee a laurel bough,
Thou wouldst not claim one leaf, but fondly turn To lay thy tribute, also, at his feet.
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