II

Why went Columbus to that highland race, Frugal and pensive, prone to love and ire, Despising kingdoms for a woman's face, For honour riches, and for faith desire?

On Spain's own breast was snow, within it fire; In her own eyes and subtle tongue was mirth; The eternal brooded in her skies, whence nigher The trebled starry host admonished earth

To shame away her grief and mock her baubles’ worth. Ah! when the crafty Tyrian came to Spain To barter for her gold his motley wares, Treading her beaches he forgot his gain.

The Semite became noble unawares. Her passion breathed Hamilcar's cruel prayers; Her fiery winds taught Hannibal his vows; Out of her tribulations and despairs

They wove a sterile garland for their brows. To her sad ports they fled before the Roman prows. And the Greek coming too forgot his art, And that large temperance which made him wise.

The wonder of her mountains choked his heart, The languor of her gardens veiled his eyes; He dreamed, he doubted; in her deeper skies He read unfathomed oracles of woe,

And stubborn to the onward destinies, Like some dumb brute before a human foe, Sank in Saguntum's flames and deemed them brighter so. The mighty Roman also when he came,

Bringing his gods, his justice, and his tongue, Put off his greatness for a sadder fame, And what a Caesar wrought a Lucan sung. Nor was the pomp of his proud music, wrung

From Latin numbers, half so stern and dire, Nor the sad majesties he moved among Half so divine, as her unbreathed desire. Shall longing break the heart and not untune the lyre?

When after many conquerors came Christ, The only conqueror of Spain indeed, Not Bethlehem nor Golgotha sufficed To show him forth, but every shrine must bleed

And every shepherd in his watches heed The angels’ matins sung at heaven's gate. Nor seemed the Virgin Mother wholly freed From taint of ill if born in frail estate,

But shone the seraphs’ queen and soared immaculate. And when the Arab from his burning sands Swept o'er the waters like a heavenly flail, He took her lute into his conquering hands,

And in her midnight turned to nightingale. With woven lattices and pillars frail He screened the pleasant secrets of his bower, Yet little could his subtler arts avail

Against the brutal onset of the Giaour. The rose passed from his courts, the muezzin from his tower. Only one image of his wisdom stayed, One only relic of his magic lore,—

Allah the Great, whom silent fate obeyed, More than Jehovah calm and hidden more, Allah remained in her heart's kindred core High witness of these terrene shifts of wrong.

Into his ancient silence she could pour Her passions’ frailty — He alone is strong — And chant with lingering wail the burden of her song. Seizing at Covadonga the rude cross

Pelayo raised amid his mountaineers, She bore it to Granada, one day's loss Ransomed with battles of a thousand years. A nation born in harness, fed on tears,

Christened in blood, and schooled in sacrifice, All for a sweeter music in the spheres, All for a painted heaven — at a price Should she forsake her loves and sail to Ind for spice?

Had Genoa in her merchant palaces No welcome for a heaven-guided son? Had Venice, mistress of the inland seas, No ships for bolder venture? Pisa none?

Was sated Rome content? Her mission done? Saw Lusitania in her seaward dreams No floating premonition, beckoning on To vast horizons, gilded yet with gleams

Of old Atlantis, whelmed beneath the bubbling streams? Or if some torpor lay upon the South, Tranced by the might of memories divine, Dwelt no shrewd princeling by the marshy mouth

Of Scheldt, or by the many mouths of Rhine? Rode Albion not at anchor in the brine Whose throne but now the thrifty Tudor stole Changing a noble for a crafty line?

Swarmed not the Norsemen yet about the pole, Seeking through endless mists new havens for the soul? These should have been thy mates, Columbus, these Patrons and partners of thy enterprise,

Sad lovers of immeasurable seas, Bound to no hallowed earth, no peopled skies. No ray should reach them of their ladies’ eyes In western deserts: no pure minstrel's rhyme,

Echoing in forest solitudes, surprise Their heart with longing for a sweeter clime. These, these should found a world who drag no chains of time. In sooth it had seemed folly, to reveal

To stubborn Aragon and evil-eyed These perilous hopes, folly to dull Castile Moated in jealous faith and walled in pride, Save that those thoughts, to Spain's fresh deeds allied,

Painted new Christian conquests, and her hand Itched for that sword, now dangling at her side, Which drove the Moslem forth and purged the land. And then she dreamed a dream her heart could understand.