IV

By such false meteors did those helmsmen steer, Such phantoms filled their vain and vaulting souls With divers ardours, while this brooding sphere Swung yet ungirdled on her silent poles.

All journeys took them farther from their goals, All battles won defeated their desire, Barred from one India by the other's shoals, Each sighted star extinguishing its fire,

Cape doubled after cape, and never haven nigher. How many galleons sailed to sail no more, How many battles and how many slain, Since first Columbus touched the Cuban shore,

Till Araucania felt the yoke of Spain! What mounting miseries! What dwindling gain! To till those solitudes, soon swept of gold, And bear that ardent sun, across the main

Slaves must come writhing in the festering hold Of galleys.— Poison works, though men be brave and bold. That slothful planter, once the buccaneer, Lord of his bastards and his mongrel clan,

Ignorant, harsh, what could he list or hear Of Europe and the heritage of man? No petty schemer sees the larger plan, No privy tyrant brooks the mightier law,

But lash in hand rides forth a partisan Of freedom: base, without the touch of awe, He poisoned first the blood his poniard was to draw. By sloth and lust and mindlessness and pelf

Spain sank in sadness and dishonour down, Each in his service serving but himself, Each in his passion striking at her crown. Not that these treasons blotted her renown

Emblazoned higher than such hands can reach: There where she reaped but sorrow she has sown The balm of sorrow; all she had to teach She taught the younger world — her faith and heart and speech.

And now within her sea-girt walls withdrawn She waits in silence for the healing years, While where her sun has set a second dawn Comes from the north, with other hopes and fears.

Spain's daughters stand, half ceasing from their tears, And watch the skies from Cuba to the Horn. “What is this dove or eagle that appears,” They seem to cry, “what herald of what morn

Hovers o'er Andes’ peaks in love or guile or scorn?” “O brooding Spirit, fledgling of the North, Winged for the levels of its shifting light, Child of a labouring ocean and an earth

Shrouded in vapours, fear the southward flight, Dread waveless waters and their warm delight, Beware of peaks that cleave the cloudless blue And hold communion with the naked night.

The souls went never back that hither flew, But sighing fell to earth or broke the heavens through. “Haunt still thy storm-swept islands, and endure The shimmering forest where thy visions live.

Then if we love thee — for thy heart is pure — Thou shalt have something worthy love to give. Thrust not thy prophets on us, nor believe Thy sorry riches in our eyes are fair.

Thy unctuous sophists never will deceive A mortal pang, or charm away despair. Not for the stranger's fee we plait our lustrous hair. “But of thy lingering twilight bring some gleam,

Memorial of the immaterial fire Lighting thy heart, and to a wider dream Waken the music of our plaintive lyre. Check our rash word, hush, hush our base desire.

Hang paler clouds of reverence about Our garish skies: laborious hope inspire That uncomplaining walks the paths of doubt, A wistful heart within, a mailed breast without.

“Gold found is dross, but long Promethean art Transmutes to gold the unprofitable ore. Bring labour's joy, yet spare that better part Our mother, Spain, bequeathed to all she bore,

For who shall covet if he once adore? Leave in our skies, strange Spirit passing there, No less of vision but of courage more, And of our worship take thy equal share,

Thou who would'st teach us hope, with her who taught us prayer.”