Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative

The reader needs no information in respect to the renowned Vasco Nunez de Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific, and one of the most noble of all the cavaliers that followed in the footsteps of Columbus and Hernan Cortes. Of the astrologer, Micer Codro, less is known; but the pathetic facts in his career, as far as we possess them, may be found in the pleasant and instructive volume of Irving, which he devotes to the companions of Columbus. The legend which follows supplies its own facts, and needs no further introduction.

I.

Triumphant on a peak of Darien,
The eagle conqueror that, in one bold flight,
Had scaled each high impediment of cloud,
And stood above the summits of the storm,—
Balboa,—on the topmost crag that crown'd
The narrow isthmus, which between two seas
Spread barrier walls, denying their embrace,—
Rose, silent, with his eye uplift to heaven,
A moment, as in prayer and thankfulness,
Then, hopefully, he cast his glance below,
And trembled in his rapture.
'Neath him roll'd
The broad Pacific, never yet before
Unveil'd to European! What were then
Th' emotions of that conqueror, in whose toils
Such courage, with such great endurance mix'd,
Were the best proofs of virtue. Who shall tell
The struggling, glad sensations of the soul,

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So highly reaching, when,—to crown at last
The hope so fruitful in great enterprise,
And noble consummation—on his eyes
Burst forth that mighty prospect—that deep sea,
In the virginity of its pure waves,
Unrifled of a charm—for the first time
Won to a mortal's arms!—or, who conceive,
When on the summit of that isthmus throned,
Higher than sovereign, and on either hand
Ranged the two sister seas, for the first time
Given to each other; he, that gallant chief,
Most noble and most valiant of the sons
Spain sent on this great service, stood alone,
And look'd upon his conquest? Who shall tell
The melancholy pride of his great soul,
When the achievement, long withheld, and won
Only by toil at last—the fearless toil
Of true adventure and achievement great,
That greater grew from trial—was his own;
And, to a spirit as aspiring, he
Added a name and triumph, scarce below
That of the “Admiral,” who led the way,
First, in this path of glory!—
With glad eye,
And soaring sense, and spirit almost drunk,
In its excess of rapture, dumb he stood,
And gazed upon the waters. Were these, then,
The billows of that Indian sea, which clasps
In its capacious bosom, those broad isles
Of boundless, unimaginable wealth,
In gold and gems o'erflowing, locking in
The spices and the perfumes of the East—
The world of spoil, the field of enterprise,
Meet for that ocean chivalry, to whom

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The sea and land, the wild, and wilder yet
The savages that sway them, have no bar?
Was this that glorious sea—or, prouder still,
Had fortune yielded to his daring aim
Some lonely, lock'd-up ocean of the wild,
Some savage realm of water, undisturb'd,
Save by the Indian's bark, when, at the dawn,
He plunges through its silvery depths, unscared,
For the pearl oyster, and at eve returns,
Laden and glutted with its precious spoils,
To his lone wigwam by the reedy shore?
Proud were the thoughts of that young conqueror,
But with a due humility, that taught
Meet homage to the Deity who gave
The genius for the conquest, and laid bare
The portals of the empire and the deep!
Tears glitter'd in his great eyes, while he gazed;
His gleaming sword was laid upon the heights,
And his strong hands uplifted; while his knees,
Taught by the gratitude swelling in his heart,
Bow'd at that primitive altar of the rock,
That glow'd in day's first sunshine. Thus, alone,
A moment, pray'd Balboa. No one shared
The spectacle that gladden'd his fond eyes,
Or felt the secret sentiment of pride
That in his heart taught worship—till he bade
The host ascend the summits which his feet
Had singly scaled, and gather at a glance,
The marvellous empire hidden in the waste,
Whose secrets thus were won.
They came, they saw;
Like him, the host sank prostrate on their knees,
While audible hearts of worship breathed in prayer,
And one strong shout from that fierce chivalry

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Spoke all the dark devotion of their race,
As, at the bidding of their chief, the cross,
Hewn from the tallest pine, was lifted up,
A symbol of their service and their faith,
In triumph o'er their heads. Then every eye
Grew pregnant with its tears—some upward turn'd
To heaven in thanks and gladness—others again,
In wonder not to be appeased, and love,
That had its source in wonder and delight,
To the broad realm of ocean at their feet.

II.

'Twas midnight, and the stars were in the heavens,
Each the proud centre of a countless host,
Each with a world of glory in its glance
Such as the orient knows not. Not a cloud
Dull'd their profusion; and upon that sea,
Soft, with a billowy rising, and a swell,
Like the voluptuous heavings, in the breast
Of some warm princess of the passionate East,
They flung their emulous and repeated lights,
With a most profligate glory. From the south,
Where, all day, it had wander'd seeking flowers,
And whence, with wing embarrass'd still with spoil,
It came diffusing odor, stole the wind,—
That robber of the close that feeds the waste,
And stirr'd with gentlest ripplings the great sea,
Until, with musical murmurs to the shore,
It roll'd its little billows to the reeds,
That straightway took a voice most like their own,
And join'd the natural concert;—sweet, sad tones,
The music of that spirit whose brooding wing
Ever gives tone to earth's vast provinces,
Her seas, and sloping shores, and the great heights,

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Her mountains, vast world-citadels, that need
The blue wings of such spirit to subdue
Their rudeness, and such voices as it knows,
To harmonize, and with due sympathies,
Blend meetly, the wild aspect of the crag
With valleys, and the swelling tides of sea!
'Twas midnight, but the chieftain did not sleep!
Still, as he lay upon the summit crag,
Glided on the gradual hosts of starry eyes,
Sweet smiling in his own; and to his ear,
Still upward rose those voices of the wave,
Bidding him welcome; and around the heights,
With song of winds in commerce with the pines,
Such music of the wilderness as best
Persuades the sense to rapture, while the dream
Finds ever a shape of beauty for the eyes,
And still a ravishing feeling for the soul,
That sweetly takes possession of a thought,
Then wholly given to nature. There he lay,
Fond listening to those tones of land and sea,
With speech mysterious to the worshipping sea,—
Voices to voices calling, hill to hill,
And ocean to old forests, through still hours,
Keeping up a solemn chorus, and soft chant,
Such as soothes solitude on lonely heights,
And takes away the sorrow from the waste.

How could he sleep? The creature of his dreams,
That for so long had brought him wakeful hours,—
The vague conceit, the great expectancy,
The wondrous fond illusion, the wild hope,
The quenchless thirst, the matchless passion, all,
That show'd him ever glimpses of great heights
Attain'd, and empire won, and fame secure,

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For the still worshipping future,—all the dreams
That wrought his soul's ambition from the hour
He first had dream'd of glory,—were his own!—
The prize of a long dream was his at last!
The crown of a long strife was realized!
That hour had changed him, and possession won,
He was no more the creature he had been,
When boyhood was a season of delight,
And hope had many a semblance. When, amid
The festive throng, for mirth and music bent,
At evening by the waters, or attuned
To a more fell employment, he was found
Rashly adventurous, daring still the first,
Where all were daring—in the tented field,
Join'd in close combat with the tawny Moor,
A kingdom on his arm. The ruthless mood,
Indifferent to aught but valorous deed
And bloody retribution—all were gone!
And, in their stead, a loftier spirit came,
Keeping him watchful. His adventurous mind
Felt its own wing, and knew its strength at last
And soar'd into the heavens; and, eagle-like,
He brooded 'mong those mountains through the night,
And meditated, with the matin chime,
His flight across the waters;—where to lead
He knew not; but his dreams, his waking dreams,
Peopled the wilds beyond, with glorious forms
And empires of the sun. He too would give
To Castile and to Leon a new world;
And more than he, the mighty Genoese,
Another ocean with its tribute wealth,
And uncomplaining waters.
He would yield
His country such a treasure, and a realm,

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Of such unbounded wealth and eminence
As should eclipse each jewel in her crown,
The gift of former sons. Thus mighty souls
Commune with their own purposes. Their pride,
That seeks the conquest, sees the hour beyond,
When, with a generous, free magnificence,
They fling the golden guerdon they have brought,
On shrines which still embody to their souls
A power for love and worship. Sovereign thus
Find loyalty, faith, and sweet humility;
And beauty, the fond homage of a heart
That never dared to breathe its passionate love,
Yet yearn'd the while to bless and to endow.

Thus, on the rocks of Darien, lay the chief,
Brooding with sweet, proud fancies, while the stars
Lapsed overhead above, and still below
Lay his exhausted followers, wrapt in sleep,
That knew no dream like his. At last, a voice
Aroused him, and the weight of a strong hand,
But not in anger, on his shoulder fell.
He started from his trance. Beside him stood
One of the wise men of that dreaming age,
A fond, self-mortified spirit,—one who sought
Its thoughts in realms forbidden—an old man,
Whose spirit, through long abstinence and toil,
Deep study, musings vast and infinite,
And rigorous penance, in its age had grown
Familiar with the stars. To him they were
Not less than wizard lights, and presences,
Of soul and speech. To him they bared the seals
That held the future, and they laid the past
Before him as an open scroll, writ full
Of all familiar characters. Unveil'd to him,

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All time grew present;—and, in rocky cells,
In ruin'd castles, and secluded caves,
By seas, in lonely forests, and afar
From human converse, still he conn'd the page,
Nightly, of mortal story. He could read
All futures. He could conjure shapes at will,
Into the speaker's presence;—so his fame
Ran 'mongst the Spanish host;—and such as he
Was ever sought and honor'd by the chief
That toil'd in wild adventure. Thus they made
Apparent, the large glory in their search;
Their wild, ambitious reachings, and the dream
That still ennobles conquest, with the thirst
For something, which the world may not bestow.
Such was the aged man, who, on that night,
Stood by the musing conqueror, as he lay
Upon the mountain peak of Darien.
He rose, and they together look'd below,
Where, flashing ever out beneath the stars,
Gleam'd the calm waters, the Pacific plain,
Repeating all the glories in the heavens.
Thus look'd they both in silence for awhile,
Till the young chief, with gladness in his tones,
Cried to the aged man:
“Hast thou no voice,
My father, for this triumph? Here, at last,
We have laid bare the secret of the West,—
New worlds,—new oceans,—people—countless lands,
And empires yet to win. What toil was ours!
Yet vainly have these perilous heights and wilds
Opposed us in our march—vainly our fears,
Striven to retard—vainly these barbarous tribes
Raised their red spears, or hurl'd their feathery shafts.
These have we overcome, and Balboa now

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May vaunt his conquests on the kindred page
That glows with Colon's glory. Have I not
Given a new ocean to our sovereign's rule,
A tributary world, a myriad race
Of subjects, and a vast and nameless wealth,
Not to be number'd? Have I not outspread
Here, to the embraces of a foreign breeze,
That blossoms in its odor, borne afar,
Doubtless, from gardens of the orient realm,
Hard by to Ophir—his unconquer'd flag;
And, on this rock, beheld from either sea,
Planted the sacred standard of our faith,
The hallow'd cross; in token that the wild
Is now the care of Christ, henceforth to be
The creature of his people? These are deeds,
Good father, that shall never be forgot;
And Balboa's name, when he shall be no more,
Shall have its chronicler to spell the ear,
And on the lips of story sound as well,
As any in the record. How will 't read,
With “Vasco Nunez de Balboa,” to write
“Colon the Admiral”—“world-finders both:”

The Magian paused a space, and to his eye—
Where brightness, strangely mingled up with gloom,
Wore an appalling lustre, not unlike
Such as our dreams for spirit forms provide—
A darker shade, a deeper, sadder hue,
And, it might be, a large but single tear,
Gather'd unbidden. Calmly then he spoke.

“My son, at Palos, by the convent walls
Of La Rabida, your old mother dwells:
I saw her, when we last departed thence,

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On this adventure. Not to me unknown,
The future, as you found it. You were then,
Already, known to glory—so men call
Words from their fellow-men—and 'twas her pride
To speak of you as all the country spake.
I could not check the current of her speech,
Nor were it kind to do so; but, aroused,
And ravish'd with the subject, when she grew
Wild with imagined triumphs and great spoils,
And all the gauds of fortune—in my heart
I sorrow'd for her strange simplicity.
I did not tell her that her eyes in vain
Would, till the sunset, o'er the waves look out
For her son's caravel. I did not say,
What, well persuaded, I might well have said,
That all your triumphs were to end at last
In a base dungeon and a bloody grave,
And ignominious scaffold—
“Ah! you start!
But 'tis my grief, as 'tis thy destiny,
That I should mourn for that I must foresee,
And thou escape not. Hearken, then, awhile.
Thou wilt remember, on our voyage out,
I traced thy fortune. Thou didst seek of me
Its features; but thy quest I still withstood,
As aiding not thy service to be known,
And, haply, moving thy too soaring thought,
Too much to dwell upon it. But with me
It grew a settled study. From my art—
Of which in praise I speak not, when I say
It has not fail'd me oft—I linger'd o'er
Thy varying fortunes. Every step thou took'st,
Whether in peace or war, in court or camp,
In ease or peril, I beheld at large.

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I saw thee trace thy journey to the wild—
Thy each reverse—thy final, full success,
Until the mighty waters, which now roll
Incessant to our feet, proclaim'd thy fame;
And to the daring soldier gave the praise
Of calm forethought, deliberation wise,
And an intelligent sense that all confirms
In this thy conquest. Here then are we now—
So far, the fortune I have traced is true!”

“What more, what more?” impatient, then, the chief
Ask'd of the aged man. “Let me know all—
I do esteem thy art, and well believe
Thou lovest me as thy son. Thou wilt not speak
What 'twere not well to hear; and well I know,
Thy wisdom, if ill fortune do betide,
May guide my wilder'd bark, and bring it safe.
Speak then at once, nor think that at thy speech,
Though fearful be its form, my soul shall quake,
Or my knees tremble. Let me know it all,
That I may battle boldly with my fate,
However vain the struggle, as becomes
A son of Spain, a warrior of the wild,
A spirit prone to combat with the seas,
And brave them at their wildest. Speak, old man;
Give thy thought words, and let my fortune stand
Before me on the instant.”

The magian spoke:
“When in the gather'd stars thy fate I read,
In one remote and solitary light,
I saw its bane, and baleful influence.
A single star, thus quarter'd in the heavens.
Teem'd with malicious auguries, and shook

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All fires malign upon thee. It was then
I sought its secret power, and early read,
That, while afar, in the extremest east,
It kept its foreign station, thou wert safe;
But when, with daring wing, it took its way,
And, where the evening hangs her golden lamp
O'er the sun's chambers, shook its lurid fires,
That hour to thee was perilously dark,
And death, a bloody, ignominious death,
Was gather'd in its verge. That hour's at hand!—
Look forth into the west. Behold, apart,
From all communion with its fellow lights,
Where, with audacious blaze and angry beam,
That fate casts forth its fires. Redly it burns,
And, as exulting in the near approach
To the destruction of its victim, takes
A subtle halo round it. There are stars,
That to the eye of mortals seem but stars,
Yet are they evil spirits. Such is this.
They are not of the class with which they roam,
Their lights are not like those which burn around,
Nor have they the like genial influence;
They hold a fearful power o'er earthly things,
Man, and the worlds about him. O'er the earth,
And on the waters, they still exercise;
They have their moods, and, bitterly at war
With all God's works, they seek for their annoy;
Impede their fortunes, or attend them on,
Even to success, as, with thee, this hath done,
That, when they hurl them down to the abyss,
The height shall be a perilous one they leave.
The gentler lights of heavenly providence
Shrink from their foul contagion, till they stand
Apart, and from the rest all separate.

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Some they precipitate from their high spheres,
Leaping into their places; the dethroned,
Extinguish'd in the deeps of all their light,
Find there a dwelling-place, to their new life
More apt and fitting. Such powers have these
O'er men and stars, as these do err and shoot,
Out from their proper places. Over thee
Yon planet hangs its spell, and thou art mark'd
Its victim, surely—all thy triumph naught—
Thy spoils for other spoilers, and thy deeds
Naught valued, nothing doing for thy life,
But all against thee. Jesu be thy shield!”

Brief was the respite;—a short season pass'd,
The omen was complete;—the augury
Had its fulfilment! He who, at that hour,
Beheld himself—by all the world beheld—
Successful—born for conquest and renown,—
Died on the block; the moral rounded well
To closing of a mighty history,
Such as too commonly sculptures mortal glory,
Where Shame sits watchful how to mock the triumph,
And Hate despoils the conqueror! In the grasp,
The full possession of his matchless heights,
The power pass'd from him to his enemy's hands;
And he who built the altar, was the first
To shed his blood on it in sacrifice,
Yet hopeless of atonement. The base spirit
Triumph'd above the noble; as the viper
Crawls to the bosom of the sleeping lion,
And stings him where he lies. Thus overcome,
Among his foes at Acla, Balboa died,
A hero's glory and a felon's doom
Closing a perilous life of many toils

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And true adventure. The magician's speech
Was sooth—and he, whom worlds could not contain,
So vast his spirit—whose far-darting soul
Saw, from its skyey pinnacle, the new
And boundless shores he conquer'd—he, the brave—
The noblest in renown, where all were brave—
Perish'd, unheard, unheeded—not an eye
To weep his fortunes; not a single arm
To do his nature justice, and redress
The wrongs of men and nations. Thus he died—
The world he conquer'd yielding him—a grave.

University of Virginia Library

VASCO NUNEZ;

OR THE PROPHECY OF THE ASTROLOGER.

A LEGEND OF DARIEN.

I.

II.