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THE TOMB OF COLUMBUS.
“But thee, Columbus, how can I but remember? but loue?
but admire? Sweetly may those bones rest, sometimes the
Pillars of that Temple where so diuine a spirit resided; which
neyther want of former example, nor publike discouragements
of domesticall or forren states, nor priuate insultations of
prowd Spaniards, nor length of time (which usually deuoureth
the best resolutions) nor the vnequal Plaines of huge
vnknowne Seas, nor grassie fields in Neptune's lap, nor importunate
whisperings, murmurings, threatenings of enraged
companions, could daunt: O name Colon, worthy to be
named vnto the world's end, which to the world's end hast
conducted Colonies: or may I call thee Colombo for thy Douelike
simplicitie and patience? the true Colonna or Pillar,
whereon our knowledge of this new world is founded, the
true Christopher which, with more than Giant-like force and
fortitude hast carried Christ his name and religion, through
vnknowne Seas, to vnknowne Lands.”
—Purchas his Pilgrimage.
“But thee, Columbus, how can I but remember? but loue? but admire? Sweetly may those bones rest, sometimes the Pillars of that Temple where so diuine a spirit resided; which neyther want of former example, nor publike discouragements of domesticall or forren states, nor priuate insultations of prowd Spaniards, nor length of time (which usually deuoureth the best resolutions) nor the vnequal Plaines of huge vnknowne Seas, nor grassie fields in Neptune's lap, nor importunate whisperings, murmurings, threatenings of enraged companions, could daunt: O name Colon, worthy to be named vnto the world's end, which to the world's end hast conducted Colonies: or may I call thee Colombo for thy Douelike simplicitie and patience? the true Colonna or Pillar, whereon our knowledge of this new world is founded, the true Christopher which, with more than Giant-like force and fortitude hast carried Christ his name and religion, through vnknowne Seas, to vnknowne Lands.”
—Purchas his Pilgrimage.
An old cathedral, with its columned roof,
And shrines, and pictured saints.
The sun yet lingered
On Cuzco's mountains, and the fragrant breath
Of unknown tropic flowers came o'er my path,
Wafted—how pleasantly! for I had been
Long on the seas, and their salt waveless glare
Had made green fields a longing. At the port
I left our bark, with her tired mariners;
And loitered on, amid gay-colored houses,
Through the great square, and through the narrow streets,
Till this old fane, inviting, stayed my steps.
While all alone, in the religious silence
And pensive spirit of the place, I stood
By the High Altar—near it, on the wall,
A tablet of plain marble met my view,
Modestly wrought—whereon an Effigy,
And a few simple words in a strange tongue,
Telling “Here lies Columbus.”
And that niche,
That narrow space held all now left of Him
For whom the Ancient World was once too little!
And shrines, and pictured saints.
The sun yet lingered
On Cuzco's mountains, and the fragrant breath
Of unknown tropic flowers came o'er my path,
Wafted—how pleasantly! for I had been
Long on the seas, and their salt waveless glare
Had made green fields a longing. At the port
I left our bark, with her tired mariners;
And loitered on, amid gay-colored houses,
Through the great square, and through the narrow streets,
Till this old fane, inviting, stayed my steps.
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And pensive spirit of the place, I stood
By the High Altar—near it, on the wall,
A tablet of plain marble met my view,
Modestly wrought—whereon an Effigy,
And a few simple words in a strange tongue,
Telling “Here lies Columbus.”
And that niche,
That narrow space held all now left of Him
For whom the Ancient World was once too little!
Here, those illustrious Relics, doomed to wander
Like their great Tenant,—(from the holy Crypt
Of Valladolid to Moresque Seville—
Thence, voyaging West once more, to his beloved
Hispaniola—thence, for refuge, hither,)—
Had found at last their final resting-place.
Like their great Tenant,—(from the holy Crypt
Of Valladolid to Moresque Seville—
Thence, voyaging West once more, to his beloved
Hispaniola—thence, for refuge, hither,)—
Had found at last their final resting-place.
But where were they—the fetters that had bound
Those patient, manly limbs? the gift of Spain
To him who gave a world? (in the king's name
'Twas written thus )—he kept them to the last,
And charged they should lie with him in the grave.
Those patient, manly limbs? the gift of Spain
To him who gave a world? (in the king's name
'Twas written thus )—he kept them to the last,
And charged they should lie with him in the grave.
No loftier tomb? methought he should have lain
Enshrined in some vast pile—some gorgeous dome—
Reared by Castile to him who made her name
Great in the nations. But he needs them not.
And haply, it is meeter for him thus
To rest surrounded by his own high Deeds—
Like the great builder laid beneath the Temple
He reared. “If thou wouldst view his monument,
Look round thee.”
No severe majestic column,
No mountain-piled, eternal pyramid,
Such as a World might raise to its Discoverer,
Marks his repose.
But the keel-crowded port,
And the green island, and the waving palms,
And the deep murmur of a peopled city,
And the great ocean whitened with new sails,
And the wide continent stretching beyond—
All, in a voice more eloquent than words—
Inscriptions—told the story of his life.
Enshrined in some vast pile—some gorgeous dome—
Reared by Castile to him who made her name
Great in the nations. But he needs them not.
And haply, it is meeter for him thus
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Like the great builder laid beneath the Temple
He reared. “If thou wouldst view his monument,
Look round thee.”
No severe majestic column,
No mountain-piled, eternal pyramid,
Such as a World might raise to its Discoverer,
Marks his repose.
But the keel-crowded port,
And the green island, and the waving palms,
And the deep murmur of a peopled city,
And the great ocean whitened with new sails,
And the wide continent stretching beyond—
All, in a voice more eloquent than words—
Inscriptions—told the story of his life.
And mine own being—
Haply, but for thee,
(If, in the tangled chain of crossed events
We shudder now to dwell upon, this soul
Had 'scaped the fatal blank of non-existence,)
Even now, I might have slaved in some old sea-port,
Bowed to the oar—or delved in Hunnish mines,
A serf—or toiled a reaper in the fields
Of “merry England”—none too merry now!
Haply, but for thee,
(If, in the tangled chain of crossed events
We shudder now to dwell upon, this soul
Had 'scaped the fatal blank of non-existence,)
Even now, I might have slaved in some old sea-port,
Bowed to the oar—or delved in Hunnish mines,
A serf—or toiled a reaper in the fields
Of “merry England”—none too merry now!
How quiet and how peaceful seemed his rest
From those long labors?—all was calm repose.
Within, such holy stillness—but, alas!
Without, (sole stain on that great honored Name,)
A dismal sound of fetters! the chain-gang
Passing just then, with its accurséd clank.
From those long labors?—all was calm repose.
Within, such holy stillness—but, alas!
Without, (sole stain on that great honored Name,)
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Passing just then, with its accurséd clank.
Long by that simple tomb I lingered—long
Gazed with an awe more reverent than the pile
Heaped over King or Kaiser, could inspire.
On those calm, resolute features, ye might read,
As in a book, his strange, eventful story.
There was the Faith; the long-enduring Hope,
More than Ulyssean; the Courage high,
That fought the Infidel—and with stout heart
Clung to the shattered oar, which bore a greater
Than Cæsar and his fortunes—and when all
Cried out “we sail to death!” held firmly on
Through storm and sunshine.
Gazed with an awe more reverent than the pile
Heaped over King or Kaiser, could inspire.
On those calm, resolute features, ye might read,
As in a book, his strange, eventful story.
There was the Faith; the long-enduring Hope,
More than Ulyssean; the Courage high,
That fought the Infidel—and with stout heart
Clung to the shattered oar, which bore a greater
Than Cæsar and his fortunes—and when all
Cried out “we sail to death!” held firmly on
Through storm and sunshine.
In those furrowed lines,
As on some faithful chart, might still be traced
The weary voyaging of many years:
That restless spirit pent in narrow bounds,
Yet ever looking with unquiet eye
Beyond old land-marks—with unwearied soul
Still searching, prying into the Unknown,
And hoarding richer sea-lore—till at last
Possessed and haunted of one grand Belief—
One mighty Thought no wretchedness could lay.
As on some faithful chart, might still be traced
The weary voyaging of many years:
That restless spirit pent in narrow bounds,
Yet ever looking with unquiet eye
Beyond old land-marks—with unwearied soul
Still searching, prying into the Unknown,
And hoarding richer sea-lore—till at last
Possessed and haunted of one grand Belief—
One mighty Thought no wretchedness could lay.
The weary interval—eighteen long years,
Wandering from court to court—his Wondrous Tale
Lost in half-heeding, dull, incredulous ears;
The patient toil—the honorable want
Endured so nobly—in his threadbare coat,
Mocked by the rabble—the half-uttered jeer—
And the pert finger tapping on the head.
May Heaven accord us patience—as to him.
Wandering from court to court—his Wondrous Tale
Lost in half-heeding, dull, incredulous ears;
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Endured so nobly—in his threadbare coat,
Mocked by the rabble—the half-uttered jeer—
And the pert finger tapping on the head.
May Heaven accord us patience—as to him.
And now, a way-worn traveller, where, Rabida,
Thy lonely convent overlooks the sea,
(Soon to be furrowed by ten thousand keels,)
He waits, preferring no immodest suit—
A little bread and water for his boy,
O'ertasked with travel? then the welcome in,
And the good friar—saints receive his soul!
Thy lonely convent overlooks the sea,
(Soon to be furrowed by ten thousand keels,)
He waits, preferring no immodest suit—
A little bread and water for his boy,
O'ertasked with travel? then the welcome in,
And the good friar—saints receive his soul!
And now, (the audience gained,) at Salamanca,
Before them all, a simple mariner,
He stands, unawed by the solemnity
Of gowns and caps—with courteous, grave demeanor,
And in plain words, unfolding his high purpose.
Before them all, a simple mariner,
He stands, unawed by the solemnity
Of gowns and caps—with courteous, grave demeanor,
And in plain words, unfolding his high purpose.
Embarked, and on the seas—at last! at last!
The toil of a long life—a Deathless Name—
The undetermined fates of all to come—
Staked on his prow—it is no little thing
Will turn aside that soul, long resolute,
(Though every heart grow faint, and every tongue
Murmur in mutiny,) to hold its course
Onward, still onward, through the pathless void,
The lone untravelled wilderness of waves—
Onward! still onward! we shall find it yet!
The toil of a long life—a Deathless Name—
The undetermined fates of all to come—
Staked on his prow—it is no little thing
Will turn aside that soul, long resolute,
(Though every heart grow faint, and every tongue
Murmur in mutiny,) to hold its course
Onward, still onward, through the pathless void,
The lone untravelled wilderness of waves—
Onward! still onward! we shall find it yet!
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And next, (O sad and shameful sight!) exposed
On the high deck of a returning bark,
(Returning from that land so lately found!)
A spectacle! those aged honored limbs
Gyved like a felon's, while the hooting crowd
Sent curses in her wake.
But when arrived,
Again exalted, favored of the crown,
And courted by the noblest—who forgets,
With his gray hairs uncovered, how he knelt
Before his royal mistress, (that great heart,
Nor insult, nor disgrace, nor chains could move,
O'ercome with kindness,) weeping like a child?
On the high deck of a returning bark,
(Returning from that land so lately found!)
A spectacle! those aged honored limbs
Gyved like a felon's, while the hooting crowd
Sent curses in her wake.
But when arrived,
Again exalted, favored of the crown,
And courted by the noblest—who forgets,
With his gray hairs uncovered, how he knelt
Before his royal mistress, (that great heart,
Nor insult, nor disgrace, nor chains could move,
O'ercome with kindness,) weeping like a child?
Lastly, his most resignéd Christian end;
When, now aware of the last hour approaching,
He laid the world, so long pursued, aside;
Forgave his foes, and setting decently
His house in order, with his latest breath
Commended that great soul to Him who gave it;
Who rarely hath given or received a greater.
When, now aware of the last hour approaching,
He laid the world, so long pursued, aside;
Forgave his foes, and setting decently
His house in order, with his latest breath
Commended that great soul to Him who gave it;
Who rarely hath given or received a greater.
Thus loitering in the many-peopled Past,
And haunted by old thoughts, the twilight shadows
O'ertook me, still beside that resting-place
Entranced in pleasant gloom, and loth to leave.
And haunted by old thoughts, the twilight shadows
O'ertook me, still beside that resting-place
Entranced in pleasant gloom, and loth to leave.
Anon a train of dark-stoled priests swept in,
And chaunted forth old hymns.
Was it profane
To deem their holy strain a requiem
O'er him, whose mighty ashes lay enshrined
So near his Maker? but for whom, perchance,
The sound of anthem and of chaunt sublime,
And old Te Deum's solemn majesty,
Had never echoed in the Western World.
And chaunted forth old hymns.
Was it profane
To deem their holy strain a requiem
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So near his Maker? but for whom, perchance,
The sound of anthem and of chaunt sublime,
And old Te Deum's solemn majesty,
Had never echoed in the Western World.
Along each vaulted aisle the sacred tones
Floated, and swelled, and sank, and died away.
So all departed—and among the rest,
That spell upon my soul yet lingering,
I went my way—and passing to our ship,
Culled a few flowers, yet springing on the spot,
Where, wearied with long travail o'er the deep,
He landed, (so they tell,) and said the mass,
Beneath a tall and goodly Ceiba-tree,
But that is gone—and all will soon be gone.
Floated, and swelled, and sank, and died away.
So all departed—and among the rest,
That spell upon my soul yet lingering,
I went my way—and passing to our ship,
Culled a few flowers, yet springing on the spot,
Where, wearied with long travail o'er the deep,
He landed, (so they tell,) and said the mass,
Beneath a tall and goodly Ceiba-tree,
But that is gone—and all will soon be gone.
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