 | [The urn of Columbus, in] The Atlantic souvenir for MDCCCXXXI |  |
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THE URN OF COLUMBUS.
[_]
In the cathedral church at Havanna, the bones of Christopher Columbus are preserved in a silver urn, standing near the altar.
Sleep'st thou, world-finder, 'mid this sea green isle,
Far from thy native Genoa's genial skies?
Sleep'st thou unwaked, while sounds of clamorous toil,
Discordant, o'er yon thronging city rise?
From loop and embrazure of giant size
The castle pours its loud artillery,
Wealth sports the rich volante, pale penury cries,
Crush'd slavery bears his load with bursting sigh,
Or cowers beneath the lash, with red, despairing eye.
Far from thy native Genoa's genial skies?
Sleep'st thou unwaked, while sounds of clamorous toil,
Discordant, o'er yon thronging city rise?
From loop and embrazure of giant size
The castle pours its loud artillery,
Wealth sports the rich volante, pale penury cries,
Crush'd slavery bears his load with bursting sigh,
Or cowers beneath the lash, with red, despairing eye.
And far beyond, fair Cuba's mountains rear
Their fragrant foreheads to the bending cloud,
Gay tropic-tinted warblers carol clear,
Tall trees beneath embracing vines are bow'd,
Destroyed 'mid smothering sweets and clusters proud,
The graceful cane-groves answer to the blast,
The bright cucullo kindles evening's shroud,
While careless, 'neath some favourite plantain cast,
The hardy Montero enjoys his slight repast.
Their fragrant foreheads to the bending cloud,
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Tall trees beneath embracing vines are bow'd,
Destroyed 'mid smothering sweets and clusters proud,
The graceful cane-groves answer to the blast,
The bright cucullo kindles evening's shroud,
While careless, 'neath some favourite plantain cast,
The hardy Montero enjoys his slight repast.
But thou, deep dweller in yon voiceless urn,
Couldst touch, with pencil strong, a different scene,
And show in shades that chill, in tints that burn,
The red brow'd Indian hasting o'er the green
To gaze upon the invader's pallid mien,
In speechless awe or admiration coy,
While, rashly blind to fate, with smile serene
He grasp'd in simple trust the proffer'd toy,
And heap'd his choicest fruits with hospitable joy.
Couldst touch, with pencil strong, a different scene,
And show in shades that chill, in tints that burn,
The red brow'd Indian hasting o'er the green
To gaze upon the invader's pallid mien,
In speechless awe or admiration coy,
While, rashly blind to fate, with smile serene
He grasp'd in simple trust the proffer'd toy,
And heap'd his choicest fruits with hospitable joy.
Ah! thou couldst tell of many a deed of shame,
Staining with blood yon vales and fountains clear,
At which the stars did hide their vestal flame
In pity and in awe. Methinks I hear
The blood-hound baying on the startled ear,
Behold the indignant chief with bosom riven,
And the sad tribes who hide the sullen tear,
Turn from the Jesuit stern, and unforgiven
Cling to their fathers' graves, and loathe the Spaniard's heaven.
Staining with blood yon vales and fountains clear,
At which the stars did hide their vestal flame
In pity and in awe. Methinks I hear
The blood-hound baying on the startled ear,
Behold the indignant chief with bosom riven,
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Turn from the Jesuit stern, and unforgiven
Cling to their fathers' graves, and loathe the Spaniard's heaven.
And thou, bold, beauteous bay! with every scroll
And banner of the earth so gaily drest,
Thou with the same majestic smile dost roll
As when the first prow traced thy startled breast,
Breaking creation's sleep. Why didst thou rest,
And bid no prophet billow wake to chide
Portentous warning of some fearful guest,
When the old world her infant sister spied,
And from the cradle snatch'd, with cold, rapacious pride?
And banner of the earth so gaily drest,
Thou with the same majestic smile dost roll
As when the first prow traced thy startled breast,
Breaking creation's sleep. Why didst thou rest,
And bid no prophet billow wake to chide
Portentous warning of some fearful guest,
When the old world her infant sister spied,
And from the cradle snatch'd, with cold, rapacious pride?
Why dost thou breathe miasma through the air,
When scarce a zephyr o'er thy surface creeps,
Thou fair and deadly? Why, with syren snare,
Decoy the sailor to thy peopled deeps,
While, in his lonely home, the young bride weeps?
And what avails it then to wake the bloom
Of ocean's flowers where he unconscious sleeps,
Or bid the sea-star light his funeral gloom,
And boss with gleaming pearls his coral-cinctured tomb.
When scarce a zephyr o'er thy surface creeps,
Thou fair and deadly? Why, with syren snare,
Decoy the sailor to thy peopled deeps,
While, in his lonely home, the young bride weeps?
And what avails it then to wake the bloom
Of ocean's flowers where he unconscious sleeps,
Or bid the sea-star light his funeral gloom,
And boss with gleaming pearls his coral-cinctured tomb.
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Adieu, world-giver! thou dost sleep as sweet
As though thy ardent soul had never known
Ingratitude, or treachery, or deceit,
The priestly taunt, or faithless monarch's tone,
Blighting thy hope's young blossoms still unblown.
Is it the hoarse voice of the chafing sea?
Or do I hear thee warn, with hollow tone,
The pausing pilgrim to approach and see
How shadowy earth's applause, how light her obloquy?
As though thy ardent soul had never known
Ingratitude, or treachery, or deceit,
The priestly taunt, or faithless monarch's tone,
Blighting thy hope's young blossoms still unblown.
Is it the hoarse voice of the chafing sea?
Or do I hear thee warn, with hollow tone,
The pausing pilgrim to approach and see
How shadowy earth's applause, how light her obloquy?
So thou didst compass sea and land to save
Thy dust for Cuba's altars, while dull fame
Denies the boon she to that Roman gave,
Whose folly lost a world. Thou who couldst tame
The warring ocean, and volcanic flame
That rives man's mutinous heart, how scant the spot
Accorded to thine ashes! He whose claim
Was to redeem a world from misery's lot,
Thus ‘came unto his own, and they received him not.’
Thy dust for Cuba's altars, while dull fame
Denies the boon she to that Roman gave,
Whose folly lost a world. Thou who couldst tame
The warring ocean, and volcanic flame
That rives man's mutinous heart, how scant the spot
Accorded to thine ashes! He whose claim
Was to redeem a world from misery's lot,
Thus ‘came unto his own, and they received him not.’
| [The urn of Columbus, in] The Atlantic souvenir for MDCCCXXXI | |