 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
112
COLUMBUS.
Thy soul was nerved with more than mortal force,Bold mariner upon a chartless sea,
With none to second, none to solace thee,
Alone, who daredst keep thy resolute course
Thro' the broad waste of waters drear and dark,
Mid wrathful skies, and howling winds, and worse
The prayer, the taunt, the threat, the mutter'd curse
Of all thy brethren in that fragile bark:
For on thy brow, throbbing with hopes immense,
Had just Ambition set his royal mark,
Enriching thee with noble confidence,
That having once thy venturous sails unfurl'd
No danger should defeat thy recompense,
The god-like gift to Man of half the world.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |