Columbus was a considerable number of years engaged in soliciting the court of Spain to fit him out, in order to discover a new continent, which he imagined to exist somewhere in the western parts of the ocean. During his negotiations, he is here supposed to address King Ferdinand in the following
ILLUSTRIOUS monarch of Iberia's soil,
Too long I wait permission to depart;
Sick of delays, I beg thy listening ear-
Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.
While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,
Grant his request to pass the western main:
Reserve this glory for thy native soil,
And, what must please thee more, for thy own reign.
Of this huge globe, how small a part we know—
Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?
How disproportion'd to the mighty deep
The lands that yet in human prospect lie!
Does Cynthia, when to western skies arrived,
Spend her moist beam upon the barren main,
And ne'er illume with midnight splendour, she,
The natives dancing on the lightsome green?
B
Should the vast circuit of the world contain
Such wastes of ocean and such scanty land?
'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so;
I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.
Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle round
To light mere waves and monsters of the seas?
No; be there must, beyond the billowy waste,
Islands, and men, and animals, and trees.
An unremitting flame my breast inspires
To seek new lands amid the barren waves,
Where, falling low, the source of day descends,
And the blue sea his evening visage laves.
Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:"
"The time may come, when numerous years are past,
When ocean will unloose the bands of things,
And an unbounded region rise at last;
And TYPHIS may disclose the mighty land,
Far, far away, where none have roved before;
Nor will the world's remotest region be
Gibraltar's rock, or THULE's savage shore."
Fired at the theme, I languish to depart;
Supply the bark, and bid Columbus sail;
He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;
Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.
Nor does he dread to miss the intended course,
Though far from land the reeling galley stray,
And skies above, and gulfy seas below,
Be the sole objects seen for many a day.
* Seneca, the poet, a native of Cordova in Spain:
"Venient annis secula seris,
Quibus oceanus vincula rerum
Laxet, et ingens pateat tellus,
Typhisque novos detegat orbes;
Nec sit terris ultima Thule."
Seneca, Med., act iii., v. 375.
Think not that Nature has unveiled in vain
The mystic magnet to the mortal eye:
So late have we the guiding needle planned
Only to sail beneath our native sky?
Ere this was known, the ruling power of all
Formed for our use an ocean in the land,
Its breadth so small we could not wander long,
Nor long be absent from the neighbouring strand.
Short was the course, and guided by the stars,
But stars no more must point our daring way;
The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drowned,
And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,
When southward we shall steer. Oh grant my wish,
Supply the bark, and bid Columbus sail;
He dreads no tempests on the untravelled deep;
Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale,
THE DYING INDIAN.-Tomo- Chequi.
"ON yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigour, and youth, and active days are past;
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast:
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng!
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!
To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace;
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase,
But all are empty, unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend,
But sickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And withered hangs the hurtleberry blue.
Ah me what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow:
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales, indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills;
But when did ghost return his state to show,
Or who can promise half the tale is true?
I too must be a fleeting ghost! no more;
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,
Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whose aspect still was sweet,
Whether the sun did greet,
Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams-
Adieu to all!
To all that charmed me where I strayed,
The winding stream, the dark, sequestered shade;
Adieu all triumphs here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And seas, and stars, and skies-farewell,
For some remoter sphere!
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