Robert a Machin, 1344

He placed the rude inscription on her stone,Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soonHimself beside it sunk--yet ere he died,Faintly he spoke: If ever ye shall hear,Companions of my few and evil days,Again the convent's vesper bells, oh! thinkOf me; and if in after-times the searchOf men should reach this far removed spot,Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine,And virgin choirs chaunt duly o'er our grave:Peace, peace! His arm upon the mournful stoneHe dropped; his eyes, ere yet in death they closed,Turned to the name, till he could see no moreANNA. His pale survivors, earth to earth,Weeping consigned his poor remains, and placedBeneath the sod where all he loved was laid.Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods,They sought their country o'er the waves, and leftThose scenes once more to deepest solitude.The beauteous ponciana hung its headO'er the gray stone; but never human eyeHad mark'd the spot, or gazed upon the graveOf the unfortunate, but for the voiceOf ENTERPRISE, that spoke, from Sagre's towers,Through ocean's perils, storms, and unknown wastes--Speed we to Asia!Here, Discovery, pause!--Then from the tomb of him who first was castUpon this Heaven-appointed isle, thy gazeUplift, and far beyond the Cape of StormsPursue De Gama's tract. Mark the rich shoresOf Madagascar, till the purple EastShines in luxuriant beauty wide disclosed.But cease thy song, presumptuous Muse!--a bard,In tones whose patriot sound shall never die,Has struck his deep shell, and the glorious themeRecorded.Say, what lofty meed awaitsThe triumph of his victor conch, that swellsIts music on the yellow Tagus' side,As when Arion, with his glittering harpAnd golden hair, scarce sullied from the main,Bids all the high rocks listen to his voiceAgain! Alas, I see an aged form,An old man worn by penury, his hairBlown white upon his haggard cheek, his handEmaciated, yet the strings with thrilling touchSoliciting; but the vain crowds pass by:His very countrymen, whose fame his songHas raised to heaven, in stately apathyWrapped up, and nursed in pride's fastidious lap,Regard not. As he plays, a sable manLooks up, but fears to speak, and when the songHas ceased, kisses his master's feeble hand.Is that cold wasted hand, that haggard look,Thine, Camoens? Oh, shame upon the world!And is there none, none to sustain thee found,But he, himself unfriended, who so farHas followed, severed from his native isles,To scenes of gorgeous cities, o'er the sea,Thee and thy broken fortunes!GOD of worlds!Oh, whilst I hail the triumph and high boastOf social life, let me not wrong the senseOf kindness, planted in the human heartBy man's great Maker, therefore I recordAntonio's faithful, gentle, generous loveTo his heartbroken master, that might teach,High as it bears itself, a polished worldMore charity.DISCOVERY, turn thine eyes!COLUMBUS' toiling ship is on the deep,Stemming the mid Atlantic.Waste and wildThe view! On the same sunshine o'er the wavesThe murmuring mariners, with languid eye,Ev'n till the heart is sick, gaze day by day!At midnight in the wind sad voices sound!When the slow morning o'er the offing dawns,Heartless they view the same drear weltering wasteOf seas: and when the sun again goes downSilent, hope dies within them, and they thinkOf parting friendship's last despairing look!See too, dread prodigy, the needle veersHer trembling point--will Heaven forsake them too!But lift thy sunk eye, and thy bloodless look,Despondence! Milder airs at morning breathe:--Below the slowly-parting prow the seaIs dark with weeds; and birds of land are seenTo wing the desert tract, as hasting onTo the green valleys of their distant home.Yet morn succeeds to morn--and nought aroundIs seen, but dark weeds floating many a league,The sun's sole orb, and the pale hollownessOf heaven's high arch streaked with the early clouds.Watchman, what from the giddy mast?A shadeAppears on the horizon's hazy line.Land! land! aloud is echoed; but the spotFades as the shouting crew delighted gaze--It fades, and there is nothing--nothing nowBut the blue sky, the clouds, and surging seas!As one who, in the desert, faint with thirst,Upon the trackless and forsaken sandsSinks dying; him the burning haze deceives,As mocking his last torments, while it seems,To his distempered vision, like th' expanseOf lucid waters cool: so falsely smilesTh' illusive land upon the water's edge,To the long-straining eye showing what seemsIts headlands and its distant trending shores;--But all is false, and like the pensive dreamOf poor imagination, 'mid the wavesOf troubled life, decked with unreal hues,And ending soon in emptiness and tears.'Tis midnight, and the thoughtful chief, retiredFrom the vexed crowd, in his still cabin hearsThe surge that rolls below; he lifts his eyes,And casts a silent anxious look without.It is a light--great God--it is a light!It moves upon the shore!--Land--there is land!He spoke in secret, and a tear of joyStole down his cheek, when on his knees he fell.Thou, who hast been his guardian in wastesOf the hoar deep, accept his tears, his prayers;While thus he fondly hopes the purer lightOf thy great truths on the benighted worldShall beam!The lingering night is past;--the sunShines out, while now the red-cross streamers waveHigh up the gently-surging bay. From allShouts, songs, and rapturous thanksgiving loud,Burst forth: Another world, entranced they cry,Another living world!--Awe-struck and muteThe gazing natives stand, and drop their spears,In homage to the gods!So from the deepThey hail emerging; sight more awful farThan ever yet the wondering voyagerGreeted;--the prospect of a new-found world,Now from the night of dark uncertaintyAt once revealed in living light!How beatsThe heart! What thronging thoughts awake! Whence sprungThe roaming nations? From that ancient raceThat peopled Asia--Noah's sons? How, then,Passed they the long and lone expanse betweenOf stormy ocean, from the elder earthCut off, and lost, for unknown ages, lostIn the vast deep? But whilst the awful viewStands in thy sight revealed, Spirit, awakeTo prouder energies! Even now, in thought,I see thee opening bold Magellan's tract!The straits are passed! Thou, as the seas expand,Pausest a moment, when beneath thine eyeBlue, vast, and rocking, through its boundless rule,The long Pacific stretches. Nor here ceaseThy search, but with De Quiros to the SouthStill urge thy way, if yet some continentStretch to its dusky pole, with nations spread,Forests, and hills, and streams.So be thy searchWith ampler views rewarded, till, at length,Lo, the round world is compassed! Then returnBack to the bosom of the tranquil Thames,And hail Britannia's victor ship, that nowFrom many a storm restored, winds its slow waySilently up the current, and so finds,Like to a time-worn pilgrim of the world,Rest, in that haven where all tempests cease.