On his head he wore the laurel,
And upon his boots there glitter’d
Golden spurs,—but notwithstanding
He was neither knight nor hero.
He was but a robber captain,
Who within the book of glory
Wrote with his own wicked hand
His own wicked name of—Cortez.
Underneath Columbus’ name he
Wrote his own,—yes, close beneath it,
And the schoolboy at his lessons
Learns by heart both names together.
After Christopher Columbus
He now names Fernando Cortez,
As the second greatest man
In the new world’s proud Pantheon.
Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice!
That our name should thus be coupled
With the name of a vile scoundrel
In the memory of mortals!
Were’t not better e’en to perish
All unknown, than draggle with it
Through eternity’s long ages
Such a name in comradeship?
Master Christopher Columbus
Was a hero,—and his temper,
That was pure as e’en the sunlight,
Was as gen’rous in addition.
Many people much have given,
But Columbus to the world
Hath a world entire imparted,
And ’tis call’d America.
He had not the power to free us
From our dreary earthly prison,
But he managed to enlarge it
And our heavy chain to lengthen.
Mortals thankfully revere him,
Being, not of Europe only,
But of Africa and Asia,
Equally quite sick and weary.