MAN'S INGRATITUDE.

Long had the sage, the first who dared to brave
The unknown dangers of the western wave;
Who taught mankind where future empires lay
In these confines of descending day;
With cares o'erwhelmed, in life's distressing gloom,
Wish'd from a thankless world a peaceful tomb,
While kings and nations, envious of his name,
Enjoyed his toils and triumphed o'er his fame,
And gave the chief, from promised empire hurl'd,
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world.
—Barlow, "Columbus" (1787).

"ONLY THE ACTIONS OF THE JUST."

Ages unborn shall bless the happy day
When thy bold streamers steer'd the trackless way.
O'er these delightful realms thy sons shall tread,
And following millions trace the path you led.
Behold yon isles, where first the flag unfurled
Waved peaceful triumph o'er the new-found world.
Where, aw'd to silence, savage bands gave place,
And hail'd with joy the sun-descended race.
—Barlow, "The Vision of Columbus,"
a poem in nine books (1787).

QUEEN ISABELLA'S DEATH.

Truth leaves the world and Isabella dies.
—Ibid.

COLUMBUS' CHAINS HIS CROWN.

I sing the mariner who first unfurl'd
An eastern banner o'er the western world,
And taught mankind where future empires lay
In these fair confines of descending day;
Who swayed a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia's scepter on the new-found shore;
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood;
The tribes he fostered with paternal toil
Snatched from his hand and slaughtered for their spoil.
Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoyed his labors and purloined his fame,
And gave the viceroy, from his high seat hurl'd,
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world.
—Barlow, The "Columbiad," Book I; lines 1-14.

PROPHETIC VISIONS URGED COLUMBUS ON.

The bliss of unborn nations warm'd his breast,
Repaid his toils, and sooth'd his soul to rest;
Thus o'er thy subject wave shall thou behold
Far happier realms their future charms unfold,
In nobler pomp another Pisgah rise,
Beneath whose foot thy new-found Canaan lies.
There, rapt in vision, hail my favorite clime
And taste the blessings of remotest time.
—Barlow, The "Columbiad," Book 1; lines 176-184.