Church's "Heart of the Andes"
Traverse the oceans, seek for unknown strands;
With great explorers ride through marvellous lands;
Walk with the poet where his kingdom lies,—
A realm of light beneath enchanted skies;
Between bright islands sail the spicy seas,
Beside the mighty-hearted Genoese;
Conquer with Cortes the barbaric states,
And pass through El Dorado's golden gates;
Shout with the great Balboa and his crew,
What time a new sea sparkles into view;
With Ponce de Leon seek the fabled stream
Through flowery valleys brighter than his dream;
But never any sight of new-found land
Shall equal this, where we entrancéd stand,
With dewy eyes and overflewing heart,
Gazing from the exalted hill of Art!
This is not sorrowing Italy, nor these
The storied winding of the Pyrenees,
Nor are you high and trackless realms of snow
The over-travelled Alps, the guide-man's show!
But these, in depth of equatorial green,
Are the fresh Cordilleras, where between
Wander bewildering rivers, dancing down
Their rocky terraces of golden brown,
Clapping their watery hands. About the falls
The trees are wreathed like happy bacchanals.
Here blooms a world that fears nor cold nor drouth,
The lavish luxury of the teeming South,
The carnival of summer, far and near,
In lands where summer lords it all the year;
And over all, his Andean front aglow,
Great Chimborazo sits, his throne of snow!
With great explorers ride through marvellous lands;
Walk with the poet where his kingdom lies,—
A realm of light beneath enchanted skies;
Between bright islands sail the spicy seas,
Beside the mighty-hearted Genoese;
Conquer with Cortes the barbaric states,
And pass through El Dorado's golden gates;
Shout with the great Balboa and his crew,
What time a new sea sparkles into view;
With Ponce de Leon seek the fabled stream
Through flowery valleys brighter than his dream;
But never any sight of new-found land
Shall equal this, where we entrancéd stand,
With dewy eyes and overflewing heart,
Gazing from the exalted hill of Art!
This is not sorrowing Italy, nor these
The storied winding of the Pyrenees,
Nor are you high and trackless realms of snow
The over-travelled Alps, the guide-man's show!
But these, in depth of equatorial green,
Are the fresh Cordilleras, where between
Wander bewildering rivers, dancing down
Their rocky terraces of golden brown,
Clapping their watery hands. About the falls
The trees are wreathed like happy bacchanals.
Here blooms a world that fears nor cold nor drouth,
The lavish luxury of the teeming South,
The carnival of summer, far and near,
In lands where summer lords it all the year;
And over all, his Andean front aglow,
Great Chimborazo sits, his throne of snow!
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