Classic Poem

The night air brings strange whisperings — vague scents —
Over the unknown ocean, which his dreams
Had spanned with visions of new continents;
Fragrance of clove and cedar, and the balms
With which the heavy tropic forest teems,
And murmur as of wind among the palms.

They breathe across the high deck where he stands
With far-set eyes, as one who dreams awake
Waiting sure dawn of undiscovered lands;
Till, on the slow lift of the purple swells,
The golden radiances of morning break
Lighting the emblazoned sails of caravels.

Then from the foremost sounds a sudden cry —
The Old World's startled greeting to the New —
For lo! the land, across the western sky!
The exultant land! Oh, long-starved hopes, black fears,
Gibings of courtiers, mutinies of crew —
Answered forever, as that shore appears!

Great Master Dreamer! Grander than Cathay,
Richer than India, that new Western World
Shall flourish when Castile has passed away.
Not even thy gigantic vision spanned
Its future, as with Cross and flag unfurled
Thy deep Te Deum sounded on the strand.

By this small outpost of the unbounded shore —
This small, bright island, slumbering in the sea, —
A long, resistless tide of life shall pour;
Loosed from its long-worn fetters, joyous, free.
Leaping to heights none ever touched before
And hurrying on to greater things to be.

The end is larger than thy largest plan;
Nobler than golden fleets of argosies
The land and life new-opening to man.
Within the womb of this mysterious morn
Quicken vast cities, mighty destinies,
Ideals and empires, waiting to be born.
But yet — there are but three small caravels,
Wrapped in the magic radiance of the seas,
Slow-moved, slow heaving on low-bosomed swells.