Classic Poem

In the Chapet of our Lady of Montserral.

When at thy shrine, most holy maid!
The Spaniard hung his votive blade,
And bared his helmed brow —
Not that he feared war's visage grim,
Or that the battle-field for him
Had aught to daunt, I trow;

" Glory! " he cried, " with thee I've done!
Fame! thy bright theatres I shun,
To tread fresh pathways now:
To track thy footsteps, Saviour God!
With throbbing heart, with feet unshod:
Hear and record my vow.

Yes, Thou shalt reign! Chained to thy throne,
The mind of man thy sway shall own,
And to its conqueror bow.
Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift,
And intellect its choicest gift
Proudly on Thee bestow. "

Straight on the marble floor he knelt,
And in his breast exulting felt
A vivid furnace glow;
Forth to his task the giant sped,
Earth shook abroad beneath his tread,
And idols were laid low.

India repaired half Europe's loss;
O'er a new hemisphere the Cross
Shone in the azure sky;
And, from the isles of far Japan
To the broad Andes, won o'er man
A bloodless victory!