Classic Poem

Their Inca, Aztec, Yaquis, let them flaunt;
Their Andes, forest, river or their plain —
These men of whom no marks or proofs remain
Save titled show of Marquis or of Count.

But thou didst found — boast that my race can vaunt —
A modern Carthage in the Carib main,
And Magdalena even to Darien
Where flows Atrato, saw the Cross high mount.

Upon thine isle, where waves their breakers hurl,
Despite the centuries' storms and man's mad raids,
Her forts and convents still their stoutness hold;

Hence thy last sons, with trefoil, ache or pearl,
Crest not their scutcheon, but with palm that shades
A silver city with its plume of gold.