Posterity is sometimes more just to the memory of great men than cotemporaries were to their persons. But even this consolation, if it is one, has been wanting to the discoverer of our hemisphere. The continent, instead of bearing his name, has been called after one of his followers, a man of no particular merit. And in the modern city of Mexico there is instituted and perpetuated, by order of government, an annual festival in honor of Hernando Cortez, the perfidious butcher of its ancient race; while no public honors have been decreed to Christopher Columbus, one of the wisest and best among the benefactors of mankind.
After his last return from America he seems to have passed the short remainder of his life at Valladolid, the capital of Old Castile, and then the seat of the Spanish government. He died in that city on the twentieth of August 1506, and was buried in one of its churches. Over his body is a plain stone inscribed simply with his name, as it is written in Spanish, Christoval Colon.
His son, who wrote his life, has left us a particular description of his person, manners and private character; all of which were agreeable and interesting. His portrait is in possession of the author of this poem. It is painted in oil, half length and the size of life, copied from an original picture in the gallery of Florence.
The Columbiad
Book I
Subject of the Poem, and invocation to Freedom—Condition of Columbus in a Spanish prison—His monologue on the great actions of his life, and the manner in which they had been rewarded—Appearance and speech of Hesper, the guardian Genius of the western continent—They quit the dungeon and ascend the mount of vision, which rises over the western coast of Spain; Europe settling from their sight, and the Atlantic ocean spreading far beneath their feet—Continent of America draws into view, and is described by its mountains, rivers, lakes, soil and some of the natural productions.
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 sway’d a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia’s sceptre on the new found shore,
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood,
The tribes he foster’d with paternal toil
Snatcht from his hand, and slaughter’d for their spoil.
Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoy’d his labours and purloin’d his fame,
And gave the Viceroy, from his high seat hurl’d,
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world.
Long overwhelm’d in woes, and sickening there,
He met the slow still march of black despair,
Sought the last refuge from his hopeless doom,
And wisht from thankless men a peaceful tomb:
Till vision’d ages, opening on his eyes,
Cheer’d his sad soul, and bade new nations rise;
He saw the Atlantic heaven with light o’ercast,
And Freedom crown his glorious work at last.
Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song
The force, the charm that to thy voice belong;
’Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way,
To nerve my country with the patriot lay,
To teach all men where all their interest lies,
How rulers may be just and nations wise:
Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee,
Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.
Night held on old Castile her silent reign,
Her half orb’d moon declining to the main;
O’er Valladolid’s regal turrets hazed
The drizzly fogs from dull Pisuerga raised;
Whose hovering sheets, along the welkin driven,
Thinn’d the pale stars, and shut the eye from heaven.
Cold-hearted Ferdinand his pillow prest,
Nor dream’d of those his mandates robb’d of rest,
Of him who gemm’d his crown, who stretcht his reign
To realms that weigh’d the tenfold poise of Spain;
Who now beneath his tower indungeon’d fares,
Sweats the chill sod and breathes inclement airs.
His feverish pulse, slow laboring through his frame,
Feeds with scant force its fast expiring flame;
A far dim watch-lamp’s thrice reflected beam
Throws through his grate a mist-encumber’d gleam,
Paints the dun vapors that the cell invade,
And fills with spectred forms the midnight shade;
When from a visionary short repose,
That nursed new cares and temper’d keener woes,
Columbus woke, and to the walls addrest,
The deep felt sorrows bursting from his breast.
Here lies the purchase, here the wretched spoil
Of painful years and persevering toil.
For these damp caves, this hideous haunt of pain,
I traced new regions o’er the chartless main,
Tamed all the dangers of untraversed waves,
Hung o’er their clefts, and topt their surging graves.
Saw traitorous seas o’er coral ridges sweep,
Red thunders rock the pole and scorch the deep,
Death rear his front in every varying form,
Gape from the shoals and ride the roaring storm.
My struggling bark her seamy planks disjoin,
Rake the rude rock and drink the copious brine.
Till the tired elements are lull’d at last,
And milder suns allay the billowing blast,
Lead on the trade winds with unvarying force,
And long and landless curve our constant course.
Our homeward heaven recoils; each night forlorn
Calls up new stars, and backward rolls the morn;
The boreal vault descends with Europe’s shore,
And bright Callisto shuns the wave no more;
The Dragon dips his fiery-foaming jole,
The affrighted magnet flies the faithless pole;
Nature portends a general change of laws,
My daring deeds are deemed the guilty cause;
The desperate crew, to insurrection driven,
Devote their captain to the wrath of heaven,
Resolve at once to end the audacious strife,
And buy their safety with his forfeit life.
In that sad hour, this
