Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18.djvu/724

716 The chief of a great republic

Plotting rebellion still,—

An apostate faithful only

To his own ambitious will.

Drunk with a vain ambition,

In his feeble, reckless hand,

The sword of Eternal Justice

Became but a brawler's brand.

And Colombia was dissevered,

Rent by factions, till at last

Her name among the nations

Is a memory of the past.

Here the grim old Venezuelan

Puffed fiercely his red cigar

A brief moment, then in the ocean

It vanished like a star;

And he slumbered in his hammock;

And only the ceaseless rush

Of the reeling and sparkling waters

Filled the solemn midnight hush,

As I leaned by the swinging gunwale

Of the good ship, sailing slow,

With the steadfast heavens above her,

And the molten heavens below.

Then I thought with sorrow and yearning

Of my own distracted land,

And the sword let down from heaven

To flame in her ruler's hand,—

The sword of Freedom, resplendent

As a beam of the morning star,

Received, reviled, and dishonored

By another than Bolivar!

And my prayers flew home to my country:

O ye tried and fearless crew!

O ye pilots of the nation!

Now her safety is with you.

Beware the traitorous captain,

And the wreckers on the shore;

Guard well the noble vessel;

And steadily evermore,

As ye steer through the perilous midnight,

Let your faithful glances go

To the steadfast stars above her,

From their fickle gleams below.