Falcons fierce they are from charnel nest, Weary of flight and burdens of their woe; From Palos of Moguer they spell-bound go. Heroic dreams and coarse their minds invest, Far in deep mines the precious gold-veins rest Waiting for them; and as the trade-winds blow Filling their sails, they drive them all too slow To that mysterious shore, -- world of the West. The phosphorescent blue of tropic seas Colored their dreams when in the languid breeze They slept each eve in hope of morrows bright, Of epic morrows; or in unknown skies, Leaning entranced, they saw from carvels white From out the ocean, strange new stars arise. |