THE CONGRESS OE WOMEN.

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Most queenly fair, and stately shown; her hair Of sunny waves just rippled o’er her brow So sadly pale, yet tinged with faintest flush Of proud delight, and dewy violet eyes,

Mute melodies, or homes of lofty thoughts.

The queen spake: “Gold nor wealth hath now our realm To venture thee, most brave and noble one;

But these, my jewels, seeming yet to hold The sunshine of my past, and years of joy,

Or brave and daring hist’ries of my race,

And memories too precious for one life—

These shall command the way; a power within Nerveth my hands to lift that veil which hides Yon stars that burn in Truth’s fair sky, and o’er Thy world unknown.”

Columbus scarcely heard,

For th’ music of his hopes and her sweet voice And blessing prayers and thrilling faiths that grew,

For it was morning now; and Error paled.

From evening lands, at morn, half hour ere rose The sun o’er Spain, he loos’d the falcon birds Of fate, of Heaven-born hope—his vessels three—

And sail’d and sail’d, to one vast far Unknown.

Three days the Lord and Prince of Righteousness Entomb’d did close his eyes for sake of Death,

For sake of Man; three days may mean more time— Fullness of Fate—than twice three thousand years. Three vessels frail were yet to bear to men Earth’s other half of life, unclaim’d, unknown.

It was morning when they sail’d; and sail’d away Three vessels brave from Spain, true land of love,

Of wild romance, and song, where Beauty dream’d In Nature’s arms, and beamed from woman’s eye. Alhambra’s splendid towers paled from sight,

Like phantoms thro’ a dream; the “ Moor’s Sigh ”

(That mount o’er which he pass’d to alien worlds)

Rose distantly against the blue, with dreams Of glory ’cross its brow, solemn and grave As th’ exil’d Moor’s glance, when he in tears Forever bade Alhambra’s halls farewell.

So beat Columbus’ heart with hope insistent,

Had silver clouds on those blue mountains clove The heavens then, with blue-white ships a-sail From hidden realms, an angel at each prow,

Calling through golden trumpets, “ Hail the day!”

He had felt no surprise, but follow’d on.

Since man first left his Eden vales, his step Hath wander’d to the West, his morning land.

The East but holds his life’s embalmed past,

The West, the glory of his dream-ideal.

Soon trackless waves come tumbling out of space,