Page:The West Indies, and Other Poems.djvu/146

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Yon gloomy ruffian, gash'd and gored,
Was he, whose fatal skill
First beat the plough-share to a sword,
And taught the art to kill.

Behind him skulks a shade, bereft
Of fondly-worshipp'd Fame;
He built the Pyramids,—but left
No stone to tell his name.

Who is the chief, with visage dark
As tempests when they roar?
—The first who push'd his daring bark
Beyond the timid shore.

Through storms of death and seas of graves
He steer'd with stedfast eye;
His path was on the desert waves,
His compass in the sky.