For thus by the fire and the hammer Of war a nation is built, And ever the sword of its power Is swayed by a golden hilt. Then with pomp and oratory The mustachioed senores brought To the house of the Liberator The weapon they had wrought; And they said, in their stately phrases, "O mighty in peace and war! No mortal blade we bring you, But a flaming meteor. "The sword of the Spaniard is broken, And to you in its stead is given, To lead and redeem a nation, This ray of light from heaven." The gaunt-faced Liberator From their hands the symbol took, And waved it aloft in the sunlight, With a high, heroic look; And he called the saints to witness: "May these lips turn into dust, And this right hand fail, if ever It prove recreant to its trust! "Never the sigh of a bondman Shall cloud this gleaming steel, But only the foe and the traitor Its vengeful edge shall feel. "Never a tear of my country Its purity shall stain, Till into your hands, who gave it, I render it again." Now if ever a chief was chosen To cover a cause with shame, And if ever there breathed a caitiff, Bolivar was his name. From his place among the people To the highest seat he went, By the winding paths of party And the stair of accident. A restless, weak usurper, Striving to rear a throne, Filling his fame with counsels And conquests not his own;-- Now seeming to put from him The sceptre of command, Only that he might grasp it With yet a firmer hand;-- His country's trusted leader, In league with his country's foes, Stabbing the cause that nursed him, And openly serving those;-- 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!