I am Columbus: will ye let me in? Or Doria in his palace by the sea. Proud Andrea Doria named il Principe, In your Republic named il Principe, By Charles the Fifth, the Emperor of Spain, Monopolizes he your meed of fame Before the awful Judgment seat of Time. Well, and Pisani, the Venetian, he, Venice as Doria was Genoa,— Why, wide-mouthed Europe clanged their stunning praise, And history with their names adorns herself, Dazzing the eyes of pious pilgrims, who Press flowers from Doria’s garden, dreaming float Upon Pisani’s silent waters, and Proceed, much meditating human fate. And they had pleasures, palaces. They stood, And sat, and went, all men admiring, Men of a day, in its brief life they lived, In its swift dying died. Men of a day, Brave, generous, and noble—not enough. Voluptuous Venice, Genoa superb, Far fascinating meteors that flashed, Then fell forgotten. Do I carp? Not I. Ye love your own, I mine, mine me, amen! O pious pilgrims and ye Genoese, Proceed, much meditating human fate, And meditate this well. A wanderer driven By every adverse gust of evil times. Wrecked upon barren reefs of blandest smiles, Wan victim of a solitary thought Too masculine to die unrealized. Tortured with tortuous diplomacy, Beseeching monarchs still in vain besought, Not to give kingdoms but to take a world, Unloved of Fortune, best beloved of Hope,— When Doria was a lisping boy at school,— This wanderer puts forth one summer morn, Among the other fishers of the sea, And with a world returns. Nay! nay! no words. Your hemisphere was only half enough, And Christopher Columbus globed his fame. And now ye build my statue, Genoese, After three silent centuries have died, When the old fourth is failing, ye do well With lagging stones to pile the pedestal, And shape my sculptured seeming. Not with wrath, Nor scorn. Good God and less with gratitude, Be those worn features wreathed. I love ye not, Ye are no friends of mine. I did not ask A block of marble for my memory, But gold to carve my hope. It was not much— Nay, had it been your all, was it not well To wreck your fortune on a hope sublime? And, Merchants! The brave chance; a small outlay, And income inconceivable! You chose. My stately Spain was wiser. So much gold, A little fleet,—some sailors—leaders known— If not investment, speculation safe, The honor of the enterprise, and chance— Always the siren chance—Spain risked and won, And Genoa lost a world. Sir Advocate! I understand your meaning; it were hard Fame drafts upon the Future should be paid Ere present recognition! ’Twere unjust That hope unhazarded in act, were crowned With the same coronal that crowns success. The starving mariner upon your shore— The riddle of the West unsolved—stood not In the same light to set his worthiness, As when an unimagined Future streamed