Poems (Sharpless)/Columbus

by Frances M. Sharpless

COLUMBUS DIED, VALLADOLID, 1506

Ill! poor! forsaken! with life's tide at ebb!—
 And I, the man who gave a world to Spain!
Yet as I gaze on life's bewildering web,
 One grand design grows plain.

Thro' all, oh God! I trace Thy guiding hand;
 Thro' years of waiting, heart-sickness, and scorn,
Thy will hath ruled my pride, the scheme I planned
 By Thee was overborne.

What matters how earth's brief, dark days are spent,
 When for the future work is being done?
In this, Thy work, I was Thy instrument,
 Unworthy, yet Thine own.

It is enough, dear Christ! Thou givest to me,
 More than enough for this short life's distress,
In this revenge that binds me close to Thee;—
 For wrongs, for wounds, I bless.

I have had raptures, too; ah, the sweet joy
 When first that faint fair opal blest our eyes,
So pale it seemed a rude wind might destroy,
 Like clouds in evening skies.

I see it now in memory shining clear
 As at that twilight in the glittering sea,
I see the happy homes that gather there
 In the grand days to be.

And as on Saint Maria's midnight deck,
 Faint odors whispered of the far-off shore,
I catch the tokens others little reck,
 Of land ahead once more.

And so across life's fitful stormy tide,
 I steer with courage firm my shattered bark,
For high above the waves, Thy star, my guide,
 Beckons across the dark.