64 New Yoek at the "World's Columbian Exposition. 



II. 



Here, here, where the jubilant nations their sheaves of rejoicing shall bring, 

 While the continent echoes and echoes the harvest home anthenirj they sing. 

 There shall grow on the canvas of Fancy a picture of sunnier hue, 

 A picture which charms and refreshes like Italy's heaven of blue. 



Be its place by the side of the beggar, this figure of matchless renown. 

 Round his head like a halo are beaming the stars of his Fate-wrested crown, 

 Still his eyes the old rapture sufEuses, a glory outshining the sun. 

 And his face is the face of the martyr who's fought a good fight and has won. 



He shall loom in our glorious pageant, as over the valley arise 



The heights of the pinacled Jungfrau which melt in the waves of the 



skies ; 

 The wide world shall render him homage, shall name him its bravest and 



best. 

 As here in his splendid fruition he greets the proud Queen of the West ! 



And lo, while the plaudits are sounding, a rustle of wings we shall hear. 

 The curtains of cloud-land shall open, a presence celestial appear ; 

 'J' is the conquering goddess of Progress, descending with ardor afiame, 

 Columbus her hero of heroes, the first of her knights, she shall name. 



With the soul's subtle sight we shall see them, shall hail them each festival 



day, 

 They shall saunter from temple to temple approving each brilliant array. 

 They shall kindle with joy at the treasures heaped high in the garners- of 



Peace, 

 And yearn for that civilized morrow when Warfare forever shall cease. 



Mayhap if we listen attentive, from the hero's own lips we shall h-ear, 

 As he talks to the conquering goddess, the tale of his dauntless career. 

 O epic of courage sublimest, fate left him in darkness to grope. 

 No pillar, no star gave him guidance, but only the beacon of hope. 



And alway and alway the goddess shall beam with a passionate pride, 

 On her darling whose steps she's attending, serene in his place at her side — 

 Not fonder the look of the pilgrim, the beggar derided, reviled. 

 As he turned at the gate of the convent and gazed on the face of his child. 



These joy-bedecked scenes shall endure not, the harvest home anthems 



shall cease. 

 Too soon at the touch of Time's finger shall vanish this triumph of Peace, 



