VI.

Yet sure, the adventurous Genoese Did never in his most enlightened hours Forecast the high, the immortal destinies Of this dear land of ours. Nay, could ye call him hither from his tomb, Think ye that he would mark with soul elate A kingless people, a schismatic State, Nor on his work invoke perpetual doom? Though the whole Sacred College o'er and o'er Pronounce him sainted, prophet was he none Who to Cathaia's legendary shore Deemed that his bark a path had won. In sooth, our Western pioneer Was all as prescient as he Who cried, "The desert shall exult, The wild shall blossom as the rose," And to a passing rich result Through summer heats and winter snows Toiling to prove himself a seer, Accomplished his own prophecy. Lo, here a greater far than he, A prophet nation hath its dwelling, With multitudinous voice foretelling, "Man shall be free!"