d level plain,
Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.

SEARCHER OF THE OCEAN.

SAMUEL JEFFERSON, a British author. From his epic poem, "Columbus,"
published by S. C. Griggs & Co., Chicago.[43]

Thou searcher of the ocean, thee to sing
Shall my devoted lyre awake each string!
Columbus! Hero! Would my song could tell
How great thy worth! No praise can overswell
The grandeur of thy deeds! Thine eagle eye
Pierced through the clouds of ages to descry
From empyrean heights where thou didst soar
With bright imagination winged by lore--
The signs of continents as yet unknown;
Across the deep thy keen-eyed glance was thrown;
Thou, with prevailing longing, still aspired
To reach the goal thy ardent soul desired;
Thy heavenward soaring spirit, bold, elate,
Scorned long delay and conquered chance and fate;
Thy valor followed thy far-searching eyes,
Until success crowned thy bold emprize.

FELIPA, WIFE OF COLUMBUS.

ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. From a poem published in _Harper's Weekly_,
June 25, 1892.[44]

More than the compass to the mariner
Wast thou, Felipa, to his dauntless soul.
Through adverse winds that threatened wreck, and nights
Of rayless gloom, thou pointed ever to
The north star of his great ambition. He
Who once has lost an Eden, or has gained
A paradise by Eve's sweet influence,
Alone can know how strong a spell lies in
The witchery of a woman's beckoning hand.
And thou didst draw him, tidelike, higher still,
Felipa, whispering the lessons learned
From thy courageous father, till the flood
Of his ambition burst all barriers,
And swept him onward to his longed-for goal.

Before the jewels of a Spanish queen
Built fleets to waft him on his untried way,
Thou gavest thy wealth of wifely sympathy
To build the lofty purpose of his soul.
And now the centuries have cycled by,
Till thou art all forgotten by the throng
That lauds the great Pathfinder of the deep.
It matters not, in that infinitude
Of space where thou dost guide thy spirit bark
To undiscovered lands, supremely fair.
If to this little planet thou couldst turn
And voyage, wraithlike, to its cloud-hung rim,
Thou wouldst not care for praise. And if, perchance,
Some hand held out to thee a laurel bough,
Thou wouldst not claim one leaf, but fondly turn
To lay thy tribute also at his feet.

INCREASING INTEREST IN COLUMBUS.