Alone, on the desolate, dark-ringed,
Rolling and flashing sea,
A grim old Venezuelan
Kept the deck with me,
And talked to me of his country,
And the long Spanish war,
And told how a young Republic
Forged the sword of Bolivar.
Of no base mundane metal
Was the wondrous weapon made,
And in no earth-born fire
Was fashioned the sacred blade.
But that it might shine the symbol
Of law and light in the land,
Dropped down as a star from heaven,
To flame in a hero's hand.
And be to the world a portent
Of eternal might and right,
They chose for the steel a splinter
From a fallen aerolite.
Then a virgin forge they builded
By the city, and kindled it
With flame from a shattered palm-tree,
Which the lightning's torch had lit,--
That no fire of earthly passion
Might taint the holy sword,
And no ancient error tarnish
The falchion of the Lord.
For Quito and New Granada
And Venezuela they pour
From three crucibles the dazzling
White meteoric ore.
In three ingots it is moulded,
And welded into one,
For an emblem of Colombia,
Bright daughter of the sun!
It is drawn on a virgin anvil,
It is heated and hammered and rolled,
It is shaped and tempered and burnished,
And set in a hilt of gold;
For thus by the fire and the hammer
Of war a nation is built,
And ever the sword of its power
Is swayed by a golden hilt.
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