As falcons from their native eyry soar,So, tired with weight of their disdainful woes,Rovers and captains out of Palos rose,To daring, brutish dreams mad to the core.
They longed to seize the fabled metal oreWhich in Cipango's mines to ripeness grows,And trade-winds willingly inclined their prowsToward the mysterious occidental shore.
Each eve, athirst for morrow's epic scene,The tropic sea with phosphorescent sheenBound all their visions in mirage of gold;
Or from the fore-deck of then-white carvels,They watched amazed on alien skies enscrolledStrange stars new risen from ocean's glowing wells.
