⁠Plotting rebellion still,—
An apostate faithful only
⁠To his own ambitious will.

Drunk with a vain ambition,
⁠In his feeble, reckless hand,
The sword of Eternal Justice
⁠Became but a brawler's brand.

And Colombia was dissevered,
⁠Rent by factions, till at last
Her name among the nations
⁠Is a memory of the past.

Here the grim old Venezuelan
⁠Puffed fiercely his red cigar
A brief moment, then in the ocean
⁠It vanished like a star;

And he slumbered in his hammock;
⁠And only the ceaseless rush
Of the reeling and sparkling waters
⁠Filled the solemn midnight hush,

As I leaned by the swinging gunwale
⁠Of the good ship, sailing slow,
With the steadfast heavens above her,
⁠And the molten heavens below.

Then I thought with sorrow and yearning
⁠Of my own distracted land,
And the sword let down from heaven
⁠To flame in her ruler's hand,—

The sword of Freedom, resplendent
⁠As a beam of the morning star,
Received, reviled, and dishonored
⁠By another than Bolivar!

And my prayers flew home to my country:
⁠O ye tried and fearless crew!
O ye pilots of the nation!
⁠Now her safety is with you.

Beware the traitorous captain,
⁠And the wreckers on the shore;
Guard well the noble vessel;
⁠And steadily evermore,

As ye steer through the perilous midnight,
⁠Let your faithful glances go
To the steadfast stars above her,
⁠From their fickle gleams below.