But when Faleiro read the horoscope
It seemed to point to glory--and a grave
Beyond the sunset.
When Magalhaens heard
The prophecy, he smiled, and steadfastly
Held on his way to that young Emperor,
The blond shy stripling with the Austrian face,
And in due time was Admiral of the Fleet
To sail the seas that lay beyond the world.
Mid-August was it when the fleet set forth,
December, when in that Brazilian bay,
Santa Lucia, they dropped anchor,--then
Set up a little altar on the beach
And knelt at Mass in that gray solitude.
Carvagio the pilot knew the place,
And said the folk were kindly,--brown, straight-haired,
Wore feather mantles, used no poisoned flints,
And only ate man's flesh on holidays.
Whereat a little daunted, not with fear,
The mariners met them running to the shore,
Bought swine of them, and plantains, cassava,
And for one playing card, the king of clubs,
The wild men gave six fowls! There were brown roots
Formed like the turnip, chestnut-like in taste
And called patata in ship-Spanish--cane
Wherefrom is made the sugar and the wine
Of Hispaniola, and the pineapple
That was like nectar to their sea-parched throats.
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