# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 18/Number 110/The Sword of Bolivar

Featured in Volume 18, Number 110 of The Atlantic Monthly. (December 1866).
THE SWORD OF BOLIVAR.
With the steadfast stars above us, And the molten stars below, We sailed through the Southern midnight, By the coast of Mexico.
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.
Then with pomp and oratory The mustachioed señores brought To the house of the Liberator The weapon they had wrought; ​And they said, in their stately phrases, "O mighty in peace and war! No mortal blade we bring you, But a flaming meteor.
"The sword of the Spaniard is broken, And to you in its stead is given, To lead and redeem a nation, This ray of light from heaven."
The gaunt-faced Liberator From their hands the symbol took, And waved it aloft in the sunlight, With a high, heroic look;
And he called the saints to witness: "May these lips turn into dust, And this right hand fail, if ever It prove recreant to its trust!
"Never the sigh of a bondman Shall cloud this gleaming steel, But only the foe and the traitor Its vengeful edge shall feel.
"Never a tear of my country Its purity shall stain, Till into your hands, who gave it, I render it again."
Now if ever a chief was chosen To cover a cause with shame, And if ever there breathed a caitiff, Bolivar was his name.
From his place among the people To the highest seat he went, By the winding paths of party And the stair of accident.
A restless, weak usurper, Striving to rear a throne, Filling his fame with counsels And conquests not his own;—
Now seeming to put from him The sceptre of command, Only that he might grasp it With yet a firmer hand;—
His country's trusted leader, In league with his country's foes, Stabbing the cause that nursed him, And openly serving those;— ​The chief of a great republic 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.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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