Chapter XXXI

Oft his proud galleys sought some new-found world,
That latest sees the sun, or first the morn;
Still at that Wizard’s feet their spoils he hurled,—
Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne,
Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Omrahs worn,
Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, and foul;
Idols of gold from heathen temples torn,
Bedabbled all with blood.—With grisly scowl
The Hermit marked the stains, and smiled beneath his cowl.