Then from that shore they sailed, and southward bent,
    And as the long days lengthened, till the nights
    Were but star-circled midnight intervals,
    They wondered of what race and by what seas
    They should find kings at the antipodes.

Where a great river flowed into the sea
They found sea-lions,—­on another isle
Strange geese, milk-white and sable, with no wings,
Who swam instead of flying, and they called
The place the Isle of Penguins.

                                    Then they found
    A desolate harbor called San Juliano,
    Where the fierce flame of mutiny broke forth,
    Spaniard on Portuguese turned treacherously
    Till in the red midwinter sunrise towered
    The place of execution, and an end
    Was made of the two traitors.  Outward flashed the sail
    And left the sea-birds there to tell the tale.

Beyond there lay a bleak and misty shore,
And in the fog a wild gigantic form
White-haired, a savage, called a greeting to them. 
Friendly the huge men were, and took these men,
Bearded and strange, for kinfolk of their god,
Setebos, from his home beyond the moon,
And from their great shoes filled with straw for warmth
Magalhaens named them men of Patagonia.

    Westward they steered, and buffeted by winds,
    They found a narrow channel, where the fleet
    Halted for council.  One returned to Spain
    Laden with falsehood and with mutiny. 
    On sailed the others valiantly, their hearts
    Remembering their Admiral’s haughty words
    Flung at his craven captain, “I will see
    This great voyage to the end, though we should eat
    The leather from the yards!” And thus they reached
    The end of that strait path of Destiny,
    And saw beyond the shining Western Sea.

    Northward the Admiral followed that long coast
    Past Masafuera—­then began his flight
    Across the great uncharted shining sea. 
    And surely there was never stranger voyage. 
    The winds were gentle toward him, and no more
    The dreadful laughter of the tempest shrilled,
    Or down upon them pounced the hurricane. 
    Therefore Magalhaens, giving thanks to God,
    Named it Pacific, and the lonely sea. 
    Still bore him westward where his heart would be.

    Alone with all the stars of Christendom
    He set his course,—­if he had known his fate
    Would he have stayed his hand?  Before the end
    Fate the old witch, who often loves to turn
    A man’s words on him, kept the ships becalmed
    Even to thirst and famine; when instead
    They fed on leather, gnawed wood, and ate mice
    As did the Patagonian giants, when
    They begged such vermin for a savage feast. 
    Then Fate, her jest outworn, blew them to shore