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(A Picture.—A. D. 1470.)
I. IN Cyprus, where ’live Summer never dies, | |
| Love’s native land is. There the seas, the skies, | |
| Are blue and lucid as the looks, the air | |
| Fervid and fragrant as the breath and hair | |
| Of Beauty’s Queen; whose gracious godship dwells | 5 |
| In that dear island of delicious dells, | |
| Mid lavish lights and languid glooms divine. | |
| There doth she her sly dainty sceptre twine | |
| With seabank myrtle spray, and roses sweet | |
| And full as, when the lips of lovers meet | 10 |
| The first strange time, their sudden kisses be: | |
| There doth she lightly reign: there holdeth she | |
| Her laughing court in gleam of lemon groves: | |
| The wanton mother of unnumbered Loves! | |
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| What earthly creature hath Dame Venus’ grace | 15 |
| Dowered so divinely sweet of form and face | |
| As that she may, unshamed in Cupid’s smile, | |
| Be sovereign lady of this lovely isle? | |
| Sure, Venus, not so blind as some aver | |
| Was thy bold boy, what time, in search of her | 20 |
| Thou bad’st him seek, he roamed the seas all round, | |
| And barbarous lands beyond; since he hath found | |
| This wonder out; whose perfect sweetness seems | |
| The fair fulfilment of his own fond dreams: | |
| And Kate Cornaro is the Island Queen. | 25 |
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II. A Queen, a child, fair, happy, scarce nineteen! | |
| In whose white hands her little sceptre lies, | |
| Like a new-gathered floweret, in surprise | |
| At being there. To keep her what she is,— | |
| A thing too rare for the familiar kiss | 30 |
| Of household loves,—wifehood and motherhood,— | |
| Fit only to be delicately wooed | |
| With wooings fine and frolicsome as those | |
| Wherewith the sweet West wooes a small blush-rose, | |
| Her husband first, and then her babe, away | 35 |
| Slipped from her sight, each on a summer day, | |
| Ere she could miss them, into the soft shade | |
| Of flowery graves. She doth not feel afraid | |
| To be alone. Because she hath her toy, | |
| Her pretty kingdom. And it is her joy | 40 |
| To dandle the doll-people, and be kind | |
| And careful to it, as a child. Each wind | |
| O’ the world on her smooth eyelids lightly breathes, | |
| As morn upon a lily whence frail wreaths | |
| Of little dew-drops hang, easily troubled, | 45 |
| As such things are. The June sun’s joy is doubled, | |
| Shining through shadow in her golden hair. | |
| Light-wedded, and light-widowed, and unaware | |
| Of any sort of sorrow doth she seem; | |
| Albeit the times are stormy, and do teem | 50 |
| With tumult round her tiny throne. Primrose, | |
| Pert violet, hardy vetch,—no blossom blows | |
| In March less conscious of a cloudy sky, | |
| More sweet in sullen season. Days go by | |
| Daintily round her. If her crown’s light weight | 55 |
| Upon her forehead fair and delicate | |
| Leave the least violet stain, when laid away | |
| At close of some great summer holiday, | |
| Her lovers kiss the sweet mark smooth and white | |
| Ere it can pain her. She hath great delight | 60 |
| In little things: and of great things small care. | |
| The people love her; though the nobles are | |
| Wayward and wild. Yet fears she not, nor shrinks | |
| To show she fears not. “For in truth,” she thinks | |
| “My Uncle Andrew and my Uncle Mark | 65 |
| Have care of me.” And, truly, dawn or dark, | |
| These Uncles Mark and Andrew, busiest two | |
| In Cyprus, find no lack of work to do: | |
| Go up and down the noisy little state, | |
| Silent all day: and, when the night is late, | 70 |
| Write letters, which she does not care to read | |
| (The Ten, she knows, will ponder them with heed), | |
| To Venice—not so far from Cyprus’ shore | |
| But what the shadow of St. Mark goes o’er | |
| The narrow sea to touch her island throne. | 75 |
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III. She is herself a dove from Venice flown | |
| Not so long since but what her snowy breast | |
| Is yet scarce warm within its new-found nest,— | |
| Whence sings she o’er the grave of Giacomo | |
Songs taught her by St. Mark.
Cristofero | 80 |
| (He of the four stone shields which you may spy, | |
| Thrice striped, thrice spotted with the mulberry, | |
| In the great sunlight o’er that famous stair | |
| Whose marble white is warmed with rose-hues, where | |
| The crownings were once) wore the ducal horn | 85 |
| In Venice, on that joyous July morn | |
| When all along the liquid streets, paved red | |
| With rich reflections of clear crimson spread, | |
| Or gorgeous orange gay with glowing fringe, | |
| From bustling balconies above, to tinge | 90 |
| The lucid highways with new lustres, best | |
| Befitting that day’s pride, the blithe folk pressed | |
| About St. Paul’s, beneath the palace door | |
| Of Mark Cornaro; where the Bucentor | |
| Was waiting with the Doge; to see Queen Kate | 95 |
| Come smiling in her robes of marriage state | |
| Through the crammed causeway, glimmering down between | |
| The sloped bright-banded poles, beneath the green | |
| Sea-weeded walls; content to catch quick gleams | |
| Of her robe’s tissue stiff with strong gold seams | 100 |
| From throat to foot, or mantle’s sweeping shine | |
| Of murrey satin lined with ermine fine. | |
| Flushing the white warmth it encircled glad, | |
| A sparkling carcanet of gems she had | |
| About her fair throat. Such strong splendors piled | 105 |
| So heavily upon so slight a child | |
| Made Venice proud: because in little things | |
Her greatness thus seemed greatest.
His white wings | |
| The galley put forth from the blue lagoon. | |
| The mellow disk of a mild daylight moon | 110 |
| Was hanging wan in the warm azure air, | |
| When the great clarions all began to blare | |
| Farewell. And, underneath a cloudless sky | |
| Over a calméd sea, with minstrelsy, | |
| The baby Queen to Cyprus sailed…. | 115 |
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