The eyes were full of tender grief,
The full-lipped mouth was witching scornful.
The room was dark where Phædon knelt,
But as he prayed the moonbeams entered,
And, like a crown of glory pure,
Upon the brow of Clytè centred;
Then down her face they gently stole,
With silver all her raiment sheathing.
His prayer was answered; Phædon cried,
She lives! she lives! I hear her breathing!"
Like one who, rising from a trance,
Reluctant wakes, and half in sorrow, Clytè stepped from that pedestal,—
Death had been vanquished till the morrow. She kissed her lover's burning brow,
Her soft white arms around him lacing; Venus had sent her from the dead
To soothe him with her sweet embracing.
But when day dawned and he awoke,
That rainbow-dream had passed forever:
The nymph had turned to stone again,
To wake to life and beauty- never.
With a deep sigh he kissed the lips
Of that sweet nymph, once more reposing:
Then seized his shaping steel and clay,
To toil till life's long day was closing.
He wept not, but, in patience strong,
Thought of the blissful reuniting,
As soldiers do of rest and sleep
After a long day's toilsome fighting;
And in his art content he toiled
To deck that fane of Aphroditè,
And by him, as he labored, stood
His statue of the gentle Clytè.
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
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
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!
What earthly creature hath Dame Venus' grace
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
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.
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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
In little things: and
The people love her;
of great things small care.
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
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,
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.
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.
(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
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
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
Come smiling in her robes of marriage state
Through the crammed causeway, glimmering down be-
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
From throat to foot, or mantle's sweeping shine
|