University of Virginia Library

II.

A Queen: a child: fair: happy: scarce nineteen!
In whose white hands her little sceptre lies,
Like a new-gather'd flowret, 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 woo'd
With wooings fine and frolicksome as those
Wherewith the sweet West woos a small blush-rose,
Her husband first, and then her babe, away
Slipp'd 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 thro' shadow in her golden hair.
Light-wedded, and light-widow'd, 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
Ere it can pain her. She hath great delight
In little things: and of great things small care.
The people love her; tho' 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.