Chronicles and Characters :: :: University of Virginia Library

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
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 unnumber'd Loves!

What earthly creature hath Dame Venus' grace
Dower'd 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 roam'd 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.

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.

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,
(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 warm'd with rosehues, 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 press'd
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

Thro' the cramm'd 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
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 karkanet of gems she had
About her fair throat. Such strong splendours piled
So heavily upon so slight a child
Made Venice proud; because in little things
Her greatness thus seem'd greatest.

His white wings
The galley put forth from the blue lagoon.
The mellow disk of a mild daylight moon
Was hanging wan in the warm azure air,
When the great clarions all began to blare
Farewell. And, underneath a cloudless sky
Over a calmèd sea, with minstrelsy,
The baby Queen to Cyprus sail'd. —