# The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/The Queen of Cyprus

"Now welcome, fair Marguerite, to thee, Fair flower of Provence minstrelsy." Came a lovely lady in place, Like the twilight star in her pensive grace. White daisies were wreathed in the dark brown shade Of her tresses, parted in simple braid: Her long eyelash was the shadow of night, And the eye beneath was the morning bright; For its colour was that of the diamond dew Which hath caught from the glancing light its hue;
Her cheek was pale, for its blush soon pass'd,— Loveliest tints are not those which last; Then again it redden'd, again was gone, Like a rainbow and rose in unison: Her smile was sad, as if nature meant Those lips to live in their own content; But Fate pass'd o’er them her stern decree, And taught them what suffering and sorrow might be: And sang she in sweet but mournful tone, As her heart had the misery it painted known.
THE QUEEN OF CYPRUS:
THE PROVENÇAL LADY'S LAY.
A summer isle, which seem'd to be A very favourite with the sea,
With blue waves but as guardians set, Wearing them like a coronet; Once sacred to the smile-zoned Queen, Whose reign upon the heart hath been, And is so still. What need hath she Of shrine to her divinity? Each fair face is her visible shrine; She hath been, she will be divine. But, rose-lipp'd Venus, thy sweet power Was unown'd in thy myrtle bower, Thy marble temple was no more, Thy worship gone from thine own shore, What time my tale begins: yet still Hadst thou left music in the rill, As if 't had heard thy footstep fall, And from that time grew musical;
Scent on the flower, as if thy hair Had lost its own rich odour there;— All, the green earth, the sunny clime, Were relics of thy lovely time.
 Fair Cyprus! dream-like 't was to land Where myrtle groves stretch'd from thy strand, And paid the freshness of the wave With fragrance which they sighing gave. But sunshine seen, but sunshine felt, You reach'd the palace where she dwelt; Cyprus's maiden queen, whose reign Seem'd ancient days restored again, When it was only beauty's smile Claim'd fealty of Cytherea's isle. Mid fair dames of her court, a star, The loveliest of the group by far,
Irene stood. Was it in pride Her regal gems were laid aside, As if she scorn'd them all, content To be her own best ornament?
 The terrace where they stood look'd down On gathered crowds of her fair town; 'T was a gay scene: on the one side, Gardens and groves stretch'd far and wide In gay confusion, flower and tree Cover'd the green earth to the sea, One arm of which begirt the walls Where rose Irene's marble halls. Upon the terrace, with a band Of the isle's loveliest at her hand, Was the young queen. 'Twas as again The goddess claim'd her ancient reign,
So fair she was. At first you thought 'T was some divinity, that brought Her beauty from her native skies; You met once more those soft dark eyes, You felt that though to them were given The colour and the light of heaven, Yet were they mortal, their deep blue Was soften'd by a shadowy hue Of melancholy, such as earth Will fling upon her fairest birth— Woman's foreknowledge of the woe That waits upon her path below.
 Is it some festival to-day, That hither comes the proud array, Which gathers round the gazing crowd, And rings the air with plaudits loud?
Sweep seven bold galleys to the land, Spring from their decks a warrior band, Dance their white plumes before the breeze Like summer foam on summer seas, Flashes the lance like meteor light, Hauberk and helm are gleaming bright, And spreads the banner its rich fold, Where shines on purple, work'd in gold A lion, which a maiden's hand Holds by a silken rein's command. Well mayst thou bend, fair queen, thy brow To the brave warriors greeting now; Well have they fought for thee and thine, Sweet flower of thy royal line; And well may they catch thy sweet eye, And swear beneath its rule to die.
Yet, young Irene, on thy side Is not all triumph's panting pride; For, like clouds on a troubled sky, Red and white shades alternate fly Over thy face; now like the stone Colour hath never breathed upon, Now crimson'd with a sudden flush, As if thy heart had dyed thy blush. The rebel prince is passing near,— Thy bearing droops in sudden fear; He passes, and thine eye is dim With anxious gazing after him, And tears are darkening its blue, Shining on the long lash like dew. Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak, That woman's heart should tinge her cheek!
'T is sad to change it for the strength That heart and cheek must know at length. Many a word of sneer and scorn Must in their harshness have been borne, Many a gentle feeling dead, And all youth's sweet confiding fled, Ere learn'd that task of shame and pride, The tear to check, the blush to hide.
 'T is midnight, and a starry shower Weeps its bright tears o'er leaf and flower; Sweet, silent, beautiful, the night Sufficing for her own delight. But other lights than sky and star From yonder casements gleam afar; There odorous lamps of argentine Shed that sweet ray, half shade half shine,
Soft as it were but beauty's smile That lit her favourite bower the while. Back from each open lattice flew The curtains, like swoll'n waves of blue Star-dropt with silvery broidery rare; And every motion seem'd to bear A message from the grove beneath,— Each message was a rose's breath. A thousand flowers were round the room, All with their gifts of scent and bloom; And at the far end of the hall Like music came a lulling fall Of waters; at the midnight time Play'd from the fount a liquid chime, As 't were the honey-dews of sleep 'Lighting, each lid in rest to steep.
Leant on a silken couch, which caught The air with fragrant rose-breath fraught, Lay the young queen. As if oppress'd With its rich weight, her purple vest Was doff'd, as if with it were laid Aside cares, pomp, and vain parade. While, like a cloud in the moonlight, Floated her graceful robe of white. Just stirred enough the scented air To lift the sunny wreaths of hair, And bear the tresses from the ground, Which the attendant maids unbound. A cheerful meeting wont to be That evening hour's tranquillity. There with the young, the frank, the gay, Irene would be glad as they,
Blithe prisoner 'scaping form and state, Her nature warring with her fate. Glad, but yet tender, gentle, meek, Her fairy hand was all too weak For regal sceptre; never meant To rule more than the music sent From a light lute, whose gentle tone Was as an echo to her own.
 But bent and sadden'd is her gaze, Her heart is gone to other days; When summer buds around her hair Were all the crown she had to wear, And they were twined by him who now Grasp'd fierce at that upon her brow; Her playmate and her early friend. And thus can young affection end!
And thus can proud ambition part The kindliest ties around the heart! And like the desert springs that dry To dust beneath the parching sky, All too soon waste the sweet revealing Of youth's fresh flow of generous feeling.
 Morn came, but with it tidings came, Half timid joy, half crimson shame. Oh! the rose is a tell-tale flower, And watching looks were on the hour, On the red blush, the drooping eye, The queen wore as the prince pass'd by. Policy read the thoughts within, Ending where love could but begin.
Why might not Tancred share her seat? They lead the rebel to her feet. Sage counsellor and noble peer Spared maiden blush and maiden fear. Yielding, yet tremulous the while, Her sole reply one downcast smile; While order'd they the moon that night Should rise upon the nuptial rite. Ill might the youthful maiden brook To fix on his her timid look. She only felt his lip had press'd Her white hand, and hope told the rest. Companion of her infancy, Less than her friend how could he be? She did not mark the haughty glare Which even now his look could wear;
The lip of pride as if disdain'd The fond heart which yet his remain'd; As scorn'd the empire of the land That must be shared with woman's hand.
 The moon upon the bridal shone, Treachery,—Prince Tancred—he is gone! Confusion marr'd the fair array; An armed band are on their way, The rebel banner is display'd, And thus is trusting faith repaid. Irene flung her marriage veil Aside, her cheek was deadly pale. But, save that, nothing might declare That love or grief were struggling there. Wondering they gazed on their young queen, So firm her step, so proud her mien.
Promptly the city was prepared, Summon'd to arms the royal guard Were bade their strength and bearing show To awe, but not attack the foe Till further orders. Last of all She called her council to the hall. She enter'd; it was strange to see How soon such utter change could be. Pale as if lip and cheek had grown Sudden to monumental stone, So fix'd, that, but the lighted eye Show'd it had yet to close and die, It was like the last sleep of death, When hue, warmth, light, have pass'd with breath. Hurriedly had been thrown aside The silver robes that deck'd the bride;
A night-black garb around her swept: Drear contrast! for her hair yet kept Amid its wealth of sunny curls The bridal snowy braid of pearls. She paused not, though her breath seem'd given But as the last to waft to heaven, And on the vacant throne laid down The dove-topp'd wand of rule and crown. From many never pass'd away That sweet voice to their dying day.
 "My hand is all too weak to bear A sceptre which the sword must share. To my bold kinsman I resign All sway and sovereignty of mine; Bear him the sceptre of the land, No longer fetter'd by that hand."
Rose the red blush, her accents fell, Scarce might they hear her low farewell.
 When as she turn'd to leave the hall, Rose kindly murmurs of recall; The crown was hers, and many a brand Now waited only her command. One word, one look, on them she cast, "Your queen's request, her first, her last."
 Silence as deep as in the grave, To the new king his homage gave; Arose no shout to greet his name, To him no word of welcome came, But pass'd he solemnly and sad To palace halls no longer glad.
Nought was there or of shout or song, That bear young monarch's praise along; Many there were that bent the knee, But many bent it silently.
 They led him to a stately room, Yet with somewhat of nameless gloom; Flowers were there, but wither'd all; Music, but with a dying fall; Maidens, but each with veiled face. Tancred gazed round, he knew the place; 'T was here his interview had been With her its young and radiant queen. There was her couch; was she there yet He started back: the brow was set In its last mould; that marble cheek, Fair as if death were loth to break
Its spell of beauty; the fixed lid, As if the daylight were forbid To brighten the blue orbs that kept Their azure even while they slept All other sleeps, save this dark one. And this the work that he had done.
 And she was gone, the faithful,—fair, In her first moment of life's care; Gone in her bloom, as if the earth Felt pity for its loveliest birth, And took her like the gentle flower, That falls before the earliest shower; With heart too tender, and too weak,— What had such heart to do but break?