Excerpt
PART FIRST. Oene, of all the chilly Arctics, queen,Ascended to her everlasting throneBuilt on the steadfast centre of the world,And waited for the middle hour of night,Now swiftly coming, to convene her court.Set in an ocean of perpetual calmWas the fair island honoured by her reign;Slowly around her rolled the Frigid Zone,Dim in the mystic moonlight far away,—A silvery ring, circling her nearer realmWith the pale lustre of its snowy walls,Defending from all storm and sudden changeThe sea which bathed the island's level shores.She sat upon her throne, and none might tellWhether her limbs the lambent lustre castUpon the pearls of which it was composed,Or they cast beauty on her glowing form.Around her feet a pavement spread, inlaidOf squares of roseate sea-shells, set aboutWith purple gems, unknown in other lands;—Thence, winding paths, sprinkled with golden sand,Ran out, through bowers of flowers and fields of greenTo meet the sea. Low in the South the MoonShone full against the island. The North-star,Sparkling and blazing like a silver sun,Stood at the Zenith, as a lamp hung outFrom heaven to charm the endless Arctic night;—And thus a soft profusion of pure light,More exquisite than sunshine, fell abroad.Unnipped by daintiest frosts, in every fieldFlowers crowded thick; and trees, not tall nor rude,With slender stems upholding feathery shade,Nodded their heads and hung their pliant limbsIn natural bowers, sweet with delicious gloom. Queen Oene sent her luminous glance afar:Fine rays of tintless light played round her head,Crowning her beauty with mysterious glory.She gazed away, beyond the tranquil sea,To distant mountains of unchanging snow,And still beyond, to where full many a towerAnd fortress reared their walls of gleaming iceOn the dim verges of her vast domains. Scarcely had she in silence throned herself,Ere from the trees, or flower-coves of the shore,Or gliding in from idling on the sea,Her maids of honor came, a virgin train,Like a bright constellation clustering roundThe central star, most glorious of them all.One, in a crimson blossom, torn awayFrom its far moorings, nestled at her ease,Was seen slowly to skim the silver lake;While the huge flower seemed of itself propelled,Save that, by chance, a flushed and saucy face,Peeped from the waves, showing a little impWho tugged at its stout stem with willful toil.Kolona's limbs and bosom roseate glowedAs the slant moonlight through the crimson flowerBathed her with blushes; but, when on the strandShe lightly sprang, flinging her tresses back,A southern maiden would have deemed her pale.Too rich for pallor was the polished glowOf her lithe figure; while, in either cheek,The red veins glimmered; dark blue were her eyes;Her tresses, like deep shadows, made more fairThe light which they enhanced, glancing within. The first to touch the white feet of the QueenAnd place herself at her right hand, was she....