QUEEN ARGENIS.
"Now I believe the Troglodites of old,
Whereof Herodotus and Strabo told.
Since every where, about these parts, in hold
Cunicular men I find, and human moles."
How pleasant here to dream the hour away
On the bold shore of this indented bay;
Or else to trace thy stream, romantic Dart!
'Mid savage scenes ne'er tamed by human art;
Or, nursing high and holy thoughts, explore
The naked majesty of tall Dartmoor;
Then shoreward to descend through whispering alleys,
And catch short glances of the smiling valleys,
And ever and anon the dancing gleam
Of that swift-gliding, coy, and arrowy stream;
And from this hill-top look down on the sea,
That gently laves the fairest shores that be.
Cockneys! it is a pleasant thing in May
To enjoy the beauties of remote Torbay.
Here could I live—bless'd if such lot were mine!
Nor for the world and all its follies pine;
Here, careless of the crowd, pay life its dues,
With learned leisure court the willing muse;
And while I gaze upon my gentle wife—
Dear, comfortable name!—forget the strife,
The hurry, jostling of the troubled stage,
Trodden by the wild Spirit of the Age.
Let lovely Devon now, reluctant Muse!
Give place to the Sicilian Syracuse;
From Babbicombe, the nook we love so well,
Turn thee to Cytherea's golden shell;
Now let us bid the fiery mountain hail,
And try what sweetness lurks in Enna's vale:
A crowned lady of that happy clime,
And her uncivil court demand our rhyme.
In the Trinacrian isle, where gloomy Dis
Gather'd his flower, once reign'd young Argenis,
A princess fair, not fairer than our own,
Nor came she younger to the perilous throne.
Death had, before she saw the light, removed
Another princess whom the Sicels loved;
And oft his bow the insatiate archer drew,
And with the royal house familiar grew;
Till to the sceptre which her grandsire bore,
She was herself presumptive successor.
Too soon, while yet her life was in the dawn,
Her noble sire was from the world withdrawn;
And she, who for her training needed most
A father's manly care, that blessing lost.
Her widow'd mother, with devotion rare,
Loved her, nursed, rear'd with all a mother's care,
But guarded not 'gainst arts, to her unknown,
That circumvent the prince and sap the throne.
The Princess—ah! too soon, and not too late—
Was call'd to meddle with affairs of state,
With tiny hand to sway the uneasy helm,
And wayward course of an unquiet realm.
