A Lay of Cyprus. Dedicated, With Much Resect, to Mrs. Sutherland Orr. Ah ! how forlorn is now the Paphian Queen ! Alone in her remotest myrtle groves, Sighing unheard, by loving eyes unseen ; No living creature but two turtle-doves, Who sit dejected, ruffled ; ne’er a coo Is heard upon the still and languid air, And Aphrodite, with her lovely head laid low, Sweet eyes with tears bedimmed and uncombed hair, In which, oh, shame ! is seen a thread of grey, Is making low her ’plaint for glories gone. She wrings her hands and sighs : “ Ah, lackaday ! To think that Venus should be so forlorn ! Echo, that lazy nymph, now seldom brings A message. Says the world’s so full of noises She gets confused with wheels and guns and things, And mixes up machines and human voices. To Vulcan once I sent her with my love, But she brought back the answer with a roar Which made my head ache, and quite shook my grove, Saying that he was busy ; ’twasn’t kind— I’m sure he never shouted so before. Mars is no good, for he’s been put, I find, In a museum of ancient armour. Why, Why am I ’reft of all to waste and sigh, And look with longing eyes across the sea ? O blest Thetis ! from whose jewelled breast I floated into life and love most blest ; Help me again ! Once more I call to thee. Last time I called thou didst but mock at me, And sent’st a black man whom they called Othello. I’d my revenge on him, the cross-grained fellow. O Ocean Mother ! I am thin and weak ; My lips are cold, all faded is my cheek ; My beauty’s gone : what can the world be doing ? This Nineteenth Century has been my ruin. What’s that ? A sail ! a fleet it is, by Jove ! By Neptune, any one who has a hand In bringing clumsy ironclads to land ! I see them making for my private cove.” Sweet Venus gets upon her tottering feet, And tries to make herself a little neat. She bathes her eyes, and combs her fragrant hair, And then considers what she’s got to wear. She takes her cestus and a gleaming pearl or two— It’s very simple, and, alas ! not very new ; But most becoming is it as she there doth stand, Gazing expectant whilst the strangers land. Footsteps approach—the doves in panic fly ; A look of fear is seen in Venus’ eye. “ What means this tremor ? ” thinks the trembling Queen, “ I’m much more frightened than I’ve ever been. I too have nerves ! Oh, Aphrodite ! shame ! How can the Queen of Cyprus be so tame ? ” A being strange, unseen, undreamt ere now, Is standing in the sacred myrtle grove. It does not kneel, nor even does it bow Before the sovereign of the realms of Love. Stern, cold, majestic, is it he or she ? That with sharp scrutiny and scornful smile Confronts poor trembling Venus, who meanwhile Stands speechless and with shaking lip and knee— Her tender eyes uplifted were in fear, And wonder at the strangeness of her guest ; Then minding hospitality, she softly said, “ Sir, will it please you to come in and rest ? ” The being, gazing grim with eyes of stone, Replied, “ What ! you here still ? I thought you’d gone With other fragments of the obsolete, And all the refuse of the idle years. ’Tis passing strange that you and I should meet ! Put on some clothes, girl, and let’s have no tears, Either you go, or help me, for I’ve lots to do.” Quoth Venus faintly, “ Who and what are you ? ” “ Woman am I,” the other said, “ regenerate and free ! ” Thinks Venus, “ I am woman surely, but she’s not like me. That hideous coat ! No broidery or frill ! Nay, really, dress like that I never will.” But she so meek and timorous had grown, She durst not speak ; her queenliness all gone, She gazed submissively in patient guise : On Woman’s all unloyely lips and eyes, Whilst that one spoke—“ You’d better take a book. Here’s Huxley, Helenboltz, Darwin, and the rest : Or, if you can’t read, why then you’ll have to cook Or sew, for really I must have you dressed.” Poor Venus then with trembling hand did turn An awful page ; but how her cheeks did burn, And floods of bitter tears her eyes did blur, It was too hard ; that is, it was not Greek to her. “ Oh ! then I see the line that I must take, And soon you shall some fitting garments make To hide those limbs of which you seem so proud.” And Woman’s voice did here grow hard and loud. Poor Aphrodite now’s in sorry plight ; She turns a sewing-machine from morn till night. Those tender little feet, that gods have kissed, Are hid from sight by ugly shoes of list. Her form, that erst was round and soft and fair, Now shrunken is with grief and sick despair, And trembles in a dingy gown of brown ; From her sad eyes soft tears are streaming down. Her stern taskmistress gives her good advice, And shows her how bake bread and how boil rice, And various other useful things, and then She starts her fav’rite topic—ruling men. Whereat doth Venus turn two mocking eyes Upon the new man-ruler grave and wise ; All dimpling round her mouth the smiles do come, And soon those coral lips that have been dumb, She, the old Laughter-loving quite reveals, And down the rocky vale, sweet crystal peals Of mirthful laughter through the silence break, And the long-sleeping languid echo wake : But ah ! such mirth is all too short-lived now ! Before regenerate Woman’s joyless eye, Like blighting east wind on the tender bough Of young spring blossoms, doth her laughter die ; No strength is left to her for any strife, Talk of reformatories, and I know not what, Reaches her ear and chills her very life. And now she sits and sighs for heaviness, And curses life that is not life but pain ; And sings, “ Ah me ! the world is nought but weariness, Now love is over, surely death were gain ! ” And now she stands where mountain crags do rise Over the ever-moving, murmuring wave ; " O Mother Ocean ! ” Aphrodite cries— “ Thou wast my cradle, be thou now my grave.” With that she lets aslip the gown of serge. And, like a moonbeam poised upon the verge, Pauses a moment ; then as meteor fair, Flashes a silver curve athwart the air, And then is lost for ever— When next day, The sun rose up with pale and joyless ray, Men’s hearts were sad—“ The battle’s won ! ” Regenerate Woman cries—“ I reign alone ! ”