BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.
Enchantress queen! whose empire of the heart
With sovereign sway o'er sea and land extended,
Whose peerless, haunting charms, and syren art,
Won from the imperial Cæsar conquests splendid;
Rome sent her thousands forth, and foreign powers,
Poured in thy woman's hand an empire's treasures;
Was Fate beside thee in those gorgeous hours
When monarchs knelt, slaves to thy merest pleasures?
When but a gesture of thy royal hand
Was to the proud Triumvirs a command.
O, bright Egyptian Queen! thy day is past
With the young Cæsar—lo! the spell is broken
That thy all-radiant beauty o'er him cast;
His eye is cold—wo! for thy grief unspoken!
Yet thy proud features wear a mask, which tells
How true thou art to thy commanding nature:—
Once more, in all thy wild bewildering spells,
Thou standest robed and crowned, imperial creature:
Thy royal barge is on the sunny sea,
Oh! sceptered queen—goest thou victoriously?
But hark! a trumpet's thrilling call "to arms!"
O'er the soft sounds of lute and lyre ringeth.
Doubt not thy matchless sovereignty of charms,
But haste—the victor of Philippi bringeth
His shielded warriors and lords renowned—
With spear and princely crest they come to meet thee,
Arrayed for triumph, and with laurels crowned,
How will their stern and haughty leader treat thee?
He comes to conquer—lo! on bended knee
The spell-bound Roman pleads, and yields to thee!
Once more the world is thine. Exultingly
Thy beautiful and stately head is lifted;
He lives but in thy smile—proud Antony—
The crowned of empire—he, the grandly gifted.
The spoils of nations at thy feet are laid—
The wealth of kingdoms for thy favor scattered:
Oh! Syren of the Nile! thy love has made
The royal Roman's ruin! crowns were shattered
And kingdoms lost. Fame, honor, glory, power,
Were playthings given to grace thy triumph-hour.
Another change!—the last for thee, doomed queen,
Now calmly on thine ivory couch reclining—
The impassioned glow hath left thy marble mien—
And from thine night-black eyes hath past the shining.
But still a queen! that brow, so icy cold,
Its diadem of starry jewels beareth—
Robed in the royal purple, and the gold,
No conqueror's chain that form imperial beareth.
To grace Death's triumph was but left for thee,
Daughter of Afric, by the asp set free!