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Oene, of all the chilly Arctics, queen, Ascended to her everlasting throne Built 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 calm Was 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 realm With the pale lustre of its snowy walls, Defending from all storm and sudden change The sea which bathed the island's level shores. She sat upon her throne, and none might tell Whether her limbs the lambent lustre cast Upon the pearls of which it was composed, Or they cast beauty on her glowing form. Around her feet a pavement spread, inlaid Of squares of roseate sea-shells, set about With purple gems, unknown in other lands; Thence, winding paths, sprinkled with golden sand, Ran out, through bowers of flowers and fields of green To meet the sea.
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