Chapter I

Thou Sovran Queen of Afric's sunny strands,
I smite my lyre to sing thy praise unsung;
In strains far sweeter than seraphic bands,
A lay deep in my bosom's core is sprung.
Fair Queen, although my years as yet be young,
Deep thoughts and musings of thy history old,
Where odes and fiery epics long have hung,
Live centuries in my immortal soul
And strike sweet Lydian measures on my harp of gold.