27.12.2010, 17:12
SALOME.
How little didst thou think, while tripping down
To meet Herodias, from that wild carouse,
That thou wouldst win such terrible renown,
And men should name thy name with heavy brows !
For, in the fierce light of thy mother's guilt,
Before the nations thou art dancing still
Up to the wine-cups ! Holy life was spilt.
And thy fair girlhood served a murderous will :
And so thou fillest up the historic page
With the keen Scribe and ruthless Pharisee,
And, link'd with all the furies of the age.
Hast found no pitying heart to plead for thee ;
For, lo ! thy dancing-dress is bloody-red,
And thy young hands have borne John Baptist's head !
But didst thou not relent ? our pity asks :
Didst thou not shudder at that daring deed ?
Though voices from the flagons and the flasks
Bad thee and the slain prophet's head good speed
To the Queen's chamber ? Herod rued his oath,
And shudder'd in the net his hands had drawn
About himself, and wish'd his vow unsworn :
And was the tender maiden nothing loth
To lend herself to that foul deed of hate,
Whose issue is the world's eternal blame ?
Didst thou not rather bend, in silent shame,
O'er the cold lips, so eloquent of late.
From which the breath of holy anger came
As pure as the wild honey which he ate ?
How little didst thou think, while tripping down
To meet Herodias, from that wild carouse,
That thou wouldst win such terrible renown,
And men should name thy name with heavy brows !
For, in the fierce light of thy mother's guilt,
Before the nations thou art dancing still
Up to the wine-cups ! Holy life was spilt.
And thy fair girlhood served a murderous will :
And so thou fillest up the historic page
With the keen Scribe and ruthless Pharisee,
And, link'd with all the furies of the age.
Hast found no pitying heart to plead for thee ;
For, lo ! thy dancing-dress is bloody-red,
And thy young hands have borne John Baptist's head !
But didst thou not relent ? our pity asks :
Didst thou not shudder at that daring deed ?
Though voices from the flagons and the flasks
Bad thee and the slain prophet's head good speed
To the Queen's chamber ? Herod rued his oath,
And shudder'd in the net his hands had drawn
About himself, and wish'd his vow unsworn :
And was the tender maiden nothing loth
To lend herself to that foul deed of hate,
Whose issue is the world's eternal blame ?
Didst thou not rather bend, in silent shame,
O'er the cold lips, so eloquent of late.
From which the breath of holy anger came
As pure as the wild honey which he ate ?