THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

Why flings she thus, with gesture fierce, Her silent lute aside?

Some deep emotion chafes her soul

With more than wonted pride;

But, hark a sound has reached her heart,

Inaudible elsewhere,

And hushed to melting tenderness,

The storm of passion there!

The far-off fall of fairy feet,
That fly in eager glee,

A voice that warbles wildly sweet,
Some Jewish melody!

She comes! her own Salomé comes !
Her pure and blooming child!

She comes and anger yields to love,
And sorrow is beguiled:

Her singing bird! low nestling now
Upon the parent breast,

She murmurs of the monarch's vow
With girlish laugh and jest:-

"Now choose me a gift and well!

There are so many joys I covet!

Shall I ask for a young gazelle ?

"Twould be more than the world to me,

Fleet and wild as the wind,

Oh! how I would cherish and love it!

With flowers its neck I'd bind,

And joy in its graceful glee.

97

98

THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

"Shall I ask for a gem of light,
To braid in my flowing ringlets?
Like a star through the veil of night,
Would glisten its glorious hue;

Or a radiant bird, to close

Its beautiful, waving winglets

On my bosom in soft repose,

And share my love with you!

She paused,-bewildered, terror-struck ;
For, in her mother's soul,

Roused by the promise of the king,

Beyond her weak control,

The exulting tempest of Revenge

And Pride raged wild and high,

And sent its storm-cloud to her brow,

Its lightning to her eye!

Her haughty lip was quivering

With anger and disdain,

Her beauteous, jeweled hands were clenched

As if from sudden pain.

Forgive," Salomé faltering cried,

"Forgive my childish glee!

"Twas selfish, vain,-oh! look not thus,

But let me ask for thee!"

Then smiled, it was a deadly smile,

That lady on her child,

And, "Swear thou'lt do my bidding, now!

99

THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

She cried, in accents wild:

"Ah! when, from earliest childhood's hour,

Did I thine anger dare!

Yet, since an oath thy wish must seal,

By Judah's hopes, I swear!"

Herodias stooped,-one whisper brief!—
Was it a serpent's hiss,

That thus the maiden starts and shrinks
Beneath the woman's kiss?

A moment's pause of doubt and dread!
Then wild the victim knelt,-

"Take, take my worthless life instead!-
Oh! if thou e'er hast felt

A mother's love,-thou cants not doom-
No, no! 'twas but a jest!
Speak!-speak! and let me fly once more,
Confiding, to thy breast!

A hollow and sepulchral tone

Was hers who made reply:

"The oath the oath!-remember, girl!

'Tis registered on high!" Salomé rose,—mute, moveless stood

As marble, save in breath,

Half senseless in her cold despair,

Her young cheek blanched like death

But an hour since, so joyous, fond,

Without a grief or care,

Now struck with wo unspeakable,

How dread a change was there!

"It shall be done!"-Was that the voice

Dor M

100

THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

That rang so gaily sweet,

When, innocent and blest, she came,

But now, with flying feet?

"It shall be done!"-She turns to go,

But, ere she gains the door,
One look of wordless, deep reproach
She backward casts, no more!
But late she sprang the threshold o'er,
A light and blooming child,
Now, reckless, in her grief she goes

A woman stern and wild.

With pallid cheek, disheveled hair,
And wildly gleaming eyes,
Once more before the banqueters,
A fearful phantom flies;
Once more at Herod's feet it falls,

And cold with nameless dread,
The wondering monarch bends to hear,
A voice, as from the dead.

From those pale lips shrieks madly forth,—

"Thy promise, king, I claim,

And if the grant be foulest guilt,—

Not mine, not mine the blame !
Quick, quick recall that reckless vow,
Or strike thy dagger here,

Ere yet this voice demands a gift

That chills my soul with fear!
Heaven's curse upon the fatal grace
That idly charmed thine eyes!

THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

101

Oh! better had I ne'er been born

Than be the sacrifice!

The word I speak will blanch thy cheek,

If human heart be thine;

It was a fiend in human form

That murmured it to mine.

To die for me! a thoughtless child!

For me must blood be shed!

Bend low,―lest angels hear me ask !—

Oh! God!—the Baptist's head!

Frances S. Osgood.

1