IV.CLEOPATRA.

Cleopatra Egyptia femina fuit, totius orbis fabula.

SHE made a feast for great Marc Antony:Her galley was arrayed in gold and light;That evening, in the purple sea and sky,It shone green-golden like a chrysolite.She was reclined upon a Tyrian couchOf crimson wools: out of her loosened vestSet on one shoulder with a serpent broochFell one arm white and half her foamy breast.And, with the breath of many a fanning plume,That wonder of her hair that was like wine—Of mingled fires and purples that consume,Moved all its mystery of threads most fine—Moved like some threaded instrument that thrills,Played on with unseen kisses in the airWeaving a music from it, working spellsWe feel and know not of—so moved her hair:And under saffron canopies all brightWith clash of lights, e’en to the amber prow,Crept like enchantments subtle passing sight,Fragrance and siren music soft and slow.Amid the thousand viands of the feast,And Nile fruits piled in panniers, where they viedWith palm-tree dates and melons of the East,She waited for Marc Antony and sighed.—Where tarries he?—What gift doth he inventFor costly greeting?—How with look or smile,Out of love treasures not already spentPrepares he now her fondness to beguile?—But lo, he came between the whiles she sighed;Scarce the wave murmurs troubling,—lo, most dear,His galley, with the oars all softly plied,Warned her with music distant, and drew near.And on that night—for present,—he did bringA pearl; and gave it her with kissing sweet:“Would half the Roman empires were this thing,”He said, “that I might lay them at your feet.”Fairly then moved the magic all arrayedAbout that fragrant feast; in every partThe soft Egyptian spells did lend their aidTo work some strange enamouring of the heart.It was her whim to show him on that nightAll she was queen of; like a perfect dream,Wherein there should be gathered in one sightThe gold of many lives, as it might seemSpent and lived through at once,—so she made passA splendid pageantry of all her EastBeauteous and captive,—so she did amassThe richness of each land in that one feast.More jewelries than one could name or know,Set in a thousand trinkets or in crownsEach one a sovereignty, in glittering rowNumbered the suppliant lands and all her thrones.And fairest handmaidens in gracious rank,Their captive arms enchained with links of gold,Knelt and poured forth the purple wine she drank,Or served her there in postures manifold.And beaded women of a yellow IndStood at the couch, with bended hand to plyGreat silver feathered fans wherein the windGat all the choicest fumes of Araby.There in the midst, of shape uncouth and hard,Juggled his arts some Ethiopian churl;Changing fierce natures of the spotted pardOr serpents of the Nile that creep and curl.And many a minstrelsy of voice and string,Twining sweet sounds like tendrils delicate,Seemed to ensnare the moments—seemed to clingUpon their pleasure all interminate.But now at length she made them serve her wineIn the most precious goblet,—wine that shedGreat fragrance, in a goblet fair with shineOf jewels: so they poured the wine out red:And lo, to mark that more than any feastAnd honour Antony,—or for mere prideTo do so proud a vanity, at leastThe proudest, vainest, woman ever tried—She took the unmatched pearl, and, taking, laughed;And when they served her now that wine of worthShe cast it gleaming in; then with the draughtMingling she drank it in their midst with mirth.And all that while upon the ocean high,The golden galley, heavy in its light,Ruled the hoarse sea-sounds with its revelry—Changing afar the purples of the night!

SHE made a feast for great Marc Antony:Her galley was arrayed in gold and light;That evening, in the purple sea and sky,It shone green-golden like a chrysolite.

She was reclined upon a Tyrian couchOf crimson wools: out of her loosened vestSet on one shoulder with a serpent broochFell one arm white and half her foamy breast.

And, with the breath of many a fanning plume,That wonder of her hair that was like wine—Of mingled fires and purples that consume,Moved all its mystery of threads most fine—

Moved like some threaded instrument that thrills,Played on with unseen kisses in the airWeaving a music from it, working spellsWe feel and know not of—so moved her hair:

And under saffron canopies all brightWith clash of lights, e’en to the amber prow,Crept like enchantments subtle passing sight,Fragrance and siren music soft and slow.

Amid the thousand viands of the feast,And Nile fruits piled in panniers, where they viedWith palm-tree dates and melons of the East,She waited for Marc Antony and sighed.

—Where tarries he?—What gift doth he inventFor costly greeting?—How with look or smile,Out of love treasures not already spentPrepares he now her fondness to beguile?

—But lo, he came between the whiles she sighed;Scarce the wave murmurs troubling,—lo, most dear,His galley, with the oars all softly plied,Warned her with music distant, and drew near.

And on that night—for present,—he did bringA pearl; and gave it her with kissing sweet:“Would half the Roman empires were this thing,”He said, “that I might lay them at your feet.”

Fairly then moved the magic all arrayedAbout that fragrant feast; in every partThe soft Egyptian spells did lend their aidTo work some strange enamouring of the heart.

It was her whim to show him on that nightAll she was queen of; like a perfect dream,Wherein there should be gathered in one sightThe gold of many lives, as it might seem

Spent and lived through at once,—so she made passA splendid pageantry of all her EastBeauteous and captive,—so she did amassThe richness of each land in that one feast.

More jewelries than one could name or know,Set in a thousand trinkets or in crownsEach one a sovereignty, in glittering rowNumbered the suppliant lands and all her thrones.

And fairest handmaidens in gracious rank,Their captive arms enchained with links of gold,Knelt and poured forth the purple wine she drank,Or served her there in postures manifold.

And beaded women of a yellow IndStood at the couch, with bended hand to plyGreat silver feathered fans wherein the windGat all the choicest fumes of Araby.

There in the midst, of shape uncouth and hard,Juggled his arts some Ethiopian churl;Changing fierce natures of the spotted pardOr serpents of the Nile that creep and curl.

And many a minstrelsy of voice and string,Twining sweet sounds like tendrils delicate,Seemed to ensnare the moments—seemed to clingUpon their pleasure all interminate.

But now at length she made them serve her wineIn the most precious goblet,—wine that shedGreat fragrance, in a goblet fair with shineOf jewels: so they poured the wine out red:

And lo, to mark that more than any feastAnd honour Antony,—or for mere prideTo do so proud a vanity, at leastThe proudest, vainest, woman ever tried—

She took the unmatched pearl, and, taking, laughed;And when they served her now that wine of worthShe cast it gleaming in; then with the draughtMingling she drank it in their midst with mirth.

And all that while upon the ocean high,The golden galley, heavy in its light,Ruled the hoarse sea-sounds with its revelry—Changing afar the purples of the night!

WHEN Cleopatra saw ’twas time to yieldEven that love, to smite nor be afraid,Since love shared loss,—yea, when the thing was sealed,And all the trust of Antony betrayed;And when, before his eyes and in full sightOf the still striving ships, that gleaming lineOf galleys decked for no rude field of fightFled fair and unashamed in the sunshine;Then, surely, he fell down as one but blindThrough sudden fallen darkness, even to gropeIf haply some least broken he might findOf all the broken ends of life and hope.Well, out of all his fates now was there noneBut Death, the utter end; and for no sake,Save for some last love-look beneath the sun,Had he delayed that end of all to take!But now, because love—armed indeed of himWith utter rule of all his destinies—Had chosen even to slay him for a whim,And the mere remnant was none else than his,And since, for sure, the sorest way of deathWere but to die not falling at the feetOf that one woman who with look or breathCould change it if she would and make it sweet;He chose before all fame he might have caughtWith death in foremost fighting, now to clingUpon her steps who at this last had wroughtHis death-wound shameful with a lover’s sting.O how the memories seemed to throb and startWelling from out the unstanched past!—seemed nighAlready opening there in all his heartThe canker wound wherewith he was to die!And so, though she were quite estranged, and nowHe held no costlier gift to win her with;Yet, following, he would find her, and, somehow,Lay in her hands that latest gift—his death:For now all piteously his heart reliedOn a mere hope of love dwindled to this—To fall some fair waste moment at her sideAnd feel perhaps a tear or even a kiss;Since surely, in some waste of day or night,He thought, the face of love out of the Past,With look of his, should rise up in her sightAnd make some kind of pleading at the last.Therefore, when all the heavy heated dayOf rowing on the waters was nigh done,And like a track of sweetness past awayWaned on the wave the last track of the sun,At length with scarce a sound or warning cry,Save of the rowers ceasing from the oar,He reached her side and prayed her pass not by;Yea, prayed her bear him yet a little more.But truly this well-nigh availed to moveHer—Cleopatra—with remorse for all:She knew not of such pardon, e’en from love;Nor craved to look upon his utter fall.And, first, when it was told her how he cameAnd sought to reach the galley where she was,She faltered for a while with fear and shame,And bade them scarce give way to let him pass:Only at length he showed them the plain sightHow he was broken and so soon to die;Then they fell back all grieved and gave him right,And scarce believed the man was Antony.And yet he could not speak; but lay forlornCrouched up about the gilded quivering prow,Three days, from morn to night and night to morn,As one whom a sore burden boweth low.Harshly the sea-sounds taunted him at will,And seemed in mocking choruses combined;Each bitter inward thought was uttered shrillOn shrieking tongues of many a thwart-blown wind.And where with onward beak the galley claveFull many a silver mouth in the blue mere,The turned up whitened lips of every waveRang out a bitter cadence on his ear.But first awhile his thoughts were taking leaveSadly of Rome, and all the pageant days;For now at length he saw and would believeThe end of triumphs and the end of praise.And now he did survey, apart from wrath,The various fates of men both great and small;How little reign or glory any hath;And how one end comes quickly upon all;And thought if love had been—had been quite love,One little thing in each man’s life for bliss,Then had the grief been paid with sweet enoughAnd a lost crown forgotten for a kiss;While now, as though men played with fall and riseOf mere base monies of the common mart,To-day they strove for love as for a prize,To-morrow compassed fame with every art;And one who should but half trust any faceOf seeming fame, or follow love too well,To set his heart a moment in love’s place—That man should fall,—yea, even as he fell.And he thought how, since the first fate began,The lot of every one hath been so cast:One woman bears and brings him up a man,Another woman slays him at the last;While all so hardly leaguered are men’s waysAnd love so sharp a snare for them contrives,The fleeting span of one fair woman’s daysSufficeth many heroes’ loves and lives!—But now, when he had thought all this and more,He lay there and yet moved not from his place;The love of her was in him like a sore,And he lived waiting to behold her face.At length they drew nigh to a land by nameTænarus; and the third day, at its eve,In guise of one who mourneth the Queen cameWeeping, and prayed him rise up and forgive.

WHEN Cleopatra saw ’twas time to yieldEven that love, to smite nor be afraid,Since love shared loss,—yea, when the thing was sealed,And all the trust of Antony betrayed;

And when, before his eyes and in full sightOf the still striving ships, that gleaming lineOf galleys decked for no rude field of fightFled fair and unashamed in the sunshine;

Then, surely, he fell down as one but blindThrough sudden fallen darkness, even to gropeIf haply some least broken he might findOf all the broken ends of life and hope.

Well, out of all his fates now was there noneBut Death, the utter end; and for no sake,Save for some last love-look beneath the sun,Had he delayed that end of all to take!

But now, because love—armed indeed of himWith utter rule of all his destinies—Had chosen even to slay him for a whim,And the mere remnant was none else than his,

And since, for sure, the sorest way of deathWere but to die not falling at the feetOf that one woman who with look or breathCould change it if she would and make it sweet;

He chose before all fame he might have caughtWith death in foremost fighting, now to clingUpon her steps who at this last had wroughtHis death-wound shameful with a lover’s sting.

O how the memories seemed to throb and startWelling from out the unstanched past!—seemed nighAlready opening there in all his heartThe canker wound wherewith he was to die!

And so, though she were quite estranged, and nowHe held no costlier gift to win her with;Yet, following, he would find her, and, somehow,Lay in her hands that latest gift—his death:

For now all piteously his heart reliedOn a mere hope of love dwindled to this—To fall some fair waste moment at her sideAnd feel perhaps a tear or even a kiss;

Since surely, in some waste of day or night,He thought, the face of love out of the Past,With look of his, should rise up in her sightAnd make some kind of pleading at the last.

Therefore, when all the heavy heated dayOf rowing on the waters was nigh done,And like a track of sweetness past awayWaned on the wave the last track of the sun,

At length with scarce a sound or warning cry,Save of the rowers ceasing from the oar,He reached her side and prayed her pass not by;Yea, prayed her bear him yet a little more.

But truly this well-nigh availed to moveHer—Cleopatra—with remorse for all:She knew not of such pardon, e’en from love;Nor craved to look upon his utter fall.

And, first, when it was told her how he cameAnd sought to reach the galley where she was,She faltered for a while with fear and shame,And bade them scarce give way to let him pass:

Only at length he showed them the plain sightHow he was broken and so soon to die;Then they fell back all grieved and gave him right,And scarce believed the man was Antony.

And yet he could not speak; but lay forlornCrouched up about the gilded quivering prow,Three days, from morn to night and night to morn,As one whom a sore burden boweth low.

Harshly the sea-sounds taunted him at will,And seemed in mocking choruses combined;Each bitter inward thought was uttered shrillOn shrieking tongues of many a thwart-blown wind.

And where with onward beak the galley claveFull many a silver mouth in the blue mere,The turned up whitened lips of every waveRang out a bitter cadence on his ear.

But first awhile his thoughts were taking leaveSadly of Rome, and all the pageant days;For now at length he saw and would believeThe end of triumphs and the end of praise.

And now he did survey, apart from wrath,The various fates of men both great and small;How little reign or glory any hath;And how one end comes quickly upon all;

And thought if love had been—had been quite love,One little thing in each man’s life for bliss,Then had the grief been paid with sweet enoughAnd a lost crown forgotten for a kiss;

While now, as though men played with fall and riseOf mere base monies of the common mart,To-day they strove for love as for a prize,To-morrow compassed fame with every art;

And one who should but half trust any faceOf seeming fame, or follow love too well,To set his heart a moment in love’s place—That man should fall,—yea, even as he fell.

And he thought how, since the first fate began,The lot of every one hath been so cast:One woman bears and brings him up a man,Another woman slays him at the last;

While all so hardly leaguered are men’s waysAnd love so sharp a snare for them contrives,The fleeting span of one fair woman’s daysSufficeth many heroes’ loves and lives!

—But now, when he had thought all this and more,He lay there and yet moved not from his place;The love of her was in him like a sore,And he lived waiting to behold her face.

At length they drew nigh to a land by nameTænarus; and the third day, at its eve,In guise of one who mourneth the Queen cameWeeping, and prayed him rise up and forgive.

MY heart is heavy for each goodly manWhom crownéd woman or sweet courtezanHath slain or brought to greater shames than death.But now, O Daughter of Herodias!I weep for him, of whom the story saith,Thou didst procure his bitter fate:—Alas,He seems so fair!—May thy curse never pass!Where art thou writhing? Herod’s palace-floorHas fallen through: there shalt thou dance no more;And Herod is a worm now. In thy place,—Salome, Viper!—do thy coils yet keepThat woman’s flesh they bore with such a grace?Have thine eyes still the love-lure hidden deep,The ornament of tears, they could not weep?Thou wast quite perfect in the splendid guileOf woman’s beauty; thou hadst the whole smileThat can dishonour heroes, and recalFair saints prepared for heaven back to hell:And He, whose unlived glory thou mad’st fallAll beautiful and spotless, at thy spell,Was great and fit for thee by whom he fell.O, is it now sufficing sweet to thee—Through all the long uncounted years that seeThe undistinguished lost ones waste away—To twine thee, biting, on those locks that bleed,As bled they through thy fingers on that day?Or hast thou, all unhallowed, some fierce needThy soul on his anointed grace to feed?Or hast thou, rather, for that serpent’s taskThou didst accomplish in thy woman-mask,Some perfect inconceivable rewardOf serpent’s slimy pleasure?—all the thingThou didst beseech thy master, who is LordOf those accursèd hosts that creep and sting,To give thee for the spoil thou shouldest bring?He was a goodly spoil for thee to win!—Men’s souls and lives were wholly dark with sin;And so God’s world was changed with wars and gold,No part of it was holy; save, maybe,The desert and the ocean as of old:—But such a spotless way of life had he,His soul was as the desert or the sea.I think he had not heard of the far towns;Nor of the deeds of men, nor of kings’ crowns;Before the thought of God took hold of him,As he was sitting dreaming in the calmOf one first noon, upon the desert’s rim,Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm,All overcome with some strange inward balm.But then, so wonderful and lovely seemedThat thought, he straight became as though he dreamedA vast thing false and fair, which day and nightAbsorbed him in some rapture—very highAbove the common swayings of delightAnd general yearnings, that quite occupyMen’s passions, and suffice them till they die:Yea, soon as it had entered him—that thoughtOf God—he felt that he was being wroughtAll holy: more and more it filled his heart;And seemed, indeed, a spirit of pure flameSet burning in his soul’s most inward part.And from the Lord’s great wilderness there cameA mighty voice calling on him by name.He numbered not the changes of the year,The days, the nights, and he forgot all fearOf death: each day he thought there should have beenA shining ladder set for him to climbAthwart some opening in the heavens, e’enTo God’s eternity, and see, sublime—His face whose shadow passing fills all time.But he walked through the ancient wilderness.O, there the prints of feet were numberlessAnd holy all about him! And quite plainHe saw each spot an angel silvershodHad lit upon; where Jacob too had lainThe place seemed fresh,—and, bright and lately trod,A long track showed where Enoch walked with God.And often, while the sacred darkness trailedAlong the mountains smitten and unveiledBy rending lightnings,—over all the noiseOf thunders and the earth that quaked and bowedFrom its foundations—he could hear the voiceOf great Elias prophesying loudTo Him whose face was covered by a cloud.Already he was shown so perfectlyThe awful mystic grace and sanctityOf all the earth, there was no part his feetWith sandal covering might dare to tread;Because that in it he was sure to meetThe fair sword-bearing angels, or some dreadEternal prophet numbered with the dead.So he believed that he should purifyHis body, till the sin of it should die,And the unfailing spirit and great wordOf One—who is too bright to be beheld,And in his speech too fearful to be heardBy mortal man—should come down and be heldIn him as in those holy ones of eld.And to believe in this was rapture moreThan any that the thought of living boreTo tempt him: so the pleasant days of youthWere but the days of striving and of prayer;And all the beauty of those days, forsooth,He counted as an evil or a snare,And would have left it in the desert there.Ah, spite of all the scourges that had bitSo fiercely his fair body, branding itWith many a painful over-written vowOf perfect sanctity—what man shall sayHow often, weak with groanings, he would bowBefore the angels of the place, and prayThat all his body might consume away?For through whole bitter days it seemed in vainThat all the mighty desert had no stainOf sin around him; that the burning breathsWent forth from the eternal One, and rolledFor ever through it, filling it with deaths,And plagues, and fires; that he did beholdThe earthquakes and the wonders manifold:It seemed in vain that all the place was brightIneffably with that unfading lightNo man who worketh evil can abide;That he could see too with his open eyesFair troops of deathless ones, and those that diedIn martyrdoms, or went up to the skiesIn fiery cars—walk there with no disguise;—It seemed in vain that he was there aloneWith no man’s sin to tempt him but his own;—Since in his body he did bear aboutA seeming endless sin he could not quellWith the most sharp coercement, nor cast outThrough any might of prayer. O, who can tell—Save God—how often in despair he fell?The very stones seemed purer far than he;And every naked rock and every treeLooked great and calm, composed in one long thoughtOf holiness; each bird and creeping thingRejoiced in bearing some bright sign that taughtThe legend of an ancient minist’ringTo some fair saint of old there sojourning.Yea, all the dumb things and the creatures thereWere grand, and some way sanctified; most fairThe very lions stood, and had no shameBefore the angels; and what time were pouredThe floods of the Lord’s anger forth, they cameQuite nigh the lightnings of the Mount and roaredAmong the roaring thunders of the Lord:Yet He—while in him day by day, divine,The clear inspirèd thought went on to shine,And heaven was opening every radiant doorUpon his spirit—He, in that fair dressOf weak humanity his senses bore,Did feel scarce worthy to be there, and lessThan any dweller in the wilderness.Wherefore his limbs were galled with many a stone;And often he had wrestled all aloneWith their fair beauty, conquering the prideAnd various pleasure of them with some quickAnd hard inflicted pain that might abide,—Assailing all the sense with constant prickUntil the lust or pride fell faint and sick.Natheless there grew and stayed upon his faceThe wonderful unconquerable graceOf a young man made beautiful with love;Because the thought of God was wholly spreadLike love upon it; and still fair aboveAll crownèd heads of kings remained his headWhereon the halo of the Lord was shed.Ah, how long was it, since the first red rushOf that surpassing thought made his cheek blushWith pleasure, as he sat—a tender child—And wondered at the desert, and the longRough prickly paths that led out to the wildWhere all the men of God, holy and strong,Had dwelt and purified themselves—how long?—Before he rose up from his knees one day,And felt that he was purified as they;That he had trodden out the sin at last,And that the light was filling him within?How many of the months and years had pastUncounted?—But the place he was born inNo longer knew him: no man was his kin.O then it was a most sweet, holy willThat came upon him, making his soul thrillWith joy indeed, and with a perfect trust,—For he soon thought of men and of the kingAll tempted in the world, with gold and lust,And women there, and every fatal thing,And none to save their souls from perishing—And so he vowed that he would go forth straightFrom God there in the desert, with the greatUnearthliness upon him, and adjureThe nations of the whole world with his voice;Until they should resist each pleasant lureOf gold and woman, and make such a choiceAs his, that they might evermore rejoice.Thus beautiful and good was He, at length,Who came before King Herod in his strength,And shouted to him with a great commandTo purify himself, and put awayThat unclean woman set at his right hand;And after all to bow himself and pray,And be in terror of the Judgment Day!He never had seen houses like to thatFair-columned, cedar-builded one where satKing Herod. Flawless cedar was each beam,Wrought o’er with flaming brass: along the wallGreat brazen images of beasts did gleam,With wondrous flower-works and palm trees tall;And folded purples hung about it all.He never had beheld so many thrones,As those of ivory and precious stonesWhereon the noble company was raisedAbout the king:—he never had seen gemsSo costly, nor so wonderful as blazedUpon their many crowns and diadems,And trailed upon their garments’ trodden hems:But he had seen in mighty LebanonThe cedars no man’s axe hath lit upon;And he had often worshipped, falling downIn dazzling temples opened straight to him,Where One who had great lightnings for His crownWas suddenly made present, vast and dimThrough crowded pinions of the Cherubim!Wherefore he had no fear to stand and shoutTo all men in the place, and there to floutThose fair and fearful women who were seenQuite triumphing in that work of their smileTo shame a goodly king. And he cast, e’enA sudden awe that undid for a whileThe made-up shameless visages of guile.And when Herodias—that many timesPolluted one, assured now in all crimesPast fear or turning—when she, her fierce tongueThrice forked with indignation, hotly spokeQuick wild beseeching words, wherewith she clungTo Herod, praying him by some death-strokeTo do her vengeance there before all folk—Ah, spite of every urging that her hateDid put into her lips,—so fair and greatSeemed that accuser standing weaponless,Yet wholly terrible with his bright speechAs ’twere some sword of flaming holiness,That no man dared to join her and beseechHis death; but dread came somehow upon each.For he was surely terrible to seeSo plainly sinless, so divinely freeTo judge them; being in a perfect youth,Yet walking like an angel in a manReproving all men with inspired truth.And Herod himself spoke not, but beganTo tremble: through his soul the warning ran.—Thenthat Salomedid put off the shameOf her mere virgin girlhood, and becameA woman! Then she did at once essayHer beauty’s magic, and unfold the wingsOf her enchanted feet,—to have men sayShe slewhim—born indeed for wondrous things.Her dance was fit to ruin saints or kings.O, her new beauty was above all praise!She came with dancing in shy devious ways,And while she danced she sang.The virgin bandlet of her forehead brake,Her hair came round her like a shining snake;To loving her men’s hearts within them sprangThe while she danced and sang.Her long black hair danced round her like a snakeAllured to each charmed movement she did make;Her voice came strangely sweet;She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me—Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see?”And what her voice did sing her dancing feetSeemed ever to repeat.She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me?What sweet I have, I have it all for thee;”And through the dance and songShe freed and floated on the air her armsAbove dim veils that hid her bosom’s charms:The passion of her singing was so strongIt drew all hearts along.Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air,They seemed like floating flowers the most fair—White lilies the most choice;And in the gradual bending of her handThere lurked a grace that no man could withstand;Yea, none knew whether hands, or feet, or voice,Most made his heart rejoice.The veils fell round her like thin coiling mistsShot through by topaz suns, and amethysts,And rubies she had on;And out of them her jewelled body came,And seemed to all quite like a slender flameThat curled and glided, and that burnt and shoneMost fair to look upon.Then she began, on that well-polished floor,Whose stones seemed taking radiance more and moreFrom steps too bright to see,A certain measure that was like some spellOf winding magic, wherein heaven and hellWere joined to lull men’s souls eternallyIn some mid ecstasy:For it was so inexplicably wroughtOf soft alternate motions, that she taughtEach sweeping supple limb,And in such intricate and wondrous waysWith bendings of her body, that the praiseLost breath upon men’s lips, and all grew dimSave her so bright and slim.And through the swift mesh’d serpents of her hairThat lash’d and leapt on each place white and fairOf bosom or of arm,And through the blazing of the numberlessAnd whirling jewelled fires of her dress,Her perfect face no passion could disarmOf its reposeful charm.Her head oft drooped as in some languid deathBeneath brim tastes of joy, and her rich breathHeaved faintly from her breast;Her long eyes, opened fervently and wide,Did seem with endless rapture to abideIn some fair trance through which the soul possestLove, ecstasy, and rest.But lo—while each man fixed his eyes on her,And was himself quite fillèd with the stirHis heart did make within—The place was full of devils everywhere:They came in from the desert and the air;They came from all the palaces of sin,And each heart they were in:They lurked beneath the purples, and did crawlOr crouch in unseen corners of the hall,Among the brass and gold;They climbed the brazen pillars till they linedThe chamber fair; and one went up behindThe throne of Herod—fearful to behold—The Serpent king of old.Yea, too, before those blinded men there wentSome even to Salome; and they lentStrange charms she did not shun.She stretched her hand forth, and inclined her ear;She knew those men would neither see nor hear:A devil did support her head, and oneHer steps’ light fabric spun.O, then her voice with singing all unveiled,In no trained timid accents, straight assailedKing Herod’s open heart:The amorous supplication wove and woundSoft deadly sins about it; the words foundFair traitor thoughts there,—singing snakes did dartTheir poison in each part.She sang, “O look on me, and look on Love:We three are here together, and above—What heaven may there be?None for thine heart without this spell of mine,Yea, this my beauty, yea, these limbs that shineAnd make thy senses shudder; and for me,No heaven without thee!“O, all the passion in me on this dayRises into one song to sweep awayThe breakers of Love’s bond;For is it not a pleasant bond indeed,And made of all the flowers in life’s mead?And is not Love a master fair and fond?And is not Death beyond?“O, who are these that will adjure thee, King,To put away this tender flower-thing,This love that is thy bliss?Dost thou think thou canst live indeed, and dareThe joyless remnant of pale days, the bareHard tomb, and feed through cold eternitiesThy heart without one kiss?“Dost thou think empty prayers shall glad thy lipsKept red and living with perpetual sipsOf Love’s rich cup of wine?That thy fair body shall not fall away,And waste among the worms that bitter dayThou hast no lover round thy neck to twineFond arms like these of mine?“I say they are no prophets,—very deaths,And plagues, and rottenness, do use their breathsWho speak against delight;Pale distant slayers of humanityHave tainted them, and sent them forth to tryWeak lures to make man give up joyous rightOf days for empty night.“I tell thee, in their wilderness shall beNo herbs enough for food for them and thee,No rock to give thee drink;I tell thee, all their heavens are a cheat,Or but a mirage to betray thy feet,And draw thee quicker to some grave’s dread brinkWhere thou shalt fall and sink.“Turn rather unto me, and hear my voiceAgainst these desert howlings, and rejoice:Now surely do I craveTo treble this my beauty, and embalmMy words with deathless thrill, singing the psalmOf pleasure to thee, King,—so I may saveThy fair days from this grave.“Yea, now of all my beauty will I striveWith these mad prophesiers till I driveTheir ravings from thine ear:Against their rudeness I will set my grace,My softness, and the magic of my face;And spite of all their curses thou shalt hearAnd let my voice draw near:“Against their loud revilings I will tryThe long low-speaking pleadings of my sigh,All my heart’s tender way;Against their deserts—here, before thine eyesMy love shall open thee a paradise,Where, if thou comest, thou shalt surely stayAnd seek no better way:“And rather than these haters of thy joyShould anyhow allure thee to destroyThy heart’s prosperity,—O, I will throw my woman’s arms entwinedAbout thy body; ere thy lips can findOne word of yielding, I will kiss them dry:—And failing, let me die!“But look on me, for it is in my soulTo make the measure of thy glory whole—With many goodly thingsTo crown thee, yea, with pleasure and with love,Till there shall scarcely be a name aboveKing Herod’s, in the mouth of one who singsThe fame of mighty kings:“For see how great and fair a realm is this—My untried love—the never conquered blissAll hoarded in my breast;My beauty and my love were jewels meetTo make the glory of a king complete,And I,—O thou of kingship half-possest—Can crown thee with the rest!“I stand before thee—on my head the crownOf all thou lackest yet in thy renown—Ah, King, take this of me!And in my hand I bear a brimming cupThat sparkles; to thine eyes I hold it up:A royal draught of life-long pleasure—see,The wine is fit for thee!“Ah, wilt thou pass me? Wilt thou let me giveThy fair life to some meaner man to live?Nay, here—if I am sweet—Thou shalt not. I will save thee with the sightOf all my sweetness, save thee with the mightAnd charm of all my singing lips’ deceit,Or with my dancing feet.“I have indeed some power. A lure liesWithin my tender lips—behind my eyes—Concealed in all my way;And while I seem entreating, I compel,Yea, while I do but plead, I use a spell—Ah secretly—but surely. Who are theyThat ever turn away?“Now, thou hast barely seen bright glitteringThe gilded cup of pleasures that I swungBefore thy reeling gaze,—The deep beginnings of sweet drunkennessAre in thy heart already, more or less,And on thy soul deliciously there preysA thirst no joy allays.“Dost thou not feel, each time my long hair sweepsThe glowing floor, how through thy being creepsA vague yet sweet desire?—How writhes in every sense a tiny snakeOf pleasure biting till it seems to wakeA fever of sharp lusts that never tire,Unquenchable as fire?“Is there not wrought a madness in thy brainEach time my thin veils part and close again—Each time their flying ringIs seen a moment’s space encircling meWith filmy changes—each time, rapidlyRolled down, their cloud-like gauzes billowingAbout my limbs they fling?“Ah, seek not in this moment some cold will;Attend to no false pratings that would killThy heart, and make thee fall:But now a little lean to me, and fearMy charming. Ah, thy fame to me is dear!Some wound of mine, when me thou couldst not call,Might slay thee after all.“For even while I sing, the unseen graceOf Love descending hath filled all this placeWith most strong prevalence;His miracle is raging in the breastsOf all these men, and mightily he restsOn me and thee. His power is too intense,No curse shall drive him hence.“—O, Love, invisible, eternal God,In whose delicious ways all men have trod,This day Thou truly hastMy heart: thy inspiration fills my tongueWith great angelic madness; I have sungSet words that in my bosom thou hast cast—Thine am I to the last!“My feet are like two liquid flames that leapFor joy at thee; I feel thy spirit sweep—Yea, like a southern wind—Through all the enchanted fibres of my soul;I am a harp o’er which thy vast breaths roll,And one day thou shalt break me: none shall findA wreck of me behind.“And now all palpitating, O I prayThy utmost passion while I cry—awayWith all Love’s enemies!A man—borne up between the closing wingsOf two eternities of unknown things,May catch this seraph charmer as he flies,And hold him till he dies;“And yet some bitter ones, whom coming nightHath wholly entered, grudge man this small rightOf joy, and seek to fillHis rushing moment with the monstrous hissOf shapeless terrors, poisoning the blissBrief nestled in his bosom—merely tillForced out by its death chill!“What voice is this the envious wildernessHath sent among us foully to distressAnd haunt our lives with fear?What vulture, shrieking on the scent of death—What yelping jackal—what insidious breathOf pestilence hath ventured to draw near,And enter even here?“No kindred flesh of fair humanityYon fiend hath, seeking through lives doomed to dieDeath’s foretaste to infuse:His body is but raised up from the slainUnburied thousands that long years have lainAbout the desert: Death himself doth chooseHis pale disguise to use.“But, even though he be from some new God,He shall not turn us who love’s ways have trod,Nor make us break love’s vow.Nay, rather, if a single beauty dwellsIn me, if in that beauty there be spellsTo win my will of any man—O thou,King Herod, hear me now!—“Letitbe for his ruin! Ah, let me,With all in me thou countest fair to see,Procure this and no more!If yet, with tender prevalence, my voiceMay ask a thing of thee—this is my choice,Though thou wouldst buy my sweets with all thy store—This all I sell them for.“Yea, are there lures of softness in my eyes?My eyes are—for his death. Is my heart’s prizeA seeming fair reward?My virgin heart is—for his blood here shed;Its passion—for the falling of his head;And on that man my kiss shall be outpouredWho slays him with the sword!”Invisible—in supernatural haze,Of shapes that seem not shapes to human gaze—The devils were half awed as they did standAround her; each one in his separate hellAll inwardly was forced to praise her well:And every man was fain to lose his handOr do all that sweet woman might command.There was a tumult.—Cloven foot and scaleOf fiend with iron heel and coat of mailWere rolled and hustled in the rage to slayThat fair young Saviour: when they murdered himAnd brought his head, still beautiful—though dimAnd drenched with blood—the aureole did playAbove it, slowly vanishing away.I weep to think of him and his fair lightSo quenched—of him thrust into some long nightOf unaccomplishment so soon, alas!And Thou, who on that ancient palace floorDidst dance, where dost thou writhe now evermore—Salome, Daughter of Herodias?O woman-viper—may thy curse ne’er pass!

Where art thou writhing? Herod’s palace-floorHas fallen through: there shalt thou dance no more;And Herod is a worm now. In thy place,—Salome, Viper!—do thy coils yet keepThat woman’s flesh they bore with such a grace?Have thine eyes still the love-lure hidden deep,The ornament of tears, they could not weep?

Thou wast quite perfect in the splendid guileOf woman’s beauty; thou hadst the whole smileThat can dishonour heroes, and recalFair saints prepared for heaven back to hell:And He, whose unlived glory thou mad’st fallAll beautiful and spotless, at thy spell,Was great and fit for thee by whom he fell.

O, is it now sufficing sweet to thee—Through all the long uncounted years that seeThe undistinguished lost ones waste away—To twine thee, biting, on those locks that bleed,As bled they through thy fingers on that day?Or hast thou, all unhallowed, some fierce needThy soul on his anointed grace to feed?

Or hast thou, rather, for that serpent’s taskThou didst accomplish in thy woman-mask,Some perfect inconceivable rewardOf serpent’s slimy pleasure?—all the thingThou didst beseech thy master, who is LordOf those accursèd hosts that creep and sting,To give thee for the spoil thou shouldest bring?

He was a goodly spoil for thee to win!—Men’s souls and lives were wholly dark with sin;And so God’s world was changed with wars and gold,No part of it was holy; save, maybe,The desert and the ocean as of old:—But such a spotless way of life had he,His soul was as the desert or the sea.

I think he had not heard of the far towns;Nor of the deeds of men, nor of kings’ crowns;Before the thought of God took hold of him,As he was sitting dreaming in the calmOf one first noon, upon the desert’s rim,Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm,All overcome with some strange inward balm.

But then, so wonderful and lovely seemedThat thought, he straight became as though he dreamedA vast thing false and fair, which day and nightAbsorbed him in some rapture—very highAbove the common swayings of delightAnd general yearnings, that quite occupyMen’s passions, and suffice them till they die:

Yea, soon as it had entered him—that thoughtOf God—he felt that he was being wroughtAll holy: more and more it filled his heart;And seemed, indeed, a spirit of pure flameSet burning in his soul’s most inward part.And from the Lord’s great wilderness there cameA mighty voice calling on him by name.

He numbered not the changes of the year,The days, the nights, and he forgot all fearOf death: each day he thought there should have beenA shining ladder set for him to climbAthwart some opening in the heavens, e’enTo God’s eternity, and see, sublime—His face whose shadow passing fills all time.

But he walked through the ancient wilderness.O, there the prints of feet were numberlessAnd holy all about him! And quite plainHe saw each spot an angel silvershodHad lit upon; where Jacob too had lainThe place seemed fresh,—and, bright and lately trod,A long track showed where Enoch walked with God.

And often, while the sacred darkness trailedAlong the mountains smitten and unveiledBy rending lightnings,—over all the noiseOf thunders and the earth that quaked and bowedFrom its foundations—he could hear the voiceOf great Elias prophesying loudTo Him whose face was covered by a cloud.

Already he was shown so perfectlyThe awful mystic grace and sanctityOf all the earth, there was no part his feetWith sandal covering might dare to tread;Because that in it he was sure to meetThe fair sword-bearing angels, or some dreadEternal prophet numbered with the dead.

So he believed that he should purifyHis body, till the sin of it should die,And the unfailing spirit and great wordOf One—who is too bright to be beheld,And in his speech too fearful to be heardBy mortal man—should come down and be heldIn him as in those holy ones of eld.

And to believe in this was rapture moreThan any that the thought of living boreTo tempt him: so the pleasant days of youthWere but the days of striving and of prayer;And all the beauty of those days, forsooth,He counted as an evil or a snare,And would have left it in the desert there.

Ah, spite of all the scourges that had bitSo fiercely his fair body, branding itWith many a painful over-written vowOf perfect sanctity—what man shall sayHow often, weak with groanings, he would bowBefore the angels of the place, and prayThat all his body might consume away?

For through whole bitter days it seemed in vainThat all the mighty desert had no stainOf sin around him; that the burning breathsWent forth from the eternal One, and rolledFor ever through it, filling it with deaths,And plagues, and fires; that he did beholdThe earthquakes and the wonders manifold:

It seemed in vain that all the place was brightIneffably with that unfading lightNo man who worketh evil can abide;That he could see too with his open eyesFair troops of deathless ones, and those that diedIn martyrdoms, or went up to the skiesIn fiery cars—walk there with no disguise;—

It seemed in vain that he was there aloneWith no man’s sin to tempt him but his own;—Since in his body he did bear aboutA seeming endless sin he could not quellWith the most sharp coercement, nor cast outThrough any might of prayer. O, who can tell—Save God—how often in despair he fell?The very stones seemed purer far than he;And every naked rock and every treeLooked great and calm, composed in one long thoughtOf holiness; each bird and creeping thingRejoiced in bearing some bright sign that taughtThe legend of an ancient minist’ringTo some fair saint of old there sojourning.

Yea, all the dumb things and the creatures thereWere grand, and some way sanctified; most fairThe very lions stood, and had no shameBefore the angels; and what time were pouredThe floods of the Lord’s anger forth, they cameQuite nigh the lightnings of the Mount and roaredAmong the roaring thunders of the Lord:

Yet He—while in him day by day, divine,The clear inspirèd thought went on to shine,And heaven was opening every radiant doorUpon his spirit—He, in that fair dressOf weak humanity his senses bore,Did feel scarce worthy to be there, and lessThan any dweller in the wilderness.

Wherefore his limbs were galled with many a stone;And often he had wrestled all aloneWith their fair beauty, conquering the prideAnd various pleasure of them with some quickAnd hard inflicted pain that might abide,—Assailing all the sense with constant prickUntil the lust or pride fell faint and sick.

Natheless there grew and stayed upon his faceThe wonderful unconquerable graceOf a young man made beautiful with love;Because the thought of God was wholly spreadLike love upon it; and still fair aboveAll crownèd heads of kings remained his headWhereon the halo of the Lord was shed.

Ah, how long was it, since the first red rushOf that surpassing thought made his cheek blushWith pleasure, as he sat—a tender child—And wondered at the desert, and the longRough prickly paths that led out to the wildWhere all the men of God, holy and strong,Had dwelt and purified themselves—how long?—

Before he rose up from his knees one day,And felt that he was purified as they;That he had trodden out the sin at last,And that the light was filling him within?How many of the months and years had pastUncounted?—But the place he was born inNo longer knew him: no man was his kin.

O then it was a most sweet, holy willThat came upon him, making his soul thrillWith joy indeed, and with a perfect trust,—For he soon thought of men and of the kingAll tempted in the world, with gold and lust,And women there, and every fatal thing,And none to save their souls from perishing—

And so he vowed that he would go forth straightFrom God there in the desert, with the greatUnearthliness upon him, and adjureThe nations of the whole world with his voice;Until they should resist each pleasant lureOf gold and woman, and make such a choiceAs his, that they might evermore rejoice.

Thus beautiful and good was He, at length,Who came before King Herod in his strength,And shouted to him with a great commandTo purify himself, and put awayThat unclean woman set at his right hand;And after all to bow himself and pray,And be in terror of the Judgment Day!

He never had seen houses like to thatFair-columned, cedar-builded one where satKing Herod. Flawless cedar was each beam,Wrought o’er with flaming brass: along the wallGreat brazen images of beasts did gleam,With wondrous flower-works and palm trees tall;And folded purples hung about it all.

He never had beheld so many thrones,As those of ivory and precious stonesWhereon the noble company was raisedAbout the king:—he never had seen gemsSo costly, nor so wonderful as blazedUpon their many crowns and diadems,And trailed upon their garments’ trodden hems:

But he had seen in mighty LebanonThe cedars no man’s axe hath lit upon;And he had often worshipped, falling downIn dazzling temples opened straight to him,Where One who had great lightnings for His crownWas suddenly made present, vast and dimThrough crowded pinions of the Cherubim!

Wherefore he had no fear to stand and shoutTo all men in the place, and there to floutThose fair and fearful women who were seenQuite triumphing in that work of their smileTo shame a goodly king. And he cast, e’enA sudden awe that undid for a whileThe made-up shameless visages of guile.

And when Herodias—that many timesPolluted one, assured now in all crimesPast fear or turning—when she, her fierce tongueThrice forked with indignation, hotly spokeQuick wild beseeching words, wherewith she clungTo Herod, praying him by some death-strokeTo do her vengeance there before all folk—

Ah, spite of every urging that her hateDid put into her lips,—so fair and greatSeemed that accuser standing weaponless,Yet wholly terrible with his bright speechAs ’twere some sword of flaming holiness,That no man dared to join her and beseechHis death; but dread came somehow upon each.

For he was surely terrible to seeSo plainly sinless, so divinely freeTo judge them; being in a perfect youth,Yet walking like an angel in a manReproving all men with inspired truth.And Herod himself spoke not, but beganTo tremble: through his soul the warning ran.

—Thenthat Salomedid put off the shameOf her mere virgin girlhood, and becameA woman! Then she did at once essayHer beauty’s magic, and unfold the wingsOf her enchanted feet,—to have men sayShe slewhim—born indeed for wondrous things.Her dance was fit to ruin saints or kings.

O, her new beauty was above all praise!She came with dancing in shy devious ways,And while she danced she sang.The virgin bandlet of her forehead brake,Her hair came round her like a shining snake;To loving her men’s hearts within them sprangThe while she danced and sang.

Her long black hair danced round her like a snakeAllured to each charmed movement she did make;Her voice came strangely sweet;She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me—Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see?”And what her voice did sing her dancing feetSeemed ever to repeat.

She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me?What sweet I have, I have it all for thee;”And through the dance and songShe freed and floated on the air her armsAbove dim veils that hid her bosom’s charms:The passion of her singing was so strongIt drew all hearts along.

Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air,They seemed like floating flowers the most fair—White lilies the most choice;And in the gradual bending of her handThere lurked a grace that no man could withstand;Yea, none knew whether hands, or feet, or voice,Most made his heart rejoice.

The veils fell round her like thin coiling mistsShot through by topaz suns, and amethysts,And rubies she had on;And out of them her jewelled body came,And seemed to all quite like a slender flameThat curled and glided, and that burnt and shoneMost fair to look upon.

Then she began, on that well-polished floor,Whose stones seemed taking radiance more and moreFrom steps too bright to see,A certain measure that was like some spellOf winding magic, wherein heaven and hellWere joined to lull men’s souls eternallyIn some mid ecstasy:

For it was so inexplicably wroughtOf soft alternate motions, that she taughtEach sweeping supple limb,And in such intricate and wondrous waysWith bendings of her body, that the praiseLost breath upon men’s lips, and all grew dimSave her so bright and slim.

And through the swift mesh’d serpents of her hairThat lash’d and leapt on each place white and fairOf bosom or of arm,And through the blazing of the numberlessAnd whirling jewelled fires of her dress,Her perfect face no passion could disarmOf its reposeful charm.

Her head oft drooped as in some languid deathBeneath brim tastes of joy, and her rich breathHeaved faintly from her breast;Her long eyes, opened fervently and wide,Did seem with endless rapture to abideIn some fair trance through which the soul possestLove, ecstasy, and rest.

But lo—while each man fixed his eyes on her,And was himself quite fillèd with the stirHis heart did make within—The place was full of devils everywhere:They came in from the desert and the air;They came from all the palaces of sin,And each heart they were in:

They lurked beneath the purples, and did crawlOr crouch in unseen corners of the hall,Among the brass and gold;They climbed the brazen pillars till they linedThe chamber fair; and one went up behindThe throne of Herod—fearful to behold—The Serpent king of old.

Yea, too, before those blinded men there wentSome even to Salome; and they lentStrange charms she did not shun.She stretched her hand forth, and inclined her ear;She knew those men would neither see nor hear:A devil did support her head, and oneHer steps’ light fabric spun.

O, then her voice with singing all unveiled,In no trained timid accents, straight assailedKing Herod’s open heart:The amorous supplication wove and woundSoft deadly sins about it; the words foundFair traitor thoughts there,—singing snakes did dartTheir poison in each part.

She sang, “O look on me, and look on Love:We three are here together, and above—What heaven may there be?None for thine heart without this spell of mine,Yea, this my beauty, yea, these limbs that shineAnd make thy senses shudder; and for me,No heaven without thee!

“O, all the passion in me on this dayRises into one song to sweep awayThe breakers of Love’s bond;For is it not a pleasant bond indeed,And made of all the flowers in life’s mead?And is not Love a master fair and fond?And is not Death beyond?

“O, who are these that will adjure thee, King,To put away this tender flower-thing,This love that is thy bliss?Dost thou think thou canst live indeed, and dareThe joyless remnant of pale days, the bareHard tomb, and feed through cold eternitiesThy heart without one kiss?

“Dost thou think empty prayers shall glad thy lipsKept red and living with perpetual sipsOf Love’s rich cup of wine?That thy fair body shall not fall away,And waste among the worms that bitter dayThou hast no lover round thy neck to twineFond arms like these of mine?

“I say they are no prophets,—very deaths,And plagues, and rottenness, do use their breathsWho speak against delight;Pale distant slayers of humanityHave tainted them, and sent them forth to tryWeak lures to make man give up joyous rightOf days for empty night.

“I tell thee, in their wilderness shall beNo herbs enough for food for them and thee,No rock to give thee drink;I tell thee, all their heavens are a cheat,Or but a mirage to betray thy feet,And draw thee quicker to some grave’s dread brinkWhere thou shalt fall and sink.

“Turn rather unto me, and hear my voiceAgainst these desert howlings, and rejoice:Now surely do I craveTo treble this my beauty, and embalmMy words with deathless thrill, singing the psalmOf pleasure to thee, King,—so I may saveThy fair days from this grave.

“Yea, now of all my beauty will I striveWith these mad prophesiers till I driveTheir ravings from thine ear:Against their rudeness I will set my grace,My softness, and the magic of my face;And spite of all their curses thou shalt hearAnd let my voice draw near:

“Against their loud revilings I will tryThe long low-speaking pleadings of my sigh,All my heart’s tender way;Against their deserts—here, before thine eyesMy love shall open thee a paradise,Where, if thou comest, thou shalt surely stayAnd seek no better way:

“And rather than these haters of thy joyShould anyhow allure thee to destroyThy heart’s prosperity,—O, I will throw my woman’s arms entwinedAbout thy body; ere thy lips can findOne word of yielding, I will kiss them dry:—And failing, let me die!

“But look on me, for it is in my soulTo make the measure of thy glory whole—With many goodly thingsTo crown thee, yea, with pleasure and with love,Till there shall scarcely be a name aboveKing Herod’s, in the mouth of one who singsThe fame of mighty kings:

“For see how great and fair a realm is this—My untried love—the never conquered blissAll hoarded in my breast;My beauty and my love were jewels meetTo make the glory of a king complete,And I,—O thou of kingship half-possest—Can crown thee with the rest!

“I stand before thee—on my head the crownOf all thou lackest yet in thy renown—Ah, King, take this of me!And in my hand I bear a brimming cupThat sparkles; to thine eyes I hold it up:A royal draught of life-long pleasure—see,The wine is fit for thee!

“Ah, wilt thou pass me? Wilt thou let me giveThy fair life to some meaner man to live?Nay, here—if I am sweet—Thou shalt not. I will save thee with the sightOf all my sweetness, save thee with the mightAnd charm of all my singing lips’ deceit,Or with my dancing feet.

“I have indeed some power. A lure liesWithin my tender lips—behind my eyes—Concealed in all my way;And while I seem entreating, I compel,Yea, while I do but plead, I use a spell—Ah secretly—but surely. Who are theyThat ever turn away?

“Now, thou hast barely seen bright glitteringThe gilded cup of pleasures that I swungBefore thy reeling gaze,—The deep beginnings of sweet drunkennessAre in thy heart already, more or less,And on thy soul deliciously there preysA thirst no joy allays.

“Dost thou not feel, each time my long hair sweepsThe glowing floor, how through thy being creepsA vague yet sweet desire?—How writhes in every sense a tiny snakeOf pleasure biting till it seems to wakeA fever of sharp lusts that never tire,Unquenchable as fire?

“Is there not wrought a madness in thy brainEach time my thin veils part and close again—Each time their flying ringIs seen a moment’s space encircling meWith filmy changes—each time, rapidlyRolled down, their cloud-like gauzes billowingAbout my limbs they fling?

“Ah, seek not in this moment some cold will;Attend to no false pratings that would killThy heart, and make thee fall:But now a little lean to me, and fearMy charming. Ah, thy fame to me is dear!Some wound of mine, when me thou couldst not call,Might slay thee after all.

“For even while I sing, the unseen graceOf Love descending hath filled all this placeWith most strong prevalence;His miracle is raging in the breastsOf all these men, and mightily he restsOn me and thee. His power is too intense,No curse shall drive him hence.

“—O, Love, invisible, eternal God,In whose delicious ways all men have trod,This day Thou truly hastMy heart: thy inspiration fills my tongueWith great angelic madness; I have sungSet words that in my bosom thou hast cast—Thine am I to the last!

“My feet are like two liquid flames that leapFor joy at thee; I feel thy spirit sweep—Yea, like a southern wind—Through all the enchanted fibres of my soul;I am a harp o’er which thy vast breaths roll,And one day thou shalt break me: none shall findA wreck of me behind.

“And now all palpitating, O I prayThy utmost passion while I cry—awayWith all Love’s enemies!A man—borne up between the closing wingsOf two eternities of unknown things,May catch this seraph charmer as he flies,And hold him till he dies;

“And yet some bitter ones, whom coming nightHath wholly entered, grudge man this small rightOf joy, and seek to fillHis rushing moment with the monstrous hissOf shapeless terrors, poisoning the blissBrief nestled in his bosom—merely tillForced out by its death chill!

“What voice is this the envious wildernessHath sent among us foully to distressAnd haunt our lives with fear?What vulture, shrieking on the scent of death—What yelping jackal—what insidious breathOf pestilence hath ventured to draw near,And enter even here?

“No kindred flesh of fair humanityYon fiend hath, seeking through lives doomed to dieDeath’s foretaste to infuse:His body is but raised up from the slainUnburied thousands that long years have lainAbout the desert: Death himself doth chooseHis pale disguise to use.

“But, even though he be from some new God,He shall not turn us who love’s ways have trod,Nor make us break love’s vow.Nay, rather, if a single beauty dwellsIn me, if in that beauty there be spellsTo win my will of any man—O thou,King Herod, hear me now!—

“Letitbe for his ruin! Ah, let me,With all in me thou countest fair to see,Procure this and no more!If yet, with tender prevalence, my voiceMay ask a thing of thee—this is my choice,Though thou wouldst buy my sweets with all thy store—This all I sell them for.

“Yea, are there lures of softness in my eyes?My eyes are—for his death. Is my heart’s prizeA seeming fair reward?My virgin heart is—for his blood here shed;Its passion—for the falling of his head;And on that man my kiss shall be outpouredWho slays him with the sword!”

Invisible—in supernatural haze,Of shapes that seem not shapes to human gaze—The devils were half awed as they did standAround her; each one in his separate hellAll inwardly was forced to praise her well:And every man was fain to lose his handOr do all that sweet woman might command.

There was a tumult.—Cloven foot and scaleOf fiend with iron heel and coat of mailWere rolled and hustled in the rage to slayThat fair young Saviour: when they murdered himAnd brought his head, still beautiful—though dimAnd drenched with blood—the aureole did playAbove it, slowly vanishing away.

I weep to think of him and his fair lightSo quenched—of him thrust into some long nightOf unaccomplishment so soon, alas!And Thou, who on that ancient palace floorDidst dance, where dost thou writhe now evermore—Salome, Daughter of Herodias?O woman-viper—may thy curse ne’er pass!

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