PART I.
Serene in the moonlight the pure flowers lay;
All was still save the plash of the fountain’s soft play;
And white as its foam gleamed the walls of the palace;
But within were hot lips quaffing fire from the chalice;
For Herod, the Tetrarch, was feasting that night
The lords of Machærus, and brave was the sight!
Yet mournful the contrast, without and within,
Here were purity, peace,—there were riot and sin!
The vast and magnificent banquetting room
Was of marble, Egyptian, in form and in gloom;
And around, wild and dark as a demon’s dread thought,
Strange shapes, full of terror, yet beauty, were wrought.
Th’ ineffable sorrow, that dwells in the face
Of the Sphynx, wore a soft and mysterious grace,
Dim, even amid the full flood of light poured
From a thousand high clustering lamps on the board;
Those lamps,—each a serpent of jewels and gold,—
That seemed to hiss forth the fierce flame as it rolled.
Back flashed to that ray the rich vessels that lay
Profuse on the tables in brilliant array;
And clear thro’ the crystal the glowing wine gleamed,
And dazzling the robes of the revellers seemed,
While Herod, the eagle-eyed, ruled o’er the scene,
A lion in spirit, a monarch in mien.
The goblet was foaming, the revel rose high.
There were pride and fierce joy in the haughty king’s eye,
For his chiefs and his captains bowed low at his word,
And the feast was right royal that burden’d the board.
Lo! light as a star thro’ a gathered cloud stealing,
What spirit glanced in ’mid the guard at the door?
Their stern bands divide, a fair figure revealing;
She bounds, in her beauty, the dim threshold o’er.
Her dark eyes are lovely with tenderest truth;
The bloom on her cheek is the blossom of youth;
And the smile, that steals thro’ it, is rich with the ray
Of a heart full of love and of innocent play.
Soft fall her fair tresses her light form around;
Soft fall her fair tresses, nor braided nor bound;
And her white robe is loose, and her dimpled arms bare;
For she is but a child, without trouble or care;
Now round the glad vision wild music is heard,—
Is she gifted with winglets of fairy or bird;
For, lo! as if borne on the waves of that sound,
With white arms upwreathing, she floats from the ground.
Still glistens the goblet,—’tis heeded no more!
And the jest and the song of the banquet are o’er;
For the revellers, spell-bound by beauty and grace,
Have forgotten all earth, save that form and that face.
It is done!—for one moment, mute, motionless, fair,
The phantom of light pauses playfully there;
The next, blushing richly, once more it takes wing,
And she kneels at the footstool of Herod the King.
Her young head is drooping, her eyes are bent low,
Her hands meekly crossed on her bosom of snow,
And, veiling her figure, her shining hair flows,
While Herod, flushed high with the revel, arose.
Outspake the rash monarch,—“Now, maiden, impart,
Ere thou leave us, the loftiest hope of thy heart!
By the God of my fathers! what e’er it may be,—
To the half of my kingdom,—’tis granted to thee!”
The girl, half-bewildered, uplifted her eyes,
Dilated with timid delight and surprise,
And a swift, glowing smile o’er her happy face stole,
As if some sunny wish had just woke in her soul.
Will she tell it? Ah, no! She has caught the wild gleam
Of a soldier’s dark eye, and she starts from her dream;
Falters forth her sweet gratitude,—veils her fair frame,—
And glides from the presence, all glowing with shame.