“And yet some bitter ones, whom coming night
Hath wholly entered, grudge man this small right
Of joy, and seek to fill
His rushing moment with the monstrous hiss
Of shapeless terrors, poisoning the bliss
Brief nestled in his bosom—merely till
Forced out by its death chill!
“What voice is this the envious wilderness
Hath sent among us foully to distress
And haunt our lives with fear?
What vulture, shrieking on the scent of death—
What yelping jackal—what insidious breath
Of pestilence hath ventured to draw near,
And enter even here?
“No kindred flesh of fair humanity
Yon fiend hath, seeking through lives doomed to die
Death’s foretaste to infuse:
His body is but raised up from the slain
Unburied thousands that long years have lain
About the desert: Death himself doth choose
His 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 dwells
In me, if in that beauty there be spells
To win my will of any man—O thou,
King Herod, hear me now!—
“Let it be 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 voice
May 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 prize
A 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 outpoured
Who 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 stand
Around her; each one in his separate hell
All inwardly was forced to praise her well:
And every man was fain to lose his hand
Or do all that sweet woman might command.
There was a tumult.—Cloven foot and scale
Of fiend with iron heel and coat of mail
Were rolled and hustled in the rage to slay
That fair young Saviour: when they murdered him
And brought his head, still beautiful—though dim
And drenched with blood—the aureole did play
Above it, slowly vanishing away.
I weep to think of him and his fair light
So quenched—of him thrust into some long night
Of unaccomplishment so soon, alas!
And Thou, who on that ancient palace floor
Didst dance, where dost thou writhe now evermore—
Salome, Daughter of Herodias?
O woman-viper—may thy curse ne’er pass!