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.